THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys Never seraph spread a pinion Banners yellow, glorious, golden, Time long ago,) was in the olden And every gentle air that dallied, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingéd odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, (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 evɩmore, 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, A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh but smile no more. 1 The MS, of this poem in the possession of Mrs. W. M. Griswold is incomplete beginning with the last line of Stanza III, and ending with line 4 of Stanza VI. The only important variation is in line 2, Stanza VI., red-litten encrimsoned. ED. SONNET SILENCE. THERE are some qualities some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence Body and soul. sea and shore One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless his name 's "No More." Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, 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, By what eternal streams. THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 't is 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 shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings That motley drama — oh, be sure 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. |