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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,

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.

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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. 10! 't is 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, anid 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 imbrued.
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.

HOU 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.

HOU wast that all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine -
A 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
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands


the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar ! And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams -In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

“No more

no more


INCE it smiled a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell;

They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless —
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides !
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye —
Over the lilies there that wave

above a nameless grave !
They wave: from out their fragrant.tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:— from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

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