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 Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of Never-never more."" 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 "never more." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd 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, never more! 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, "Never more!" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or 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, "Never more." "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, "Never more." "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 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, "Never more." 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's 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-never more! In our opinion, says Mr. N. P. Willis, "The Raven" is the most effective single example of fugitive poetry ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift. It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it. HOW SLEEP THE DEAD. SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS," BY ROBERT STORY. How sleep the dead in yon churchyard, Where chequering moonbeams purely fall? How sleep the dead beneath the sward? Calmly-softly-sweetly all! In mute companionship they lie— Around, the world is passion-tost-- Of sacred peace alone may boast The stormy sea of human life, With all its surges, roars around; Their barrier-wall repels its strife No wave breaks o'er their hallow'd ground. Around, the summer sun may scorch- Thus sleep the dead in yon churchyard, Where chequering moonbeams purely fall; THE BUCKET. SAMUEL WOODWORTH, BORN IN MASSACHUSETTS, IN 1785. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well : That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when return'd from the field, |