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XIV.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from

an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls 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, O, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

XV.

"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."

XVI.

"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."

XVII.

"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."

XVIII.

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-nevermore !*

* There is a curious little paper on the genesis of this poem, by Poe, in one of his Essays, "The Philosophy of Composition;" Works, vol. ii., p. 259. No single poem ever had greater success in America.

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Ан, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for

4 ever!

Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian

river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now, or never more?

See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!

Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be

sung;

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so

young,

A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.

II.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read-the requiem how

be sung,

By you by yours, the evil eye-by yours, the slanderous tongue,

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

III.

Peccavimus; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath

song

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no

wrong:

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