1844

 

[A CAMPAIGN SONG]

  See the White Eagle soaring aloft to the sky,
Wakening the broad welkin with his loud battle cry;
Then here's the White Eagle, full daring is he,
As he sails on his pinions o'er valley and sea.
 

DREAM-LAND

 

       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 tears 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 grey 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
       ’T is a peaceful, soothing region
       For the spirit that walks in shadow
       ’T is oh,t is 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 fringéd 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 all Eidolon, named NIGHT,
       On a black throne reigns upright,
       I have wandered home but newly
       From this ultimate dim Thule.