The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,



And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;



The eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,



Their hearts but once heaved, and forever went still!

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness- for then

The spirits of the dead, who stood

In life before thee, are again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee; be still.



The night, though clear, shall frown,

And the stars shall not look down

From their high thrones in the Heaven

With light like hope to mortals given,

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.



Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,

Now are visions ne'er to vanish;

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more, like dew-drop from the grass.



The breeze, the breath of God, is still,

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token.

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries!



...POE...

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years

An angel throng, bewinged, bedlight in veils, and drowned in tears

Sit in a theatre to see

a play of hopes and fears

While the orchestra breathes fitfully the 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 go

At a bidding of vast formless things that shift the scenery to and fro

Flapping from out their condor wings

Invisible woe



That motley drama, oh be sure, it shall not be forgot

With its Phantom chased forever more

By a crowd that seize it not

Through a circle that ever returnith in

To the self same spot

And much of madness and more of sin and Horror the soul of the plot



But see among the mimic route a crawling shape intrude

A blood red thing that writhes from out the scenic solitude

It writhes... It writhes... with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food

And the angels sob at venom fangs

In humans gore imbued



Out ... Out 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 affirm

That the play is a tragedy, MAN

And its hero the Conqueror Worm

...POE...