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POE.

THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponderd, 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 mutter'd, “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 wish'd the morrow; vainly I had sought to

borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost

LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

Nameless here for evermore.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and

flutter, In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopp'd or

stay'd he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber

door

Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door

Perch'd 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 : “Nevermore !”

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, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !”

Quoth the Raven : “Nevermore !”

“ Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or

devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we

both adore, Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !”

Quoth the Raven : “ Nevermore !"

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend," I shriek'ds

upstarting, “Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plutonian

shore ! Leave no black plume as in token of that lie thy soul hath

spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken,-quit the bust above my

door,— Take thy beak from out my heart, and thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven : “Nevermore !"

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is

dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow

on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies ioating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

WORDSWORTH.
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

See the kitten how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts !

First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light, and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop ; and there are none---
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics play'd in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd ?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure !

THE STREET MUSICIAN; OR, THE POWER

OF MUSIC.

An Orpheus ! an Orpheus !—he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud ;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim,
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this !
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;
The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthen'd soul is no longer opprest.

That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught, and his time runs to waste The newsman is stopp’d, though he stops on the fret, And the half-breathless lamplighter, he's in the net!

The porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;-
If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the musician, 'tis all that she sees !

That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he !
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that cripple,—but little would tempt him to try
To dance to the strain and to fling his crutch by !
That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream :
They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue !

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