Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door :

That it is, and nothing more."

4. Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
'Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
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 open'd wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.

5. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore!
This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "LENORE!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

6. Back 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,→
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

7. Open then I flung the 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, perched above my chamber-door,—
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door-
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

8. 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 ! "

9. Much I marvel'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 "Nevermore!"

10. 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'dTill I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown beforeOn the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore ! "

11. 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 followed faster, till his song one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of Nevermore-nevermore!" "

12. But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled 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 ! "

13. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
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!

14. 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!"

15. "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, "Nevermore!"

16. "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 fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore! "
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore ! "

17. "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!"

18. 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 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,
Shall be lifted-NEVERMORE!

CXLVI.-MAJESTY AND SUPREMACY OF THE SCRIPTURES CONFESSED BY A SKEPTIC.

ROUSSEAU.

1. I WILL confess that the majesty of the Scriptures, strikes me with admiration, as the purity of the Gospel hath its influence on my heart. Peruse the works of our philosophers with all their pomp of diction. How mean, how contemptible are they, compared with the Scriptures! Is it possible that a book, at once so simple and sublime, should be merely the work of man? Is it possible that the sacred personage, whose history it contains, should be himself a mere man? Do we find that he assumed the tone of an enthusiast or ambitious sectary?

2. What sweetness, what purity in his manner! What an affecting gracefulness in his delivery! What sublimity in his maxims! What profound wisdom in his discourses! What presence of mind, what subtlety, what truth in his replies. How great the command over his passions! Where is the man, where the philosopher, who could so live, and so die, without weakness, and without ostentation? When Plato described his imaginary good man, loaded with all the shame of guilt, yet meriting the high. est rewards of virtue, he describes exactly the character of JESUS CHRIST.

3. What prepossession, what blindness must it be, to compare the son of SOPHRONISCUS to the son of Mary! What an infinite disproportion there is between them! SOCRATES, dying without pain or ignominy, easily supported his character to the last; and if his death, however easy, had not crowned his life, it might have been doubted whether SOCRATES, with all his wisdom, was any thing more than a vain sophist. He invented, it is said, the theory of morals. Others, however, had before put them

in practice he had only to say, therefore, what they had done, and reduce their examples to precepts.

4. ARISTIDES had been just before Socrates defined justice: LEONIDAS had given up his life for his country, before Socrates declared patriotism to be a duty: the Spartans were a sober people, before Socrates recommended sobriety before he had even defined virtue, Greece abounded in virtuous men. But where could JESUS learn, among his competitors, that pure and sublime morality, of which he only hath given us both precept and example? The greatest wisdom was made known among the most bigoted fanaticism, and the simplicity of the most heroic virtues, did honor to the vilest people on earth.

5. The death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with his friends, appears the most agreeable that could be wished for; that of JESUs, expiring in the midst of agonizing pains, abused, insulted, and accused by a whole nation, is the most horrible that could be feared. Socrates, in receiving the cup of poison, blessed indeed the weeping executioner who administered it; but JESUs, in the midst of excruciating torments, prayed for his merciless tormentors. Yes, if the life and death of Socrates were those of a sage, the life and death of JESUS are those of a GOD.

6. Shall we suppose the evangelic history a mere fiction? Indeed, it bears not the marks of fiction; on the contrary, the history of Socrates, which nobody presumes to doubt, is not so well attested as that of JESUS CHRIST. Such a supposition, in fact, only shifts the difficulty with

out obviating it;-it is more inconceivable that a number of persons should agree to write such a history, than that one only should furnish the subject of it. The. Jewish authors were incapable of the diction, and strangers to the morality contained in the Gospel, the marks of whose truth are so striking and inimitable, that the inventor would be a more astonishing character than the hero.

CXLVII.-FIFTY YEARS AGO.

W. D. GALLAGHER.

1. A SONG for the early times out west,
And our green old forest home,
Whose pleasant memories freshly yet
Across the bosom come:

A song for the free and gladsome life
In those early days we led,
With a teeming soil beneath our feet,
And a smiling heaven o'erhead !
Oh, the waves of life danced merrily,
And had a joyous flow,

In the days when we were pioneers,
Fifty years ago!

2. The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase,
The captured elk or deer:

The camp, the big bright fire, and then
The rich and wholesome cheer:

The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night,
By our camp-fire blazing high-
Unbroken by the wolf's long howl,
And the panther springing by.
Oh, merrily passed the time, despite
Our wily Indian foe,

In the days when we were pioneers,
Fifty years ago!

3. We shunned not labor; when 'twas due
We wrought with right good will;
And for the home we won for them,

Our children bless us still.

We lived not hermit lives; but oft

In social converse met;