All ardent lovers and all sages prize, --As ripening years incline upon their brows-- The mild and mighty cats--pride of the house-- That like unto them are indolent, stern and wise. The friends of Learning and of Ecstasy, They search for silence and the horrors of gloom; The devil had used them for his steeds of Doom, Could he alone have bent their pride to slavery. When musing, they display those outlines chaste, Of the great sphinxes--stretched o'er the sandy waste, That seem to slumber deep in a dream without end: From out their loins a fountainous furnace flies, And grains of sparkling gold, as fine as sand, Bestar the mystic pupils of their eyes. Owls Beneath the shades of sombre yews, The silent owls sit ranged in rows, Like ancient idols, strangely pose, And darting fiery eyes, they muse. Immovable, they sit and gaze, Until the melancholy hour, At which the darknesses devour The faded sunset's slanting rays. Their attitude, instructs the wise, That he--within this world--who flies From tumult and from merriment; The man allured by a passing face, For ever bears the chastisement Of having wished to change his place. Music Oft Music possesses me like the seas! To my planet pale, 'Neath a ceiling of mist, in the lofty breeze, I set my sail. With inflated lungs and expanded chest, Like to a sail, On the backs of the heaped-up billows I rest-- Which the shadows veil-- I feel all the anguish within me arise Of a ship in distress; The tempest, the rain, 'neath the lowering skies, My body caress; At times, the calm pool or the mirror clear Of my despair! The Joyous Defunct Where snails abound--in a juicy soil, I will dig for myself a fathomless grave, Where at leisure mine ancient bones I can coil, And sleep--quite forgotten--like a shark 'neath the wave. I hate every tomb--I abominate wills, And rather than tears from the world to implore, I would ask of the crows with their vampire bills To devour every bit of my carcass impure. Oh worms, without eyes, without ears, black friends! To you a defunct-one, rejoicing, descends, Enlivened Philosophers--offspring of Dung! Without any qualms, o'er my wreckage spread, And tell if some torment there still can be wrung For this soul-less old frame that is dead 'midst the dead! The Broken Bell How sweet and bitter, on a winter night, Beside the palpitating fire to list, As, slowly, distant memories alight, To sounds of chimes that sing across the mist. Oh, happy is that bell with hearty throat, Which neither age nor time can e'er defeat, Which faithfully uplifts its pious note, Like an agèd soldier on his beat.