O, make Thou us, through centuries long,
In peace secure, in justice strong;
Around our gift of freedom draw
The safeguards of Thy righteous law,
And, cast in some diviner mould,
Let the new cycle shame the old!

THE RAVEN.

EDGAR A. POE.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten

lore

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Decem

.ber,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor,

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to

borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the are and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here forevermore.

And each silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain,

Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt

before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamberdoor;

That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no

longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I im

plore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came

rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door:

Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

Dut the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmured back the word, "LENORE!"

Merely this and nothing more.

Lack into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something 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,

heart be still a moment, and this mystery ex

plore ;

;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of

yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 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 chamberdoor

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, 66 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 marveled 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,

With such name as

66 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 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, "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 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 ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex

pressing

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 seraphim, whose 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!" Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-propliet still, if

bird or devil!