PREFACE TO THE POEMS. THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to the redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random "the rounds of the press." I am natu rally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not-they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. E. A. P. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE RAVEN. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more." Iresently 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, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Le nore ?" 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, 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 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, |