THE HAUNTED PALACE IN the greenest of our valleys Never seraph spread a pinion Banners yellow, glorious, golden, And every gentle air that dallied, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingéd odour went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tunéd law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, To a discordant melody, 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 A play of hopes and fears, Mimes, in the form of God on high, And hither and thither fly Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That motley drama-oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, 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 mortai pangs The mimes become its food, 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 F8 S. Od. THOU wouldst be loved ?-then let thy heart Thy grace, thy more than beauty, TO ONE IN PARADISE. THOU wast that all to me, love, A For which my soul did pine green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers. And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast ! A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!"-but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast! For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! "No more-no more-no more-" (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances, And where thy footstep gleans In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. |