Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!

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Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave

And weep above a nameless grave!

They wave-from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:-from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

As "The Valley Nis," in "Poems," 1831.

TO ONE IN PARADISE I
Thou wast all that 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 flow

ers,

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, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy gray eye glances, And where thy footstep gleamsIn what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

Godey's Lady's Book, Jan., 1831.

THE COLISEUM

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length-at length-after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

1 From the tale now called "The Assignation."

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,

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And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door

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Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

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Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omimous bird of yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!