The Haunted Valley

In the greenest of our valleys,By good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace —Snow—white palace — reared its head.In the monarch Thought’s dominion —It stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This — all this — was in the oldenTime long ago)And every gentle air that dallied,In that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valleyThrough two luminous windows sawSpirits moving musicallyTo a lute’s well—tunéd law,Round about a throne where, sitting(Porphyrogene!)In state his glory well befitting,The soveriegn of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes whose sole dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch’s high estate.(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrowShall dawn upon him, desolate!)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomedIs but a dim—remembered storyOf the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red—litten windows seeVast forms that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody;While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out forever,And laugh — but smile no more.

1839

l. 22, Porphyrogene: of royal birth, literally, born to the purple.