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And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea-
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

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 odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous window, 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 for ever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

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 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,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm

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

TO FS S. O- -D.

Thou 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.

HYMN.

AT morn- -at noon-at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe-in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past,

Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

A VALENTINE.

FOR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!-they hold a treasure
Divine-a talisman-an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
The words—the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour !
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets by poets-as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto-Mendez Ferdinando-
Still form a synonym for Truth-Cease trying!

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end.]

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