Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, For we can not help agreeing that no living human being But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, Of-Never-nevermore!" But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseet 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! "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, "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd, 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 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor. NO GOD.—By N. K. Richardson. Is there no God? The white rose made reply, The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower, Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray Is there no God? The greedy worm that raves For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood. Is there no God? The dying Christian's hand And ere his body mingles with the sod, No God! Who broke the shackles from the slave ? Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom, We publish God! The towering mountains cry, The dancing streamlet and the golden grain, The dew-drop diamond on the lilies' breast, The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars, The morning bursting from the clouds of night. The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer, Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath, Beware ye doubting disbelieving throng, MY LORD TOMNODDY.-Ingoldsby Legends, My Lord Tomnoddy got up one day; It was half after two, So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet. Tiger Tim Was clean of limb, His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim; He stood in his stockings just four foot ten; And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing, "Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?" My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head, "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 look'd up, and Tim look'd down, He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown, He let go the handle, and thus he said, As the door, released, behind him bang'd: An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hang'd." My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news, "Run to M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues. I've seen before Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more: At the end of a string, With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!" My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab— Through street, and through square, Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air, Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace; Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, Two urchins at play, Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismay- Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall, My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car; Never heeding their squalls, Or their calls, or their bawls, He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls, Where in front of the gaol, he * * The clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight- There is "punch," "cold without," "hot with," "heavy wet" And rummers and mugs, And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs. Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws,— And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues, All come to see a man "die in his shoes !" The clock strikes One! And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.— Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze, While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, The clock strikes Four!- Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more; At the press-yard gate, Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks The clock strikes Five! The Sheriff's arrive, And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks. Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; Has drunk all his toddy, And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, |