Much I marvel'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;

For we can not help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as 66 Nevermore!"

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd--
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown
before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore !"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

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
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd 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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press-ah! nevermore!

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!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd 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 rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"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
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!

NO GOD.—By N. K. Richardson.

Is there no God? The white rose made reply,
My ermine robe was woven in the sky.

The blue-bird warbled from his shady bower,
My plumage fell from hands that made the flower.

Is there no God? The silvery ocean spray
At the vile question startles in dismay;
And, tossing mad against earth's impious clod,
Impatient thunders-yes, there is a God!

Is there no God? The greedy worm that raves
In sportive glee amid the gloom of graves,
Proves a Divinity supremely good,

For daily morsels sent of flesh and blood.

Is there no God? The dying Christian's hand
Pale with disease points to a better land;

And ere his body mingles with the sod,
He, sweetly smiling, faintly murmurs-God.

No God! Who broke the shackles from the slave ?
Who gave this bleeding nation power to save

Its Flag and Union in the hour of gloom,
And lay Rebellion's spirit in the tomb?

We publish God! The towering mountains cry,
Jehovah's name is blazoned on the sky!

The dancing streamlet and the golden grain,
The lightning gleam, the thunder and the rain;—

The dew-drop diamond on the lilies' breast,
The tender leaf by every breeze caressed :
The shell, whose pearly bosom ocean laves,
And sea-weed bowing to a troop of waves.

The glow of Venus and the glare of Mars,
The tranquil beauty of the lesser stars;
The Eagle, soaring in majestic flight,

The morning bursting from the clouds of night.

The child's fond prattle and the mother's prayer,
Angelic voices floating upon air-

Mind, heart, and soul, the ever-restless breath,
And all the myriad-mysteries of death.

Beware ye doubting disbelieving throng,
Whose sole ambition is to favor wrong;
There is a God; remember while ye can,
"His Spirit will not always strive with man.”

MY LORD TOMNODDY.-Ingoldsby Legends,

My Lord

Tomnoddy got up one day;

It was half after two,
He had nothing to do,

So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.

Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb,

His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

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,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

"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,
And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,

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.
Rope-dancers a score

I've seen before

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more:
But to see a man swing

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—
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;

Through street, and through square,
His high-trotting mare,

Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air,
Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place

Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;
She produced some alarm,
But did no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm,
Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismay-
An old woman who wouldn't get out of the way,
And upsetting a stall
Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the pious Church-mission folks squall,
But eastward afar,
Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;

Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,

He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where in front of the gaol, he
Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump ?"

*

*

The clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;
The tables are set;

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot with," "heavy wet"
Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs.
Cold fowl and cigars,
Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws,—
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

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!
Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!”
My Lord Tomnoddy
Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.—
The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!
"Who so merry, so merry as we?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!-
Round the debtors' door

Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more;
As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks

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;
But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks, and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy,

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.