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Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”-denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”–
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,”)
Could hope to utter. And I ! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write—I cannot speak or think-
Alas, I cannot feel ; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide open gate of dreams.
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapours, far away
To where the prospect terminatesthee only.


THE skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and serem

The leaves they were withering and sere ; It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir-
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic)

As the scoriac rivers that roll

As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere

Our memories were treacherous and sereFor we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year

(Ah, night of all nights in the year !) We noted not the dim lake of Auber

(Though once we had journeyed down here) Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,

And star-dials pointed to morn-
As the star-dials hinted of morn-

At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate hornAstarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—“She is warmer than Dian :

She rolls through an ether of sighs

She revels in a region of sighs :
She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion,

To point us the path to the skies

To the Lethean peace of the skiesCome up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyesCome up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust

Her pallor I strangely mistrust :

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