DREAMLAND.

  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 dead,—­
  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.

1844

* * * * *

TO ZANTE.

  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! 
  How many memories of what radiant hours
    At sight of thee and thine at once awake! 
  How many scenes of what departed bliss! 
    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! 
  How many visions of a maiden that is
    No more—­no more upon thy verdant slopes!

  No more! alas, that magical sad sound
    Transforming all!  Thy charms shall please no more—­
  Thy memory no more! Accursed ground
    Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
  O hyacinthine isle!  O purple Zante! 
    “Isola d’oro!  Fior di Levante!”