For the heart whose woes are legion ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region―― This same desert drear of Night, Where the Eidolon sits upright On his toadstool, or outspread, Lies lolling on his lily-bed.―― For the spirit that likes a shadow ’Tis, O, ’tis an Eldorado,―― Though the traveller, travelling through it, Ever fails to interview it (No one ever openly knew it), For its mysteries all are closed By the darkness superposed Of the Eidolon, who, I ween, Wills not the formless should be seen: And thus the sad soul that here passes Is like a blind ass without glasses. On his root, knobb’d, gnarl’d, and lonely, Overstruck with toadstools only, Squats the Eidolon named Night, Squats in sad poetic plight. Is there more, and would you know it? Fix the headgear of the Poet, Wandering God knows where, but newly From this ultimate dim Thulè. * ―――――――― [*] DREAMLAND. I. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, namèd 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. II. 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 into 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. * * * * * E. A. POE. ――――:o:―――― ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS. _The Angel Israfel, whose heart strings are a fiddle._ In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heart strings are a fiddle, (The reason he sings so well―― This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will anyone tell Why giddy?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle. On the height of her go Totters the Moon, and blushes As the song of that fiddle rushes Across her bow. The red Lightning stands to listen, And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten As each of the seven puts its fist in Its eyes, for the mist in. And they say――it’s a riddle―― That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart strung fiddle With which the Spirit sings, Are held as on a griddle By these unusual strings. Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong; To thee the fiddle strings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts as on a prong.