Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary Over two delightful volumes rich in biographic lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis the footman with the tumblers, tapping at my chamber door―― Only that and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November; Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone’s nose upon the floor, Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store! If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford’s score! Name it not for evermore. Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal, In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot’s[10] days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he, But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door―― Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber door―― Perched and spat, and nothing more. “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil, Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted, In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before?” Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil, By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don’t adore, Tell this soul with terror haunted, tell this Secretary daunted, Of the triumphs which we’ve vaunted, of the victory in store, Shall the newsboys shout to-morrow how I’ve topped Sir Stafford’s score?” Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” ANONYMOUS. _Received from Edinburgh, March_ 12, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE RAVEN.