Áн, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or never
more!
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
"That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young ?"
Peccavimus; 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 bride
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not 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, "But waft the angel on her flight with a Pean 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 damnéd Earth.
"To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is
"From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven"From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven."
Ar morn-at noon-at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo-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!
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
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 labor!
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 dc.
[To translate the address, 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. The name will thus appear.]
TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Timel
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 nie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
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 wan light of the hornéd 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.”
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