Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me-tell me, I implore!' "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!" "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 chamber door; floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted-nevermore ! THE LOYAL LEGION. COLONEL CHAS. G. HALPINE (MILES O'RIELLY). [This poem was read at the festival in honor of Washington's Birthday, given by the Military Order of the Loyal Legion in Philadelphia, Feb. 22d, 1866.] FOREVER past the days of gloom, The long, sad days of doubt and fear, The days of calm at length are won, A silvery tide o'er golden sands. Yet larger constellations burn! Who bore the flag-who won the day? Nor ever from their purpose turned. THE LOYAL LEGION. Why tell how long the contest hung, Now crowned with hope and now depressed, And how the varying balance swung, Until, like gold in furnace flung, The truth grew stronger for the test? 'Twas our own blood we had to meet; 'Twas with full peers our swords were crossed Till in the march, assault, retreat, And in the school of stern defeat We learned success at bloody cost. Oh, comrades of the camp and deck! On history's golden tablets graved— For service done, for perils braved? The charging lines no more we see, No more we hear the din of strife; The prayer for death as balm alone! And ye who, on the sea's blue breast, Where still your conquering prows were pressed— 141 Ye, too, released, no longer feel The threat of battle, storm and rockTorpedoes grating on the keel, While the strained sides with broadsides reel, And turrets feel the dinting shock. Joint saviors of the land! To-day The men we miss from our worn band? The dead who rock beneath the waveThe brother-souls of march and camp, Bright spirits-each a shining lamp, Teaching our children to be brave! And thou-Great Shade! in whom was nursed The tightening yoke of Britain's hand! Will join the prayer we make to-day- Teach these who loll in gilded seats, Back to the men who swayed the fates When thou wert battling Britain's crown,— That ere the world a century swims Though time-this poor, blue-coated host, With brevet-rank of shattered limbs, Will swell the fame in choral hymns And be of pride the p ondest boast! THE LOYAL LEGION. Homes for the heroes we implore, The brave who limbs and vigor gave, Long years ago, one summer morn, That a new Nation here was born! Oh, wives and daughters of the land! These demi-gods disguis d in blue! To you I leave the soldier's doom, The soldier bade his fancy roam Far from the foe's battalions proudFrom camps, and hot steeds champing foam, And fondly on your breast at home The forehead of his spirit bowed! Oh, by the legions of the dead, Whose ears even yet our love may reach- Winging with fire my faltering speech ; 143 |