His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, The waters into blood his eager breath now, minstrel fair! She drops her ring into the waves, and there It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light the fearful pair Bending their course over the pale gray lake, Rolled darkly through the flood, and writhed and made A shining track over the waters pale, Lashed into boiling foam by his enormous tail. And so they sailed into the distance dim, Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Tears are no grief; and from his The Oriental sun began to rise, rosy bowers Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies; Fled, like a part of night delicious sighs And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM "T WAS in the prime of summer time, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: Like troutlets in a pooi. that leapt, Away they sped with gamesome minds, To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, Turning to mirth all things of earth, But the Usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, So he leaned his head on his hands, and read Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book At last he shut the ponderous tome, Then leaping on his feet upright, And past a shady nook,— And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book! "My gentle lad, what is 't you read — Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable? The young boy gave an upward glance,— "It is The Death of Abel.'" The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain,Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain; And, long since then, of bloody men, Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And how the sprites of injured men He told how murderers walk the earth "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, Woe, woe, unutterable woe, Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream! "One that had never done me wrong A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die. And I will have his gold! |