Illustrated poems and songs for young people, ed. by mrs. [L.D.] Sale Barker

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

THE THREE WARNINGS.

THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years So much, that, in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp and sickness rages; The greatest love of life appears. This strange affection to believe, Which all confess but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay On neighbour Dobson's wedding day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room; And, looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.” "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband cried ;

Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared ; My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding day, you know." What more he urg'd I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer. Yet, calling up a serious look,His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,"Neighbour," he said, "farewell; no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; And, further, to avoid all blame, Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several Warnings you shall have Before you're summon'd to the grave. Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleas'd the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted, perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,

And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his days in peace.

But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half kill'd with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned?" old Dobson cries.
"So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies ;
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before,

'Tis six-and-forty years at least,

And you are now fourscore!" "So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; "To spare the aged would be kind; Besides, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings! But, for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages!"

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best,

I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least. I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length: I wish you joy, though, of your strength! "Hold!" says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' "And no great wonder," Death replies ; However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms must make amends." "Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might, But latterly I have lost my sight." "This is a shocking story, faith :

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door;
""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door-
Only this and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:
"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door:

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you," here I opened wide the door-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I-"surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

THE RAVEN.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door-

Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven: "Never more."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,

With such name as "Never more."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said: "Never more."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of 'Never-never more.''

But the Raven still beguiling all my sadness into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Never more."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er

She shall press-ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch !" I cried, "thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven: "Never more!"

« Предыдущая Продолжить »

Книги