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• Artiste: Guilthee
• Titre: The Conqueror Worm From E. A. Poe
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Lo! 'this a gala night within the lonesome latter years! An angel trongh, bewinged, bedight 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. It writhes! - it writhes - with mortal pangs the mimes become its food, and seraphs sob at verming fangs in human gore imbued. 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 bidding of vast formless things thath shift the scenery to and fro, flapping from outh their Condor wings invisible Woe! It writhes! - it writhes - with mortal pangs the mimes become its food, and seraphs sob at verming fangs in 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 while the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy „Man,” and its hero the Conqueror Worm. Thath motley drama - oh, be sure it shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, by a crowd that siez it not, trough a circle that ever returned in to the self-same spot, and much of Madness, and more of Sin, and Horror the soul of the plot. It writhes! - it writhes - with mortal pangs the mimes become its food, and seraphs sob at verming fangs in human gore imbued. But see, amid the mimic rout 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 seraphs sob at verming fangs in human gore imbued.