Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 59

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_383._= THE SPANIARDS' GRAVES AT THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

O sailors, did sweet eyes look after you, The day you sailed away from sunny Spain?

Bright eyes that followed fading s.h.i.+p and crew, Melting in tender rain?

Did no one dream of that drear night to be, Wild with the wind, fierce with the stinging snow, When, on yon granite point that frets the sea, The s.h.i.+p met her death-blow?

Fifty long years ago these sailors died: (None know how many sleep beneath the waves:) Fourteen gray head-stones, rising side by side, Point out their nameless graves,--

Lonely, unknown, deserted, but for me, And the wild birds that flit with mournful cry, And sadder winds, and voices of the sea That moans perpetually.

Wives, mothers, maidens, wistfully, in vain Questioned the distance for the yearning sail, That, leaning landward, should have stretched again White arms wide on the gale,

To bring back their beloved. Year by year, Weary they watched, till youth and beauty pa.s.sed, And l.u.s.trous eyes grew dim, and age drew near, And hope was dead at last.

Still summer broods o'er that delicious land, Rich, fragrant, warm with skies of golden glow: Live any yet of that forsaken band Who loved so long ago?

O Spanish women, over the far seas, Could I but show you where your dead repose!

Could I send tidings on this northern breeze, That strong and steady blows!

Dear dark-eyed sisters, you remember yet These you have lost, but you can never know One stands at their bleak graves whose eyes are wet With thinking of your woe!

=_Edgar Allen Poe._= (Manual, p. 510.)

From his Works.

=_384._= "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 muttered, "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 wished the morrow;--vainly I had 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 Thrilled 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 opened 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 stillness 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 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;-- '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 staid he; 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, 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 bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door,-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,-- With such name as "Nevermore."

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 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--never--more!'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cus.h.i.+oned 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 burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cus.h.i.+on's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining which the lamp-light gloated 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 G.o.d 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 toss'd thee here ash.o.r.e, Desolate, though 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 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, "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 sh.o.r.e!

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.

=_Alfred B. Street, 1811-._= (Manual, pp. 522, 531.)

From his "Poems."

=_385._= AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Overhead There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky; A silvery sheet, with s.p.a.ces of soft hue; A trembling veil of gauze is stretched athwart The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks; A soothing quiet broods upon the air, And the faint suns.h.i.+ne winks with drowsiness.

Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark, The bleat, the tinkle, whistle, blast of horn, The rattle of the wagon-wheel, the low, The fowler's shot, the twitter of the bird, And even the hue of converse from the road.