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.

EDGAR ALLEN POE

348

THE HOUSE OF RICHESSE

NEIGHBOURING THE GATE OF HELL INTO WHICH MAMMON

LED THE ELFIN KNIGHT

THAT houses forme within was rude and strong,

Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,

From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,

Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,

And with rich metall loaded every rift,

That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;

And over them Arachne high did lift

Her cunning web, and spred her subtile net,

Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet

Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,
But overgrowne with dust and old decay,
And hid in darkenesse, that none could behold
The hew thereof: for vew of chearefull day
Did never in that house it selfe display,
But a faint shadow of uncertain light;
Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:

Or as the Noone cloathed with clowdy night,

Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.

In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,

But hugh great yron chests and coffers strong,

All bard with double bends,1 that none could weene
Them to efforce by violence or wrong;

On every side they placed were along.

But all the ground which sculs was scattered,

And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,
Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,

And their vile carcases now left unburied. . . .

From King and priest and serving man.

And burnished bower,

From beggar's whine and barking dogs,

From Prison sealed

Thou hast come from the old city

Into the field.

The gables in the old city.

Are stooping awry,

They gloom upon the muddy lanes

And smother the sky

And nightly through those mouldy lanes,

Moping and slow,

They who builded the old city
The cold ghosts go.

There is plague in the old city,
And the priests are sped

To graveyard and vault.

To bury the dead;

Brittle bones and dusty breath

To death must yield

Fly, fly, from the old city.

Into the field!

RUTH MANNING-SANDERS

350

First Spirit.

THE TWO SPIRITS

O THOU, who plumed with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A shadow tracks the flight of fire-
Night is coming!

Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there—
Night is coming!

Second Spirit. The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,

First Spirit.

And that is day!

And the moon will smile with gentle light On my golden plumes where'er they move; The meteors will linger round my flight; And make night day.

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken-
Night is coming!

The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,

The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain

Night is coming!

Second Spirit. I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:

And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;
My moon-like flight thou then may'st mark
On high, far away.

Some say there is a precipice

Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
'Mid Alpine mountains;

And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, for ever flies

Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aëry fountains.

Some say, when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day;

And a silver shape, like his early love, doth

pass

Up-borne by her wild and glittering hair,

And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,

He finds night day.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY