52

ANNABEL LEE.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me—

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea) ·

That the wind came out of the cloud by night
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

53

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe.

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

54

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

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,
And 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,

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

55

Edgar Allan Poe.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR.

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seem to rise,

As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow

Under December's snow,