To the throbbing of the bells, - To the sobbing of the bells; To the rolling of the bells, - To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells Bells, bells, bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE RAVEN BY EDGAR ALLEN POE In the Evening Mirror, January 29, 1845, "The Raven" Was published with a highly commendatory card from N. P. Willis, the editor, and a few days later The American Whig Review for February, from the advance sheets of which this poem had been copied, was the prey of editorial scissors throughout the country. In the magazine the author was masked under the pseudonym "Quarles," but in this journal he had been named as E. A. Poe. No great poem ever established itself so immediately, so widely, and so imperishably in men's minds. "The Raven" became in some sort a national bird, and its author the most notorious American of the hour. GEORGE E. WOODBURY. 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. ""T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Decem ber, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow 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, ""T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; That 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 cham ber 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 darkness 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: 66 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; 'T is the wind, and nothing more." Open then 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 an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, 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, ""T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; That 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, |