Songs of Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather Fancy

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." "

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 Songs of 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 censer

Swung by angels whose faint 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."

Fancy

Songs of "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!—prophet Fancy 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!

66

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?"

"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 Songs of

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!"

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 float

ing on the floor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

Fancy

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

The Bells
I

Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

Songs of
Fancy

In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony fore-
tells!

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels