When from your gems of thought I turn To those pure orbs, your heart to learn, I scarce know which to prize most high, The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.
The bells! ah, the bells! The little silver bells! How fairy-like a melody there floats From their throats. From their merry little throats From the silver, tinkling throats...
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest....
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,...
Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears,...