I.
When silence and darkness fling their chain
O’er life’s contemplative hour,
And our thoughts, in a dream-like mazy train,
Flit off to memory’s bower;
There’s a lingering breath of a faint perfume,
That in madness we love to cherish,
Like a flower in bloom on a sepulchral tomb,
That is hopelessly doomed to perish.
II.
We linger a while in this magic spell,
By the weirdness of thought enchanted,
Till ghostly phantoms rise and swell,
And the soul is vision-haunted.
But the charm enthralls us like a swoon;
In its sweetness we love to languish,
Though the shrivelled heart, like the waning moon,
Sinks down in bitter anguish.
III.
But when from the mind we deign to fling
This shadowy, death-like legion,
Why do our thoughts in ardor cling
To that ghastly peopled region?
There’s a spirit within—the chainless soul—
That points to the world of spirits;
And a destiny great, beyond mortal control,
That the soul itself inherits.