"Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be sung 10 By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" _Peccanimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong. The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that flew beside, 15 Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride: For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes; The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes. "Avaunt! avaunt! from friends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- 20 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven! Let no bell toll, then,--lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth! And I!--to-night my heart is light!--No dirge will I upraise, 25 But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days." THE VALLEY OF UNREST Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, 5 To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. 10 Nothing there is motionless, Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas 15 Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie 20 In myriad types of the human eye, Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:--from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. 25 They weep:--from off their delicate stems Perennial, tears descend in gems. THE COLISEUM Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length--at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst 5 (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie), I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.