I will urge him to linger awhile with me Till his withering chill and weariness flee. A story--who knows?--he may deign to rehearse, And when he is gone I will put it in verse. I turned to prepare for the coming guest, With curious, troublous thoughts oppressed. The window I cheered with the taper's glow Which glimmered afar o'er the spectral snow. My anxious care the hearth-stone knew, And the red flames leaped and beckoned anew. But chiefly myself, with singular care, Did I for the hoary presence prepare. Yet with little success, as I paced the room, Did I labor to banish a sense of gloom. My thoughts were going and coming like bees, With store from the year's wide-stretching leas; Some laden with honey, some laden with gall, And into my heart they dropped it all! O miserable heart! at once overrun With the honey and gall thou can'st not shun. O wretched heart! in sadness I cried, Where is thy trust in the Crucified? And in wrestling prayer did I labor long That the Mighty One would make me strong. That prayer was more than a useless breath: It brought to my soul God's saving health. The hours went by on their drowsy flight, And came the middle watch of the night; In part unmanned in spite of my care, I beheld my guest in the taper's glare, A wall of darkness around him thick, As onward he came to a pendulum-tick. Then quickly I opened wide the door, And bade him pass my threshold o'er, And linger awhile away from the cold, And repeat some story or ballad old,-- His weary limbs to strengthen with rest, For his course to the ever-receding West. Through the vacant door in wonder I glanced, And stood--was it long?--as one entranced. Silence so awful did fill the room, That the tick of the clock was a cannon's boom. And my heart it sank to its lowest retreat, And in whelming awe did muffle its beat. For now I beheld, as never before; And heard to forget--ah, nevermore! For with outstretched hand, with scythe and glass, With naught of a pause did the traveler pass. And with upturned face he the silence broke, And thus, as he went, he measuredly spoke: My journey is long, but my limbs are strong; And I stay not for rest, for story, or song. It is only a dirge, that ever I sing; It is only of death, the tale that I bring; Of death that is life, as it cometh to pass; Of death that is death, alas! alas! And these I chant, as I go on my way, As I go on my way forever and aye. Call not thyself wretched, though bitter and sweet In thy cup at this hour intermingle and meet. Some cloud with the sunshine must ever appear, And darkness prevails till morning is near. But who doth remember the gloom and the night, When the sky is aglow with the beautiful light?