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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 exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;"Tis the wind, and nothing more."

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 doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber doorPerched, 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."

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 66 Nevermore."

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 "Nevermore."

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-nevermore.'

M

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 "Nevermore."

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, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

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Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 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!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me, tell me, I implore!"
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 Aidenn,
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 shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore !

Leave no black plume as a 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 take 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 floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore !

THE GLOVE

AND THE

LIONS.

LEIGH

HUNT.

KING Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the Court;
The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom
he sighed :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show-
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith! gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king-a beauteous lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed

the same;

She thought, "The Count my lover is as brave as brave can beHe surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me : King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine !

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild.

The leap was quick, return was quick-he had regained the

place,

Then threw the glove-but not with love-right in the lady's face.

"In truth," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

MARSTON MOOR.

WINTHROP

MACKWORTH

PRAED.

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high!
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply!
Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our ears.
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, White Guy is at the door,
And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret stair;
Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,
As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing
thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features ran,
As she said, "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van!”

"It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride
'Midst the steel-clad files of Shippon, the black dragoons of
Pride;

The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm,
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,

When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on their wing,
And hear her royal soldiers shout, 'For God and for the King!"

'Tis soon the ranks are broken, along the royal line They fly, the braggarts of the Court! the bullies of the Rhine! Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse and with a frown, And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight: "The German boar had better far supped in York to-night."

The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;
Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid the rout,

"For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on, and fight it out!"

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave,

And now he quotes a stage play, and now he fells a knave.

God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no thought of fear;
God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds are here!
The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and thrust,

"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down with him to the

dust!"

"I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's trusty sword This day were doing battle for the Saints and for the Lord!"

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower,

The grey-haired warder watches from the castle's topmost tower; "What news? what news, old Hubert ?"-"The battle's lost and won:

The royal troops are melting, like mists before the sun!

And a wounded man approaches—I'm blind and cannot see,
Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step must be!"

“I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from as rude and red a fray

As e'er was proof of soldier's thew, or theme for minstrel's lay! Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff, I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with boots and buffThough Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing forth his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife!”

"Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France,

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's mischance :
For if the worst befall me, why, better axe and rope,
Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope!
Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!—curse on the crop-eared boor
Who sent me, with my standard, on foot from Marston Moor!”

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