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But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn !—for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him desolate !) And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh—but smile no more.

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years ! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly

Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!

That motley drama-oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout

A crawling shape intrude !
A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude !

It writhes !-it writhes with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!

And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm. And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

TO F-S S. 0-D.

Thou wouldst be loved ?—then let thy heart

From its present pathway part not ! Being everything which now thou art,

Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways,

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise,

And love-a simple duty.

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