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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 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!" 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

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."

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"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 LenoreClasp 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! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!

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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'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-nevermore!

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1 Poe's wife Virginia died in January, 1847. "Ulalume" was published in December of that year.

She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies

And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes-
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said "Sadly this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
Oh, hasten!-oh, let us not linger!

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Oh, fly!-let us fly!-for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust- 59 Till they sorrow fully trailed in the dust.

I replied “This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous light!

Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming

With Hope and in Beauty to-nightSee!-it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through
the night."

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Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

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1 Mrs. M. A. Shew suggested the subject and some of the lines of the original version of this poem, which was but seventeen lines long. An eighteenth line was added and the poem submitted by Poe to the Union Magazine in the autumn of 1848. It was not published until a year later, and then in an enlarged and revised form similar to the present version.

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!

III

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, 41
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,

Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now-now to sit, or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 50

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; 60 Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells

Of the bells

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

In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!

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Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple, 80
All alone,

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

On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey 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 pæan of the bells:-
Of the bells:

Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the sobbing of the bells:Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells :

To the tolling of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells

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To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

1848-1849.

Sartain's Union Magazine, Nov., 1849.

TO MY MOTHER 1

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of "Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you

You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother-my own mother, who died

early,

1 The sonnet is written to Mrs. Clemm, the mother of Poe's wife.

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JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

(1807-1892)

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON

Champion of those who groan beneath
Oppression's iron hand:

In view of penury, hate, and death,
I see thee fearless stand.
Still bearing up thy lofty brow,

In the steadfast strength of truth,
In manhood sealing well the vow
And promise of thy youth.

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EXPOSTULATION 1

Our fellow-countrymen in chains!
Slaves, in a land of light and law!
Slaves, crouching on the very plains
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's
war!

A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood,
A wail where Camden's martyrs fell,
By every shrine of patriot blood,
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!

By storied hill and hallowed grot,
By mossy wood and marshy glen,
Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,
And hurrying shout of Marion's men!
The groan of breaking hearts is there,
The falling lash, the fetter's clank!
Slaves, slaves are breathing in that air

ΙΟ

Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!

1 Dr. Charles Follen, a German patriot, who had come to America for the freedom which was denied him in his native land, allied himself with the abolitionists, and at a convention of delegates from all the anti-slavery organizations in New England, held at Boston in May, 1834, was chairman of a committee to prepare an address to the people of New England. Toward the close of the address occurred the passage which suggested these lines:

"The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States-the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king-cradle the Shall a bondage which a king is abolishing? Republic be less free than a Monarchy? we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?" (Author's Note.)

Shall

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