Page:Southern Life in Southern Literature.djvu/246

228 Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,