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 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

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,

With such name as "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 that 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

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 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, "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

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, "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 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 climber-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-nevermore.

Edgar A. Poe.

MONEY MUSK.!

Ан, the buxom girls that helped the boys— The nobler Helens of humbler Troys—

As they stripped the husks with rustling fold, From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold,

By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls,
And the gleams that showed fantastic holes
In the quaint old lantern's tatooed tin,
From the hermit glim set up within;

By the rarer light in girlish eyes
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies.
I hear the laugh when the ear is red,
I see the blush with the forfeit paid,

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist,
The cider cup that the girls have kissed.
And I see the fiddler through the dusk
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!"

1 Exercise on stress, median and thorough.