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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, upstartingGet 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.”

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 float

ing on the floor, Shall be lifted-nevermore !

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THANKSGIVING.

LORD, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought :
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still :
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow, sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.

W. D. HOWELL:

THE END OF THE PLAY.

THE play is done,—the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ;

And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask,

A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends,

Let's close it with a parting rhyme;
And pledge a hand to all young friends,

As flits the merry Christmas time;
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts

That fate erelong shall bid you play;

Good night !-with honest, gentle hearts

A kindly greeting go alway!

Good night !-I'd say the griefs, the joys,

Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age;
I'd say your woes were not less keen,

Your hopes more vain, than those of men,Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive

Not less nor more as men than boys,With grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth

May never wholly pass away.

I'd

And in the world, as in the school,

say how fate may change and shift,The prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift:
The strong may yield, the good may fall,

The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design ?

Blessèd be He who took and gave!

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,

Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so,

That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow,

That's free to give or to recall.

This crowns his feast with wine and wit,-

Who brought him to that mirth and state. His betters, see, below him sit,

Or hunger hopeless at the gate.
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel
To
spurn

of Lazarus ?
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel,

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus.

the rags

So each shall mourn, in life's advance,

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance

And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen whatever fate be sent,

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent,

And whitened with the winter snow.

Come wealth or want, come good or ill,

Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the awful will,

And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize,

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if

you

rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman,

A gentleman, or old or young!

(Bear kindly with my humble lays ,) The sacred chorus first was sung

Upon the first of Christmas days; The shepherds heard it overhead,

The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said,

And peace on earth to gentle men !

My song, save this, is little worth;

I lay the weary pen aside,
And wish you health and love and mirth,

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide.
As fits the holy Christmas birth,

Be this, good friends, our carol still, Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

W. M, THACKERAY,

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