thing more!

Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearken
To that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?
In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?
Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"
Tell me truly, I implore!

Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature--its distresses?
Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?
Stoops he not to eating--drinking? Is he never caught in winking
When his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?
Tell me this, if nothing more!

Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"
Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?
When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,
Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?
Keeps he not that oath he swore?

He, too, may be inly praying--vainly, earnestly essaying
To forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.
He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,
Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,
Oh, renounce him nevermore.

Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!
Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,
No such narrow prejudices can _he_ know whom Love possesses--
Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy door
Lest Love enter nevermore!

Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some message
From that much-mourned matchless maiden--from that loved and lost Lenore.
In a pilgrim's garb disguised, angels are but seldom prized:
Of this fact at length advised, were it strange if he forswore
The false world for evermore?

Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!
Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!
Tell us of that world of wonder--of that famed unfading "Yonder!"
Rend--oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!
Doth he answer--"Nevermore?"

SONG OF THE ELVES.

BY ANNA BLACKWELL.

When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,
When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,
When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,
And the