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 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!
E. A. Poe.
CLXII.
SPIRIT OF PATRIOTISM.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,—
"This is my own,—my native land!"
Whose heart hath never within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go mark him well,—
For him,—no minstrel raptures swell!
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored and unsung!
Sir W. Scott.
CLXIII.
LOCHINVAR.
Young Lochinvar is come out of the West!
Through all the wide Border his steed is the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapon had none;—
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;—
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented—the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among tribesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word—
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?—
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long wooed your daughter;—my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure—drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"