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 further 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: 'Never more.'

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
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of" Never-never more."

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 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 yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Never more.'

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
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, never more!

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 thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the Raven: 'Never more!'

'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: 'Never more.'

'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 Aiden,

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: 'Never more.'

'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: 'Never more.'

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-never more!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW: 1807-. Longfellow, Professor of Modern Languages in Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, is one of the most popular of the American poets. His chief poems are, Voices of the Night, Evangeline, The Golden Legend, Hiawatha, and The Courtship of Miles Standish.

FROM EVANGELINE.

THE ACADIAN VILLAGE, THE HOME OF EVANGELINE.

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.

Thatched were the roofs with dormer-windows; and gables pro

jecting

Over the basement below, protected and shaded the doorway.

There, in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the

sunset

Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps, and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of
the maidens.

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest; and the children
Pause in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and

maidens,

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.

Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely the sun

sank

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale-blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers-
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows,

N

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalwart and stately in form was the man of seventy winters.
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak leaves.

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the

wayside

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the

meadows.

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her
Missal,

Wearing her Norman-cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child through long generations.
But a celestial brightness-a more ethereal beauty-
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.
Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
Further down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-

grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and

the farmyard.

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;

There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.
There, too, the dovecot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates
Murmuring ever of love; while above, in the variant breezes,
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.
Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things-each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end;

Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,

That makes another's virtues less;

The revel of the giddy wine,

And all occasions of excess.

The longing for ignoble things,

The strife for triumph more than truth,
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth!