6. 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 ex plore "Tis the wind, and nothing more." 7. 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 stayed 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. 8. 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 shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore !" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 9. Much I marvelled 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 blessed with sceing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham ber door, With such name as Nevermore.” 10. 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 farther 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, "Nevermore." 11. 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-nevermore.' 12. 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 yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 13. 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 lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah! nevermore. 14. 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, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 15. "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 Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me tell me, " Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 16. 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 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 17. 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, "Nevermore." 18. 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 lamplight 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! CHAPTER LXXXIV.-WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACK ERAY.-1811-1863. I.-Biographical. 1. The most studious and discerning master of English prose fiction that the nineteenth century has thus far produced, is William Makepeace Thackeray. Descended from a Yorkshire family that has given many sons to the ministry, he was the child of a gentleman in the service of the East India Company, and was born at Calcutta. His knowledge of Hindostan, and his acquaintance with the nabobs of Portland Place," have done good service in his novels Pendennis and The Newcomes. Thackeray was educated at the Charter-House, London, which he has affectionately described in the history of Colonel Newcome, and at Cambridge University. 2. He devoted himself for ten years to art, which he studied in France, Italy, and Germany; but, having impaired, by unfortunate investments, a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, he applied himself to literature as a a Portland Place, London, is notable for the residences of returned East Indian officials, many of whom were enriched in the service. |