And some, who walk in calmness here,
    Shall shudder as they reach the door
  Where one who made their dwelling dear,
    Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

  Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
    And dreams of greatness in thine eye! 
  Go’st thou to build an early name,
    Or early in the task to die?

  Keen son of trade, with eager brow! 
    Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 
  Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
    Or melt the glittering spires in air?

  Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
    The dance till daylight gleam again? 
  Who sorrow o’er the untimely dead? 
    Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

  Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
    The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;
  And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
    Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

  Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
    They pass, and heed each other not. 
  There is who heeds, who holds them all
    In His large love and boundless thought.

  These struggling tides of life, that seem
    In wayward, aimless course to tend,
  Are eddies of the mighty stream
    That rolls to its appointed end.

W.C.  BRYANT.

The Raven.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—­
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
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.”

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 Lenore,—­
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—­

                    Nameless here forevermore.

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 my chamber door;—­

                    This it is, and nothing more.”

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.