This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex

pressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease

reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er,

She shall press-ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls 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 the memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O, 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!

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

Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore,

Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Be that word 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 that is dreaming,

And the lamplight 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!

OVER THE RIVER

BY NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST

Over the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,

Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

A LOST CHORD

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

Seated one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit,
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loath to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

That came from the soul of the organ,
And entered into mine.