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As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door. ""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber-door

Only this, and nothing more."

2.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor,
Eagerly I wished the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenōre—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here forevermore.

3.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain, Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chāmber-door,— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door;

That it is, and nothing more."

4.

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.

5.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 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 whisper'd, and an echo murmured back the word, "LENORE!" Merely this, and nothing more.

6.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.

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Surely," said I," surely that is something at my window-lattice;

Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore,Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;'Tis the wind, and nothing mōre.”

7.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yōre. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door,Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-doorPerch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

8.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decōrum of the countenance it wōre, "Though thy crest be shōrn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure

no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shōre,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ?" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !”

9.

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bōre;
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 name as Nevermore !"

10.

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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 utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd— Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore !"

11.

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

Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bōre,-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never-nevermore !"

12.

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 yōreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

13.

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 viölet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press-ah! nevermore!

14.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

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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 !"

15.

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ǎshōre, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me-tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

16.

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both ǎdōre,

'Ne pěn' the, a drug or medicine that relieves pain and exhilarates.

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,' It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenōre; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

17.

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shōre! 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 !"

18.

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!

EDGAR A. POE.

SECTION XXXVI.

I.

182. THE SARACEN BROTHERS.

PART FIRST.

TTENDANT. A stranger craves admittance to your

A highness.

Saladin. Whence comes he?

Atten. That I know not.

Enveloped with a vestment of strange form,

His countenance is hidden; but his step,

1 Aidenn, from Aïdès, a name pre- transferred to his house, his abode, ferred by the poets for Hades. In or kingdom, so that it became a Homer, Aïdès is invariably the name name in quite general use for the of the god; but in latter times it was něther world.

His lofty port, his voice in vain disguised,
Proclaim-if that I dare pronounce it.

Sal.

Atten. Thy royal brother!

Sal.

Whom?

Bring him instantly. [Exit ATTENDANT.

Now, with his spēcious, smooth, persuasive tongue,
Fraught with some wily subterfuge, he thinks

To dissipate my anger. He shall die.

[Enter ATTENDANT and MALEK ADHEL.

Leave us together. [Exit ATTENDANT.] [Aside.] I should know

that form.

Now summon all thy fortitude, my soul,

Nor, though thy blood cry for him, spare the guilty!
[Aloud.] Well, stränger, speak; but first unvail thyself,

For Săl'adin' must view the form that fronts him.

Malek Adhel. Behold it, then!

Sal.

Mal. Ad. A brother's!

Sal.

I see a traitor's visage.

No!

Saladin owns no kindred with a villain.

Mal. Ad. O, patience, Heaven. Had any tongue but thine Uttered that word, it ne'er should speak another.

Sal. And why not now? Can this heart be more pierced

By Malek Adhel's sword than by his deeds?

Oh, thou hast made a desert of this bosom !
For open candor, planted sly disguise;
For confidence, suspicion; and the glow
Of generous friendship, tenderness, and love,
Forever banished! Whither can I turn,
When he by blood, by gratitude, by faith,
By every tie, bound to support, forsakes me?
Who, who can stand, when Malek Adhel falls?

1 Săla din, the hero of this dramatic piece, was born in 1137. He became Sultan of Egypt and Syria in 1168, from which period he is noted for his wars with the Chris tian crusaders. He died at Damascus in 1193, leaving a brother and seventeen sons to share his power

and conquests. Christians and Saracens have vied with each other in writing panegyrics on the justice, valor, generosity, and political wisdom of this prince, who possessed the art, not simply of acquiring power, but of devoting it to the good of his subjects.

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