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Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other | On this home by horror haunted,

I implore,

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friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes Is there is there balm in Gilead? — tell me, have flown before." - tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

Then the bird said, "Nevermore!"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet spoken, still, if bird or devil! "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,

stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom un- Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the merciful disaster distant Aidenn,

Followed fast and followed faster, till his song It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an

one burden bore,

gels name Lenore,

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy bur- Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the an

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gels 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 !"

the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

And

On

the

pallid bust of Pallas, just above my

And his

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 lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press –

ah! nevermore !

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chamber door;

eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And the lamplight 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!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

SONG OF THE SEA BY THE ROYAL GARDEN AT NAPLES.

I HAVE swung for ages to and fro;

I have striven in vain to reach thy feet, O Garden of joy! whose walls are low, And odors are so sweet.

I palpitate with fitful love;

I sigh and sing with changing breath; I raise my hands to heaven above, I smite my shores beneath!

In vain, in vain! while far and fine,

To curb the madness of my sweep,

654

Runs the white limit of a line I may not overleap.

Once thou wert sleeping on my breast,
Till fiery Titans lifted thee
From the fair silence of thy rest,

Out of the loving sea.

And I swing eternal to and fro;
I strive in vain to reach thy feet,
O Garden of joy! whose walls are low,
And odors are so sweet!

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

SONG OF THE LIGHTNING.

"PUCK. I put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes." MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

AWAY! away! through the sightless air

Stretch forth your iron thread! For I would not dim my sandals fair With the dust ye tamely tread ! Ay, rear it up on its million piers,

Let it circle the world around,

And the journey ye make in a hundred years I'll clear at a single bound!

Though I cannot toil, like the groaning slave
Ye have fettered with iron skill

To ferry you over the boundless wave,
Or grind in the noisy mill,

Let him sing his giant strength and speed!
Why, a single shaft of mine

Would give that monster a flight indeed,
To the depths of the ocean's brine !

No! no! I'm the spirit of light and love!
To my unseen hand 't is given
To pencil the ambient clouds above
And polish the stars of heaven !
I scatter the golden rays of fire
On the horizon far below,
And deck the sky where storms expire
With my red and dazzling glow.

With a glance I cleave the sky in twain;
I light it with a glare,

When fall the boding drops of rain

Through the darkly curtained air!
The rock-built towers, the turrets gray,
The piles of a thousand years,
Have not the strength of potter's clay
Beneath my glittering spears.

From the Alps' or the Andes' highest crag,
From the peaks of eternal snow,
The blazing folds of my fiery flag
Illume the world below.

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The hieroglyphs on the Persian wall, -
The letters of high command,
Where the prophet read the tyrant's fall,
Were traced by my burning hand.
And oft in fire have I wrote since then
What angry Heaven decreed;
But the sealed eyes of sinful men
Were all too blind to read.

At length the hour of light is here,
And kings no more shall bind,
Nor bigots crush with craven fear,
The forward march of mind.
The words of Truth and Freedom's rays
Are from my pinions hurled;
And soon the light of better days
Shall rise upon the world.

GEORGE W. CUTTER.

ORIGIN OF THE OPAL.

A DEW-DROP came, with a spark of flame
He had caught from the sun's last ray,
To a violet's breast, where he lay at rest
Till the hours brought back the day.

The rose looked down, with a blush and frown;
But she smiled all at once, to view
Her own bright form, with its coloring warm,
Reflected back by the dew.

Then the stranger took a stolen look

At the sky, so soft and blue;
And a leaflet green, with its silver sheen,
Was seen by the idler too.

A cold north-wind, as he thus reclined,
Of a sudden raged around ;
And a maiden fair, who was walking there,
Next morning, an opal found.

ANONYMOUS.

THE ORIGIN OF GOLD.

THE Fallen looked on the world and sneered. "I can guess," he muttered, “why God is feared,

For the eyes of mortal are fain to shun
The midnight heaven that hath no sun.
I will stand on the height of the hills and wait
Where the day goes out at the western gate,
And, reaching up to its crown, will tear
From its plumes of glory the brightest there :
With the stolen ray I will light the sod,
And turn the eyes of the world from God."

He stood on the height when the sun went down,
He tore one plume from the day's bright crown,
The proud beam stooped till he touched its brow,
And the print of his fingers are on it now;
And the blush of its anger forevermore
Burns red when it passes the western door.
The broken feather above him whirled,
In flames of torture around him curled,
And he dashed it down on the snowy height,
In broken flashes of quivering light.
Ah, more than terrible was the shock
Where the burning splinters struck wave and rock!
The green earth shuddered, and shrank and paled,
The wave sprang up, and the mountain quailed;
Look on the hills, let the scars they bear
Measure the pain of that hour's despair.

The Fallen watched while the whirlwind fanned
The pulsing splinters that ploughed the sand;
Sullen he watched while the hissing waves
Bore them away to the ocean caves;
Sullen he watched while the shining rills
Throbbed through the hearts of the rocky hills;
Loudly he laughed, "Is the world not mine?
Proudly the links of its chain shall shine;
Lighted with gems shall its dungeon be,
But the pride of its beauty shall kneel to me."
That splintered light in the earth grew cold,
And the diction of mortals hath called it gold.

SARAH E. CARMICHAEL, of Utah.

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And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, | This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts: That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Making them women of good carriage.
Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial vot'ress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,

And maidens call it, love-in-idleness.

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS.

FROM THE TEMPEST."

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly

After summer, merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough

QUEEN MAB.

66
FROM ROMEO AND JULIET."

O THEN I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of

love;

On courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies

straight;

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted

are:

Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice :
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab,
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:

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Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them,- ding-dong, bell.

FAIRY SONG.

SHED no tear! O, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! O, weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! O, dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies,
Shed no tear.
Overhead look overhead!
'Mong the blossoms white and red,
Look up, look up! I flutter now
On this fresh pomegranate bough.
See me! 't is this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill,
Shed no tear! O, shed no tear !
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu - I fly — adieu !
I vanish in the heaven's blue,
Adieu, adieu !

THE SPICE-TREE.

JOHN KEATS.

THE spice-tree lives in the garden green;
Beside it the fountain flows;
And a fair bird sits the boughs between,
And sings his melodious woes.

No greener garden e'er was known

Within the bounds of an earthly king; No lovelier skies have ever shone

Than those that illumine its constant spring.

That coil-bound stem has branches three;
On each a thousand blossoms grow;
And, old as aught of time can be,

The root stands fast in the rocks below.

In the spicy shade ne'er seems to tire The fount that builds a silvery dome; And flakes of purple and ruby fire

Gush out, and sparkle amid the foam.

The fair white bird of flaming crest,

And azure wings bedropt with gold, Ne'er has he known a pause of rest,

But sings the lament that he framed of old:

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