The Conqueror Worm
Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly--Mere puppets they, who come and goAt bidding of vast formless thingsThat shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wingsInvisible Wo!
That motley drama--oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore,By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin,And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And the angels sob at vermin fangsIn human gore imbued.
Out--out are the lights--out all!And, over each quivering form,The curtain, a funeral pall,Comes down with the rush of a storm,And the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man,"And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
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