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 winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned 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 forever
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 Wo!

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 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.