Page:The Garden of Romance - 1897.djvu/222

210 A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty &emsp;Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, &emsp;The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, &emsp;Assailed the monarch's high estate; (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow &emsp;Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) And, round about his home, the glory &emsp;That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story &emsp;Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now within that valley, &emsp;Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms that move fantastically &emsp;To a discordant melody; While, like a rapid ghastly river, &emsp;Through the pale door, A hideous throng rush out for ever, &emsp;And laugh—but smile no more."

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher's, which I mention not so much on account of its novelty (for other men have thought thus), as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things. But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain