Puslapio vaizdai

“ Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried,

“So long enjoy'd, so oft misused Alternate, in thy fickle pride;

Desired, neglected, and accused ?

“Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away ; And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay.

“ Redeem mine hours—the space is brief,

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief,

When Time and thou shalt part for ever!”


He is gone to the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The fount, reappearing,

From the raindrops shall borrow,
- But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow !

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest.



“But, see ! look up-on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."

And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke.
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,

As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march, their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown,

At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne

King James did rushing come.—
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;

And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth

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 in 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 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 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!



See the kitten how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts !

First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light, and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop ; and there are none-
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics play'd in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd ?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure !



An Orpheus ! an Orpheus he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brin
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have büss;
The mourner is cheerd, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-barthen'd soul is no longer opprest.

That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught, and his time runs to waste The newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret, And the hall-breathless lamplighter, he's in the net!

The porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;-
If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the musician, 'tis all that she sees !

That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he !
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that cripple,--but little would tempt him to try
To dance to the strain and to fling his crutch by !
That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream :
They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue !

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