It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 't would win me That, with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,—

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! beware
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE SUNKEN CITY.

HARK! the faint bells of the sunken city
Peal once more their wonted evening chime!
From the deep abysses floats a ditty,

Wild and wondrous, of the olden time.

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories
There lie buried in an ocean grave,—
Undescried, save when their golden glories
Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave.

And the mariner who had seen them glisten,
In whose ears those magic bells do sound,
Night by night bides there to watch and listen,
Though death lurks behind each dark rock round.

So the bells of memory's wonder-city

Peal for me their old melodious chime!
So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty,
Sad and pleasant, from the bygone time.

Domes and towers and castles, fancy-builded,
There lie lost to daylight's garish beams,-
There lie hidden till unveiled and gilded,

Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams!

And then hear I music sweet upknelling
From many a well-known phantom band,
And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling
Far off in the spirit's luminous land!

From the German of WILHELM MUELLER.
Translation of JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

THE WALKER OF THE SNOW.

SPEED on, speed on, good Master!
The camp lies far away;

We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.

How the snow-blight came upon me
I will tell you as I go,-

The blight of the Shadow-hunter
Who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven

Came the pale moon and the stars,
As the yellow sun was sinking
Behind the purple bars.

The snow was deeply drifted
Upon the ridges drear,

That lay for miles around me

And the camps for which we steer.

"T was silent on the hill-side,

And by the solemn wood,

No sound of life or motion

To break the solitude,

Save the wailing of the moose-bird With a plaintive note and low, And the skating of the red leaf Upon the frozen snow.

And said I, "Though dark is falling,
And far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome
If I had but company."

And then I sang and shouted,
Keeping measure, as I sped,

To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe
As it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valley

Had I dipped upon my way, When a dusky figure joined me, In a capuchon of gray,

Bending upon the snow-shoes,
With a long and limber stride;
And I hailed the dusky stranger
As we travelled side by side.

But no token of communion
Gave he by word or look,
And the fear-chill fell upon me,
At the crossing of the brook.

For I saw by the sickly moonlight As I followed, bending low, That the walking of the stranger

Left no footmarks on the snow.