By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly,
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime
Out of SPACE-out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters-lone and dead-
Their still waters-still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dread-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily;
By the mountains, near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever;
By the gray woods,-by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp;
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls;
By each spot the most unholy,
In each nook most melancholy,
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past,
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by,
White-robed forms of friends long given
In agony, to the Earth-and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region;
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis-oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not dare not-openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
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 selfsame 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 imbrued.
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.
THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF EDGAR A. POE,
In large, handsome type, with several fine illustrations, are published by me, in cloth binding, at the price of 40 cents; also, finely bound in extra cloth, gilt edges ("Presentation Edition"), price 60 cents.
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