Of the bells, bells, bells- To the rolling of the bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. AN ENIGMA. SELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnetTrash of all trash !-how can a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuffOwl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles-ephemeral and so transparent― But this is, now,-you may depend upon itStable, opaque, immortal-all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't. ANNABEL LEE. Ir was many and many a year ago, That a maiden there lived whom you may know And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love I and my ANNABEL LEE; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, So that her highborn kinsman came In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side TO MY MOTHER. BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, My mother-my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife 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-tuned 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, While, like a ghastly rapid river, A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh-but smile no more. |