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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 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 stillness 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 my 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 exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more. Open here I Aung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and

futter, In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of

yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or

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

doorPerched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

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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, “Never more.” Much I marvelled 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door

With such name as “ Never more." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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, “Never more. Startled by 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

Of “ Never, never more.” 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 into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous

Meant in croaking “Never more.”

bird of yore

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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, never more ! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an 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 my 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 !--propbet still, if bird or

devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 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 truly, I implore !”

Quoth the Raven, “Never more." "Prophet,” said I," thing of evi! !-prophet still, if bird or

devil! By that heaven that bends above us- -by that God we both

adoreTell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant

Aiden 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."



shore ;

“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend,” I

shrieked, upstarting“Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 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 sittinį, 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 shadon

on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted-never more !

Edgar Allan Po..


A BREWER in a country town,
Had got a monstrous reputation ;
No other beer but his went down;
The hosts of the surrounding station
Carving his name upon their mugs,
And painting it on every shutter;
And though some envious folks would utter
Hints that its flavour came from drugs,
Others maintained 'twas no such matter ;
But owing to his monstrous vat,
At least as corpulent as that
At Heildeberg--and some said fatter.



His foreman was a lusty black,
An honest fellow,
But one who had an ugly knack
Of tasting samples as he brewed,
Till he was stupefied and mellow.
One day in this top-heavy mood,
Having to cross the vat aforesaid
(Just then with boiling beer supplied),
O’ercome with giddiness and qualms, he
Reeld—fell in—and nothing more said,
But in his favourite liquor died,
Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.

In all directions, round about,
The negro absentee was sought ;
But as no human noddle thought
That our fat black was now Brown Stout,
They settled that the


had left
The place for debt, or crime, or theft.
Meanwhile the beer was, day by day,
Drawn into casks and sent away,
Until the lees flowed thick and thicker,
When, lo ! outstretched upon the ground
Once more their missing friend they found,
As they had often done-in liquor.

See,” cried his moralising master,
“I always knew the fellow drank hard,
And prophesied some sad disaster.
His fate should other tipplers strike.
Poor Mungo ! there he welters like
A toast at bottom of a tankard."

Next morn a publican, whose tap
Had helped to drain the vat so dry,
Not having heard of the mishap,
Came to demand a fresh supply,
Protesting loudly that the last
All previous specimens surpassed-
Possessing a much richer gusto
Than formerly it used to,
And begging as a special favour
Some more of the exact same flavour.

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