THE HAUNTED PALACE

IN our

N the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace —
Radiant palace— reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion,
It stood there;

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow

(This all this

Time long ago),

was in the olden

And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tunèd 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,
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

O! '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 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 seraphs 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,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, " Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

"Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,”

The shade replied,

"If you seek for Eldorado!"