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 cham ber-door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon'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 lies float ing on the floor, Shall be lifted-nevermore! EDGAR ALLAN POE. THANKSGIVING. LORD, for the erring thought Lord, for the wicked will For ignorant hopes that were W. D. HoWELL: THE END OF THE PLAY. THE play is done,—the curtain drops, And looks around, to say farewell. And, when he's laughed and said his say, One word, ere yet the evening ends,— Good night!—with honest, gentle hearts Good night!—I'd say the griefs, the joys, Are but repeated in our age; I'd say your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men.Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys,— And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say how fate may change and shift,- The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit,-Who brought him to that mirth and state. His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Come wealth or want, come good or ill, And bear it with an honest heart. But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays,) My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health and love and mirth, As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still,Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. W. M. THACKERAY. |