Till the dirges of his Hope the
Melancholy burden bore

Of Nevermore '-of '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 lamplight gloated o'er;
But whose velvet violet lining
With the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,
Perfum'd from an unseen censer,
Swung by angels whose faint 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 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!

THE BROOKLET.-WM. G. SIMMS.

A little farther on, there is a brook
Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees
Have roofed it with the crowding limbs and leaves,
So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount,
And the shade cools it. You may hear it now,
A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves,
That lie beneath its rapids, it descends
In a fine, showery rain, that keeps one tune,
And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy.

Beside its banks, through the whole livelong day,
Ere yet I noted much the speed of time,

And knew him but in songs and ballad-books,

Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ;

With thought unchid by harsher din than came

From the thick thrush, that, gliding through the copse,
Hurried above me; or the timid fawn

That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink,
And sauntered through its shade, cropping the grass,
Even where I lay-having a quiet mood,

And not disturbing, while surveying mine.

Thou smilest-and on thy lips a straying thought
Says I have trifled-calls my hours misspent,
And looks a solemn warning! A true thought-
And so my errant mood were well rebuked!-
Yet there was pleasant sadness that became
Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense,
In that same idlesse--gazing on that brook
So pebbly and so clear-prattling away,
Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes
From shadow into sunlight, and is lost.

POETRY AND NATURE.-RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

By Latin and English poetry, we were born and bred in an oratorio of praises of nature-flowers, birds, mountains, sun, and moon; yet the naturalist of this hour finds that he knows nothing, by all their poems, of any of these fine things; that he has conversed with the merest surface and show of them all; and of their essence, or of their history, knows nothing. Further inquiry will discover that nobody-that not these chanting poets themselves, knew anything sincere of these handsome natures they so commended; that they contented themselves with the passing chirp of a bird that they saw one or two mornings, and listlessly looked at sunsets, and repeated idly these few glimpses in their song. But, go into the forest, you shall find all new and undescribed. The screaming of the wild geese, flying by night; the thin note of the companionable titmouse, in the winter day; the fall of swarms of flies in autumn, from combats high in the air, pattering down on the leaves like rain; the angry hiss of the wood-birds; the pine throwing out its pollen. for the benefit of the next century; the turpentine exuding from the tree-and, indeed, any vegetation-any animation, any and all are alike unattempted. The man who stands on

the sea-shore, or who rambles in the woods, seems to be the first man that ever stood on the shore, or entered a grove, his sensations and his world are so novel and strange. Whilst I read the poets, I think that nothing new can be said about morning and evening; but when I see the daybreak, I am not reminded of these Homeric, or Shakspearian, or Miltonic, or Chaucerian pictures. No; but I feel, perhaps, the pain of an alien world—a world not yet subdued by the thought; or I am cheered by the moist, warm, glittering, budding, melodious hour, that takes down the narrow walls of my soul, and extends its life and pulsation to the very horizon. That is morning, to cease for a bright hour to be a prisoner of this sickly body, and to become as large as nature.

The noonday darkness of the American forest, the deep, echoing aboriginal woods, where the living columns of the oak and fir tower up from the ruins of the trees of the last millennium; where, from year to year, the eagle and the crow see no intruder; the pines, bearded with savage moss, yet touched with grace by the violets at their feet; the broad, cold lowland, which forms its coat of vapor with the stillness of subterranean crystallization; and where the traveler amid the repulsive plants that are native in the swamp, thinks with pleasing terror of the distant town; this beauty-haggard and desert beauty, which the sun and the moon, the snow and the rain repaint and vary, has never been recorded by art, yet is not indifferent to any passenger. All men are poets at heart. They serve nature for bread, but her loveliness overcomes them sometimes. What mean these journeys to Niagara; these pilgrims to the White Hills? Men believe in the adaptations of utility, always. In the mountains, they may believe in the adaptations of the eye. Undoubtedly, the changes of geology have a relation to the prosperous sprouting of the corn and peas in my kitchen garden; but not less is there a relation of beauty between my soul and the dim crags of Agiocochook up there in the clouds. Every man, when this is told, hearkens with joy, and yet his own conversation with nature is still unsung.