And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 16 ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

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This it is and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' -here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 28 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore?' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 32 Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

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"Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, 10 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

44 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

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"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

52 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as 'Nevermore.'

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But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered, '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 64 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

nevermore.'

68 Straight I wheeled a cushioned 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.'

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This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
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
76 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 unseen censer 80 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!'

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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 88 On this Home by horror haunted tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead?

--

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil

tell me, I implore!' Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore."

tell me

prophet still, if bird or devil!

92 By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

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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 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! 100 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 104 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

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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

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What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme

To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!

From the molten golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

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To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 45 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher,

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With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavour
Now now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

65 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells

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Of the bells

-

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people ah, the people
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone
They are neither man nor woman
They are neither brute nor human
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls

A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells
Of the bells:

--

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

ATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804—

NA

1864) was born at Salem, near Boston, Mass., as the son of a sea-captain. He studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, Me. But, averse from choosing a profession, he lived with his mother in close retirement at Salem, and early began to write stories for the magazines. Through the influence of political friends, he three times held public offices: from 1839-41 he was weigher and gauger in the Boston

Custom House, from 1846-49 Surveyor of Customs at Salem, and from 1853-57 U.S. Consul at Liverpool. Before returning home from England, he spent about two years in Italy. In 1852 he bought a house 'The Wayside' at Concord, Mass., where he mostly lived during his later years. He died at Plymouth, N.H., in his sixtieth year.

Hawthorne is the greatest of the American novelists. His romances show a