Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within

me burning,

Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before,

'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'

Open here I flung a 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 an instant 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!'

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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door,

With such a name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;

Nothing farther 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 '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

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-nevermore.'

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

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 burnt 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 !

'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 shriek'd, upstarting

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

Leave no black plume as a token of the 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 dæmon's that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floor

Shall be lifted 'Nevermore.'

E. A. Poe

XCVIII

THE NIX

The crafty Nix, more false than fair
Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,

She envied me my golden hair,
She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced

The leaves, and on the waters play'd;

She rose, she caught me round the waist,
She said, ‘Come down with me, fair maid.'

She led me to her crystal grot,

She set me in her coral chair,
She waved her hand, and I had not
Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame

Were mine, and hers my semblance fair; 'O make me, Nix, again the same, O give me back my golden hair!'

She smiles in scorn, she disappears,
And here I sit and see no sun,
My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,
And all my darksome locks undone.
R. Garnett

XCIX

THE SEVEN SISTERS;

OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

I

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,

All children of one mother :

You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies wrought!
Seven sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!