The Mirror.

An antique mirror this,      I like it not at all,     In this lonely room where the goblin gloom      Scowls from the arrased wall.     A mystic mirror framed      In ebon, wildly carved;     And the prisoned air in the crevice there      Moans like a man that's starved.     A truthful mirror where,      In the broad, chaste light of day,     From the window's arches, like fairy torches,      Red roses swing and sway.     They blush and bow and gaze,      Proud beauties desolate,     In their tresses cold the sunlight's gold,      In their hearts a jealous hate.     A small green worm that gnaws,      For the nightingale that low     Each eve doth rave, the passionate slave      Of the wild white rose below.     The night-bird wails below;      The stars creep out above;     And the roses soon in the sultry moon      Shall palpitate with love.     The night-bird sobs below;      The roses blow and bloom;     Thro' the diamond panes the moonlight rains      In the dim unholy room.     Ancestors grim that stare      Stiff, starched, and haughty down     From the oaken wall of the noble hall      Put on a sterner frown.     The old, bleak castle clock      Booms midnight overhead,     And the rose is wan and the bird is gone      When walk the shrouded dead.     And grim ancestors gaunt      In smiles and tears faint flit;     By the mirror there they stand and stare,      And weep and sigh to it.     In rare, rich ermine earls      With rapiers jeweled rare,     With a powdered throng of courtiers long      Pass with stiff and stately air.     With diamonds and perfumes      In ruff and golden lace,     Tall ladies pass by the looking-glass,      Each sighing at her face.     An awful mirror this,      I like it not at all,     In this lonely room where the goblin gloom      Scowls from the arrased wall.