Within the lonesome latter years! And much of Madness, and more of An angel throng, bewinged, bedight Sin, In veils, and drowned in tears, And Horror the soul of the plot. Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, But see, amid the mimic rout While the orchestra breathes fitfully A crawling shape intrude! The music of the spheres. A blood-red thing that writhes from Mimes, in the form of God on high, out Mutter and mumble low, The scenic solitude! And hither and thither fly- It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal Mere puppets they, who come and pangs go The mimes become its food, At bidding of vast formless things And seraphs sob at vermin fangs That shift the scenery to and fro, In human gore imbued. Flapping from out their Condor wings Out- out are the lights- out all! Invisible Woe! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, That motley drama- oh, be sure Comes down with the rush of a It shall not be forgot! storm, With its Phantom chased for While the angels, all pallid and wan, evermore, Uprising, unveiling, affirm By a crowd that seize it not, That the play is the tragedy, "Man," Through a circle that ever returneth And its hero the Conqueror Worm. in
The Poetry Of Ann Radcliffe: "Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love."