And, round about his home, the glory

That blushed and bloomed

Is but a dim-remembered story,

Of the old time entombed.


VI.


And travellers now within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows, see

Vast forms that move fantastically

To a discordant melody;

While, like a rapid ghastly river,

Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out forever,

And laugh--but smile no more.