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Lady Irene.
Tis now — so sings the soaring moon —
Midnight in the sweet month of June,
When winged visions love to lie
Lazily upon beauty's eye,
Or worse — upon her brow to dance
In panoply of old romance,
Till thoughts and locks are left, alas!
A ne'er-to-be untangled mass.
The moon! the Moon! Who ever heard
Unmov’d the magic of that word
I heed not, gazing on thy ray,
Of what the bards about thee say.
But that from off the mountains crown,
Over hamlets — over halls —
Over waterfalls —
O’er the strange woods — o’er the sea —
Over the river far and free —
Into the vallies deep and brown
Thy floods so gorgeously roll down
An influence dewy, drowsy, dim
Is dripping from thy golden rim;
Grey towers are mouldering into rest,
Wrapping the fog around their breast;
Looking like Lethe (that dim lake!)
The waves a conscious slumber take
And would not for the world awake; [page 2:]
The rosemary sleeps upon the grave,
The lily lolls upon the wave,
And [[a]] million bright pines to and fro,
Are rocking lullabies as they go
To the lone oak that reels with bliss,
And nods above the black abyss.
All beauty sleeps: and lo! where lies
With casement opened to the skies,
Irene with her destinies!
Thus hums the moon within her ear —
"O lady sweet! how camest thou here?
"Strange are thine eyelids — strange thy dress
"And strange thy glorious length of tress!
"Sure thou art come, o'er far-off seas,
"A wonder to our desert trees!
"Some spirit hath softly thought it right
"To open thy window to the night,
"And wanton airs, from the tree-top,
"Laughingly thro' the lattice drop
"And wave this crimson canopy,
"Like banners, o'er thy dreaming eye
"Till wildly — fearfully in this hall
"The tinted shadows rise and fall!"
The lady sleeps: the dead all sleep —
As long as Love doth mourn and weep:
Entranced the spirit loves to lie
As long as — tears on Memory's eye: [page 3:]
But when a week or two is by,
And the light laughter chokes the sigh,
Treadeth a pathway little known
To Heaven, disconsolate and alone.
The lady sleeps: O! may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
No icy worms about her creep:
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever, with as calm an eye,
That chamber changed for one more holy,
That bed for one more melancholy.
E A Poe. |
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