“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 Aiden
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 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!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

ARNOLD VON WINKLERIED.

“Make way for liberty!” he cried,
Make way for liberty, and died. 
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood,—­
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown. 
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear;
So still, so dense the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood.

    Impregnable their front appears,
    All horrent with projected spears. 
    Whose polished points before them shine,
    From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
    Bright as the breakers’ splendours run
    Along the billows to the sun.

    Opposed to these a hovering band
    Contended for their fatherland;
    Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
    From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
    And beat their fetters into swords,
    On equal terms to fight their lords;
    And what insurgent rage had gained,
    In many a mortal fray maintained;
    Marshalled, once more, at Freedom’s call,
    They came to conquer or to fall,
    Where he who conquered, he who fell,
    Was deemed a dead or living