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 chamber-door,Some late visitor entreating entrance at chamber-door; That it is, and nothing more.'

my

Fresently 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 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 whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "LENORE!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the 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 explore,Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter,when, with many a flirt and flutter,

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 chamberdoor,

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-doorPerched, 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!"

D*

Much I marveled 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 flut-
tered-

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
Follow'd fast and follow'd 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, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burn'd 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! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an un

seen 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 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!

NO GOD.-N. K. RICHARDSON.

Is there no God? The white rose made reply,
My ermine robe was woven in the sky.

The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower,
My plumage fell from hands that made the flower.

Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray
At the vile question startles in dismay;
And, tossing mad against earth's impious clod,
Impatient thunders-yes, there is a God!

Is there no God? The greedy worm that raves
In sportive glee amid the gloom of graves,
Proves a Divinity supremely good,

For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood.

Is there no God? The dying Christian's hand,
Pale with disease, points to a better land;
And ere his body mingles with the sod,

He, sweetly smiling, faintly murmurs--God.

No God! Who broke the shackles from the slave?
Who gave this bleeding nation power to save
Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom,
And lay rebellion's spirit in the tomb?

We publish God!-The towering mountains cry.
Jehovah's name is blazoned on the sky,
The dancing streamlet and the golden grain,
The lightning gleam, the thunder, and the rain,
The dew-drop diamond on the lily's breast,
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed,
The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves,
And sea-weed bowing to a troop of waves;

The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars,
The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars;
The eagle, soaring in majestic flight,

The morning bursting from the clouds of night,
The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer,
Angelic voices floating on the air,

Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath,
And all the myriad-mysteries of death.

Beware ye doubting disbelieving throng,
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong;
There is a God; remember while ye can,
"His Spirit will not always strive with man."

MY LORD TOMNODDY.-R. H. BARHAM.

My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,

So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb,

His boots were polished, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he asked as he held the door on the swing,
"Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

My Lord Tomuoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

66

Malibran's dead,
Duvernay's fled,

Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;
Tiger Tim, come tell me true,

What may a nobleman find to do?"

Tim looked up, and Tim looked down,
He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,

And he held up his hat, and he peeped in the crown,
He bit his lip, and he scratched his head,

He let go the handle, and thus he said,

As the door, released, behind him banged:

"An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hanged." My Lord Tomnoddy jumped up at the news, "Run to M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score

I've seen before

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more:
But to see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"
My Lord Tomnoddy stepped into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;

Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,

Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air,
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place

Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some aların,
But did no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down--very much to the sweeper's dismay— An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,

And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall;
But eastward afar,
Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;

Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,

He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where in front of the gaol, he