SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

 THE RAVEN.

“The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their boyhood.  The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird picturesqueness.  It has never outgrown its mechanical charm.

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 for evermore.

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.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 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 my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a rapping, 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 chamber door—­
Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door—­

                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.