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 wanlight—wan light of the horned 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! Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
     From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
     As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
     With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent—we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
     Not all the magic of our high renown—
     Not all the wonder that encircles us—
     Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
     Not all the memories that hang upon
     And cling around about us as a garment,
     Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”


      1833. THE HAUNTED PALACE. In 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—was in the olden
         Time long ago,)
     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. 1838. THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! ’tis 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 the angels 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
     And the angels, all pallid and wan,
         Uprising, unveiling, affirm
     That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
          And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 1838. 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_—sea and shore—
         Body and soul. 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.”
      He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself;
     But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
     That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
     No foot of man,) commend thyself to God! 1840. DREAM-LAND


        By a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have reached these lands but newly
         From an ultimate dim Thule—
         From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
               Out of SPACE—out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
         And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
         With forms that no man can discover
         For the dews that drip all over;
         Mountains toppling evermore
         Into seas without a shore;
         Seas that restlessly aspire,
         Surging, unto skies of fire;
         Lakes that endlessly outspread
         Their lone waters—lone and dead,—
         Their still waters—still and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily.