Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and 66 store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful dis aster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 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 yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 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 un seen 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!-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 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" "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, "Nevermore!" "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! 66 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; 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 floor soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the Shall be lifted nevermore! EDGAR A. POE. THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. THEY'VE got a bran new organ, Sue, They've done just as they said they'd do, They're bound the critter shall be seen, For it was never my desire, To praise the Lord by note! I've been a sister good an' true, I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, And now, their bold, new-fangled ways I al'ays liked that blessed hymn I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gonedest thing, A body ever heard! Some worldly chaps was standin' near, I thought I'd chase their tune along, But though my voice is good an' strong When they was high, then I was low, An' also contra'wise; And I too fast, or they too slow, An' after every verse, you know I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. Was singing there alone! But I had done my best; And sister Brown I could but look She never was no singin' book, But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; It kep' her head a bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off! An' Deacon Tubbs, he all broke down, As one might well suppose, He took one look at sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. But drawed his red bandanner out, I've been a sister, good an' true, I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day, I to church will go, I do not want no PATENT thing A squealin' over me! WILL CARLETON. |