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;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window

66

lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;'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 an instant stopped or

stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber

door

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door, Perched, 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, “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 can not 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 a 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 uttered-not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "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 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden

bore

Till the dirges of his hope the 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, ghostly, gaunt, and ominous bird

of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

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 lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an un

seen censer,

Swung by angels whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted

66

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, O 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 tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
In this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me tell me, I im-
plore!"

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 Le

nore

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 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;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamplight 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.

Ex. CXXXIX.-PHAETHON.

JOHN G. SAXE.

DAN PHAETHON-SO the histories run-
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus-but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun ;"
Running, they say,
Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way,)
And lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's “shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally sun of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire !"
"Then by my head,"

The youngster said,

"I'il mount the coach when the horses are fed!-For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!” "Nay, Phaethon, do n't

I beg you wont

Just stop a moment, and think upon 't!
You're quite too young," continued the sage,
"To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be

Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

6

And when their mettle is thorougly 'riled,'
Depend upon 't, the coach 'll be spiled-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day

So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha!"
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,

'Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd-
He'd have the horses and would n't be cowed!

In vain the boy was cautioned at large,

He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force,
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry

He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt,
He was in for it now, and could n't back out.
So calling Phaethon up in a trice,

He

gave the youth a bit of advice:

"Parce stimulis, utere loris !'
(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip-they're ticklish things-
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
'Medio tutissimus ibis'

(As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!)
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"