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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 shoreTell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

Much I marvell'd 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 bless'd 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 utter'd; not a feather then he flutter'd-
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, " 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
Follow'd fast and follow'd 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 sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Q

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 burn'd 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 foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 'Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he

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hath sent thee,

Respite-respite the nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

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

Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd 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, "Never more."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?" Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd,

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"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, "Never more."

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,

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I

THE SHIPWRECK.

(Falconer.)

N vain the cords and axes were prepared,

For now the audacious seas insult the yard; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to Heaven she flies, Her shatter'd top half buried in the skies;

Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground,-
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels,
And, quivering with the wound, in torment recls.
So reels, convulsed with agonising throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's blows.
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock!
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak:
Till, like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn her frame divides,
And crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.

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