“ When there sidled in a Figure, such as ne’er was seen before;
Like some stagey apparition, in a woe-begone condition—
And it took up its position just inside my chamber-door.
“What might be your name?” I asked it. And it answered from the door—
“I’m the Drama!”—nothing more!
“Oh, indeed!” I said, politely. “Take a chair!” but that unsightly,
Not to say dejected Figure, an unwilling manner bore.
I remarked, “You seem in sorrow,—still bear up, perhaps to-morrow
(Though some trouble has beset you, which at present you deplore)
You may meet with better fortune, and be brilliant as of yore.” ”

“ Waiting out to catch some echo from that ever-opening door;
Then I seized this quickened being,
And through all his inward seeing,
Caused my burning inspiration in a fiery flood to pour.
Now I come more meekly human,
And the weak lips of a woman,
Touched with fire from off the altar, not with burning, as of yore,
But in holy love descending,
With her chastened being blending,
I will fill your soul with music from the bright celestial shore.
As one heart yearns for another,
As a child turns to its mother,
From the golden gates of glory, turn I to the earth once more ”

“ Here I open flung the door,—
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Back into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning,
Soon again I heard a growling, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something stirring at my lattice,
Let me see if ghost or cat ’tis, and this mystery explore.
Pooh! I have it, what a duffer, what a booby, to be sure!
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the casement, when, to my extreme amazement,
In there stepped a rusty Raven of the “glorious days of yore.” ”

“ His eye is bright, and apt to roll,
’Tis his most favourite plan;
And he looks a jury in the face
As very few men can.
Week in, week out, from ten till four,
You can hear his language flow;
You can see him hitch his gown and swing
His arm with motion slow,
Like a ranter beating the Holy Book
With a downright thumping blow!
And country people up in town
Look in at the Law-court’s door;
For they like to see the great Q.C.,
And hear his voice’s roar;
And ’tis thought a bit of luck to catch
Him standing on the floor.
He sits on Sundays in his rooms,
And “tots” up his week’s fees ”

“ And Health thy Father, stout and strong.
Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.
First let me pray the tuneful Nine
To aid me with a ray divine,
To guide me as I sweep the string,
And teach me rightly how to sing;
For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem,
Could ever find a nobler theme;
Nay, garbed in language rich and terse,
And married to immortal verse,
With fairy figures richly dight,
How can it fail to give delight?
It is a wintry holyday,
When young and old come out to play;
The air is crisp, the day is bright,
In sooth it is a goodly sight. ”

“ But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token
Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door.
“Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door
Now De Morny is no more.”
Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain,
On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more:
Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which stamps him mortal.
Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes! For there before
He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the door:
A bleeding bird, and nothing more. ”

“ All who reverence the great name of Shakespeare, and who are grateful for his noble plays (and they are numerous, whatever Mr. Burnand and Punch may think) , will patiently await The King of the Caliban Island (what charming wit and taste!) leaning upon their swords. In any case Shakespeare’s memory cannot suffer. What is to be feared is the degradation of the stage which he ennobled, and of the actors and dramatic authors of whom he ought to be the proudest and most sacred boast.—I am, Sir, yours faithfully, An Old Playgoer. ”

“ Burst more brightly on my vision than the fancy formed Lenore.
’Mid the surging sea she found me,
With the billows breaking round me,
And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore;
Like a lone one, weak and weary,
Wandering in the mid-night dreary,
On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore.
Like the breath of blossoms blending,
Like the prayers of saints ascending,
Like the rainbow’s seven-hued glory, blend on souls forevermore;
Earthly lust and lore enslaved me,
But divinest love hath saved me,
And I know now, first and only, how to live and how to adore. ”

“ O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men:
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer
“Nevermore!” ”

“ Caught from pessimistic master, who in progress saw disaster,
Coming fast and coming faster, till his wails one burden bore,—
Till his sad vaticinations one unvarying burden bore,
This same Raven’s “Nevermore!”
But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking,
I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore,
Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore,
Meant by croaking “Nevermore!” ”

“ Sprawling on the parlour floor;
And I said that spirit rapping
I very much deplore—
I think I rather swore.
And, shouting for a bobby,
Till my voice rang through the lobby,
I made efforts to collect myself
Lying spilt upon the floor;
But it is a fact outrageous
That no guardian beak courageous,
With whiskers so umbrageous,
Hears, however loud you roar;
So, assisted by the poker,
I crawled towards the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Still the table it kept prancing,
And a private hornpipe dancing,
As if its soul rejoiced to see
The sufferings that I bore. ”

“ Poking at my chamber-door—
“’Tis some dirty ill-bred spirit
Knocking at my chamber-door—
Only that, and nothing more.”
But to face the audacious knocker,
I seized the shining poker,
While my heart went jumping, thumping,
As I never felt before;
For through the storm’s loud shrieking
I heard high voices speaking—
’Tis some thief’s ghost that is sneaking
On the outside of the door—
Some vile spirit entrance seeking
By the keyhole of the door—
This, perhaps, and nothing more.
Hesitating then no longer,
Presently my legs grew stronger,
And, brandishing the poker,
I strode towards the door ”

“ Than ever one could tell,
All mimicking some mighty poet Master,
In many a sprightly “Sell.”
Perhaps ’tis too fond fancy,—that the reader
Should leave the weeklies all,
Let Punch go prosing, scorn the D. T. leader,
And let Police News pall;
While ’mid these gambols of poetic shadows,
Listening to bygone play,
As each mad parody evokes the glad “Ohs!”
(As Browning p’raps would say) .
See Tennyson, in mighty verse—o’ertaken,
Mimicked in tripping line—
When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken
Like gush in penny-a-line. ”

“ Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong, impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened,
With a brazen earthquake roar.
Downward, downward, circling, speeding,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,
His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore—
’Twas a bird, but demon more.
I’m no bird, “an angel brother,”
A bright spirit and none other,
I have waited, blissful tended
Thee for thirty years and more. ”

“ Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely,
For his answer little wisdom, little relevancy bore;
And one cannot help agreeing no sane living human being
In “Fair Trade” salvation seeing, could come yapping at one’s door,
Snapping, late at night in winter, at a fellow’s study-door,
Just to bid him, “Tax once more!”
But Dunraven, standing lonely under Cobden’s bust, spake only
Those same words as though his creed in those few words he did outpour. ”

“ Why I, in this weak parody on peace,
Should scorn like these to pass away the time,
Mistaking much the shadow for the sun,
And braying forth their own deformity;
And therefore—though I cannot fall much lower
In all things needful in these latter days—
I envy not the braggartdom of Britain,
And hate the rampant rubbish of her ways,
As shown me in this paper—dangerous
And morbid prophecies, libels, and schemes
To set my brother chiefs against their king,
In deadly hate the one against the other. ”

“ Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!”
“My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore.”
* * * * *
“Thou art gone from me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore. ”

“ As o’er a station platform passed
A youth, who bore, with step precise,
A paper with the strange device
Of Sloper.
His coat was torn, his hair unkempt,
His face from water long exempt,
But quick his action, sharp his eye
As loud he shouted, “Who will buy
A Sloper.”
“Stay!” said an old man, “stay, my boy,
Who ought to be your mother’s joy,
Linger a while, and give to me
(For I would wish amused to be)
A Sloper.”
“Here!” said a maiden, sad yet “swell,”
In accents like a silver bell,
“Come here, my youth, and I will try
To drown my sorrow; I will buy
A Sloper.” ”

“ Just inside my silent door,
Waiting for the ages, seeming
Like a man forever dreaming,
And the sunlight on me streaming
Throws no shadows on the floor;
For I am too thin and sallow
To make shadows on the floor;
’Nary shadow—any more!
The Chancellor of the Exchequer
and the Surplus.
Lately on a midnight dreary, whilst I studied, though so weary,
Several sheets of close-writ figures I had gone through times before;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Treasury door.
“Is that Kempe?” I slowly mutter’d. ”

“ From thy banquet rise—be human!
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more. 60
Tapping, tapping, striking deeper,
Rousing pain, my body’s keeper,
Thou hast oft ere while sought entrance
At the heart’s great palace door;
Leave me, leave me, gloomy demon,
Fiend or spirit, most inhuman;
Strike me through, but first unveiling,
Let me scan thee o’er and o’er—
Thou art a bird, but something more.
Still with sable pinions flapping,
The great Raven tapping, tapping,
Struck into my breast his talons. ”

“ The other night as I lay musing, and my weary brain confusing o’er the topics of the day, suddenly I heard the rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the fray. “What’s that?” I cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! I ran against the door. “Oh, ’tis “naught,” young Hornet grumbled, as o’er a huge arm-chair, I stumbled,” ’tis a flea, and nothing more.” “Then,” said I, my anger rising, for I thought it so surprising that a flea should thus offend, “do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, ’tis not a flea, my friend.” ”

“ Safely moored from sorrow’s tempest, on that distant Aidenn shore,
Rest thee, lost one, evermore.
Thou wert like a meteor glancing through a starry sky, entrancing,
Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous light it wore;
But the meteor has descended, and the “nightly shadows blended,”
For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis o’er—
Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is o’er—
Thou art sleeping evermore.
Ocean, earth, and air could utter words that made thy spirit flutter—
Words that stirred the hidden fountain swelling in the bosom’s core ”

“ Pride has made you what you are;
Though I think my lineage owns
Better men than your papa!
On the field of Waterloo
My sire and grandsire left their bones;
But what is that to me or you?
Ask your heart, Matilda Jones.
Well I know you, Johnson Jones,
You at times are very sad;
And your broken spirit groans
Over what it might have had.
’Tis in vain—your fickle soul
My much nobler soul disowns;
You have taught me to control
E’en myself, young ’Tilda Jones.
Oh! Matilda Johnson Jones,
What is all this wayward life? ”

“ Play’d worn-out tunes of nigger airs,
And mock’d with “Sich a gittin’ up stairs;”
Yet no one came to mount her own.
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
I thought there would be some.”
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
And yet no lodgers come.”
All day within those lonely walls,
The maid kept clean to let folks in;
The lilac blew i’ the grate; the squalls
Of coop’d up children did begin;
Yet no one came a room to seek,
No strangers waited at the door,
No lodgers viewed the second floor,
No people asked, “How much a week?”
She only said, “It’s very dreary,
They do not come,” she said. ”

“ Can’t be mentioned in these verses; till, at length, my heartfelt curses
Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er—
Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er,
Laughed, drew several corks, and swore.
“Parrot!” said I, “bird of evil! parrot still, or bird or devil!
By the piper who the Israelitish leader played before,
I will stand this chaff no longer! We will see now which is stronger.
Come, now,—off! Thy cage is open—free thou art, and there’s the door!
Off at once, and I’ll forgive thee;—take the hint, and leave my door.” ”

“ For a saintly, radiant matron, whom the angels name Annore
Lately wife, now wife no more.
III.
She had passed the gloomy portals, which forever hide from mortals
Spirit myst’ries, which the living are most eager to explore.
Poring o’er the sacred pages, guides to all the good for ages,
Sat I, helped by lore of sages, when the rapping at my door,
Startled me as if a spirit had come to my chamber-door,
Tapping thus, and meaning more.
IV.
And the plaintive, low, uncertain rustling of each window-curtain
Thrill’d me—filled my quaking heart with terrors never felt before. ”

“ Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One!
For critical devouring; but some words
Writ heedlessly above thee call for words
Of answering rebuke. If Israfel
In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre—
The only organ of harmonious worth—
Shall not earth’s poet? And if he be weak,
Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire,
Untunable, rejoicing not in good,
Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd
Of “art for art’s sake!” when art is not art
Out of the circles of the universe,
Out of the song of the eternities,
Or unfit to attend the ear of God. ”

“ All the Town’s a Slide.
(A Parody for the Frost.)
——All the town’s a slide,
And all the men and women merely skaters.
They have their slippings and their flounderings,
And one man in his life has many falls:
His fate having seven stages. At first, the infant,
Shivering and shaking in his nurse’s arms;
And then the shuffling school-boy, with his highlows
And hobnailed sole and heel, cutting-out slides
Instead of going to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, till with woeful tumble
He and his mistress lie low. Then a soldier,
Wearing odd skates, and bearding all the park ”