The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 32

The Sultan said, with much humanity, 'Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy cry, I could not rid me of a dread that one By whom such daring villanies were done, Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.

Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.

For this I had the light put out. But when I saw the face and found a stranger slain, I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter, Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear.

And then I rose and was refresh'd with food, The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.'

_L. Hunt_

XCVI

_AUTUMN_

_A Dirge_

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying.

Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array,-- Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling.

Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black, and grey; Let your light sisters play; Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.

_P. B. Sh.e.l.ley_

XCVII

_THE RAVEN_

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

''Tis some visitor,' I mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door-- Only this and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wish'd the morrow;--vainly had I sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- 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 open'd wide the door;-- Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 'Lenore!'

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'-- Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat 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;-- 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'

Open here I flung a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he; But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door-- Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-- Perch'd and sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly sh.o.r.e, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e: Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'

Much I marvell'd 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 Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door, With such a name as '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 farther 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 burnt 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!

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us, by that G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e!

Leave no black plume as a token of the 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 daemon'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 is floating on the floor Shall be lifted 'Nevermore.'

_E. A. Poe_

XCVIII

_THE NIX_

The crafty Nix, more false than fair Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies, She envied me my golden hair, She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced The leaves, and on the waters play'd; She rose, she caught me round the waist, She said, 'Come down with me, fair maid.'

She led me to her crystal grot, She set me in her coral chair, She waved her hand, and I had not Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame Were mine, and hers my semblance fair; 'O make me, Nix, again the same, O give me back my golden hair!'

She smiles in scorn, she disappears, And here I sit and see no sun, My eyes of fire are quenched in tears, And all my darksome locks undone.

_R. Garnett_