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He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,

And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

The Dav Is Done.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,

And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

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AH, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flown for ever!
Let the bell toll! A saintly soul floats on the Stygian
And Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear? Weep now or nevermore!
See on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come, let the burial-rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead, that ever died so young—
A dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young!

'Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her

pride; And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual then be read? the requiem, how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young!'

Pcccavimus: but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath ' gone before,' with Hope that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but now within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.

'Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,
Hut waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float—up from the damned

earth. To friends above, from fields below, the indignant ghost is

riven— From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven— From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of


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 and 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 imbrued.

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 One In Paradise.

'"THOU wast that all to me, love,
-*- For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
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

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