Then into the chamber turning, Somewhat louder than before, And this mystery explore ; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, Of the saintly days of yore; Perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling Of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, On the night's Plutonian shore;" Much I marvelled this ungainly But the raven sitting lonely Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, “what it utters It is only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, Till his songs one burden boreTill the dirges of his hope the Melancholy burden bore Of Nevermore '-of 'Nevermore.' But the raven still beguiling All my sad soul into smiling, I betook myself to linking What this ominous bird of yore- Burned into my bosom's core; That the lamplight gloated o'er; Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls Tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thes, 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!" said I, "thing of evilProphet still, if bird or devil!— By that heaven that bends above us— By that God we both adore- Whom the angels name Lenore- Whom the angels name Lenore." 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! And take thy form from off my door!" And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; EDGAR ALLEN POE. THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. 'HERE'S no dearth of kindness In this world of ours; We gather thorns for flowers! There's no dearth kindness Or love among mankind, But in darkling loneness Hooded hearts grow blind! Full of kindness tingling, Soul is shut from soul, When they might be mingling In one kindred whole! There's no dearth of kindness, Though it be unspoken, From the heart it buildeth Rainbow-smiles in token That there be none so lowly, But have some angel-touch: We live for self too much! In the heart forever. There's no dearth of kindness we gather thorns for flowers! Oh, cherish God's best giving, Falling from above! Life were not worth living, GERALD MASSEY. WHAT I LIVE FOR. LIVE for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true; For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too; For all human ties that bind me, I live to learn their story, Who've suffered for my sake; To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine; To feel there is a union 'Twixt nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction, I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall live by reason, And not alone by gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighter' As Eden was of old. I live for those who love me, For those who know me true; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, And the good that I can do. G. LINNÆUS BANKS. LOOK ALOFT. This spirited piece was suggested by an anecdote related of a ship-boy who, growing dizzy, was about to fall from the rigging, N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale "Look aloft!" and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the triend who embraced in prosperity's glow, are "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentent regret, "Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set. tain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow-grass and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin; and the fragrant white pondlily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's bank that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in. It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its rank life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world, that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supply good and beautiful results-the fragrance of celestial flowers-to the daily life of others. The Old Manse!—we had almost forgotten it; but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed mar for planting trees from which he could have no prospect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive for planting Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, And oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE W successors-an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the superfluity. It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a wind-fall; while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, E stand now on the rivers's brink. It may well and computes the number of empty flour-barrels that be called the Concord-the river of peace will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, and quietness—for it is certainly the most un- doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard excitable and sluggish stream that ever loi-has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself tered imperceptibly towards its eternity, the sea. Posi- with matters of the heart. The tree possesses a dotively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a north-western breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day. mestic character; they have lost the wild nature c' their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by re ceiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants. I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free, moun-sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits. |