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"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I
upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days! Let no bell toll! — lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed
mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the
damned Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost
is riven From Hell unto a high estate far up
within the Heaven From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the
King of Heaven.”
- at twilight dim-
- in good and ill
Future radiant shine
OR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Læda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines ! — they hold a treasure Divine - a talisman
an amulet That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure
The words - the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Of poets, by poets as the name is a poet's, too.
Like the knight Pinto — Mendez Ferdinando Still form a synonym for Truth. Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best
you can do.
[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]
YPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power !
your strength O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones !
But stay! these walls — these ivy-clad arcades — These mouldering plinths — these sad and blackened
shafts These vague entablatures — this crumbling frieze These shattered cornices this wreck — this ruin These stones alas! these gray stones are they all All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all” the Echoes answer me
“ not all !
and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
It was a July midnight; and from out