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, A hideous throng rush out forever THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 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 That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! 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, 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. |