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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10031 ***
+
+                        The Complete Poetical Works
+                            of Edgar Allan Poe
+
+
+                               edited by
+
+                            John H. Ingram
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
+published at New York in 1850.
+
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+MEMOIR
+
+POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
+  Dedication
+  Preface
+  The Raven
+  The Bells
+  Ulalume
+  To Helen
+  Annabel Lee
+  A Valentine
+  An Enigma
+  To my Mother
+  For Annie
+  To F----
+  To Frances S. Osgood
+  Eldorado
+  Eulalie
+  A Dream within a Dream
+  To Marie Louise (Shew)
+  To the Same
+  The City in the Sea
+  The Sleeper,
+  Bridal Ballad
+Notes
+
+POEMS OF MANHOOD:
+  Lenore
+  To one in Paradise
+  The Coliseum
+  The Haunted Palace
+  The Conqueror Worm
+  Silence
+  Dreamland
+  To Zante
+  Hymn
+Notes
+
+SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
+Note
+
+POEMS OF YOUTH:
+  Introduction (1831)
+  To Science
+  Al Aaraaf
+  Tamerlane
+  To Helen
+  The Valley of Unrest
+  Israfel
+  To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
+  To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
+  To the River----
+  Song
+  Spirits of the Dead
+  A Dream
+  Romance
+  Fairyland
+  The Lake
+  Evening Star
+  Imitation
+  "The Happiest Day,"
+  Hymn. Translation from the Greek
+  Dreams
+  "In Youth I have known one"
+  A Pæan
+Notes
+
+DOUBTFUL POEMS:
+  Alone
+  To Isadore
+  The Village Street
+  The Forest Reverie
+Notes
+
+PROSE POEMS:
+  The Island of the Fay
+  The Power of Words
+  The Colloquy of Monos and Una
+  The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
+  Shadow--A Parable
+  Silence--A Fable
+
+ESSAYS:
+  The Poetic Principle
+  The Philosophy of Composition
+  Old English Poetry
+
+
+
+
+
+MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
+
+
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
+through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
+author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
+schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
+irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
+destruction a few years ago.
+
+The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says,
+
+  "The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
+  to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
+  bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
+  perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
+  intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
+  involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
+  universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
+  spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle de fer!'"_
+
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+
+  "In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+  not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
+
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+
+  "a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+  with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+  school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+  secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+  lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+  exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+  but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+  to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+  proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+
+  "A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+  between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+  champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+  Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+  occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+  Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+  fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+  golden apples."
+
+  "In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+  among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+  fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+  as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+  profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+  more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+  in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+  time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+  level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+
+  "Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+  repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+  of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+  the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+  complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+  have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+  recitation:
+
+    _'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
+    Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
+
+  And
+
+    _'Non ebur neque aureum
+    Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
+
+  "I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+  all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+  favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+  Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+  capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+  impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+  exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+  I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+  aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+  its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+  the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+  had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+  had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+  bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+  boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+  it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+
+  "While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+  to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+  the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+  his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+  so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+  of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+  He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+ --to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+  desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+  the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+  of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+  that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+  passionate youth."
+
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Pæan," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
+loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
+thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
+in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
+again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
+recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+
+  "He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
+  lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
+  of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
+  deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
+  his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
+  at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
+  time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
+  in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
+  regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
+  and have been entitled to diplomas."
+
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+
+  "I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
+  was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
+  melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
+  to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
+  sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
+  or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
+  same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
+  the others more as a task than sport."
+
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+
+
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+
+  "As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
+  at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
+  circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
+  invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
+  December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
+  some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
+  up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
+  I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
+  regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
+  had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
+  estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
+  debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
+  bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
+
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
+enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his 'protégé's' collegiate career with equal
+pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
+successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
+like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
+took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
+shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
+moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
+paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
+ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
+periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
+and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
+to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
+salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
+goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
+desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
+of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
+procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
+irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
+'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
+Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
+merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
+remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
+nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
+rapidly passed through.
+
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
+few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
+editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
+was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
+conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
+was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+
+Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
+columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
+some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
+publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
+it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une espèce de
+trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
+of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
+were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
+avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
+of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
+follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
+Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
+as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
+innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
+the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
+enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
+popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
+attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
+construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
+
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
+and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
+world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
+and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
+drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
+
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+
+  "You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
+  caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
+  than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
+  years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
+  blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
+  her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
+  partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
+  again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
+  and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
+  agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
+  her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
+  But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
+  I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
+  fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
+  how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
+  the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
+  abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
+  _death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
+  the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
+  could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
+
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
+owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
+happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
+became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
+terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
+reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
+Harris's reminiscences.
+
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+
+  "It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
+  evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
+  hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
+  the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
+  surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+  almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
+  lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+  little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+  her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+  sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+  him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
+  her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+
+  "would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
+  the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
+  way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
+  at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
+
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
+the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
+life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
+New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
+latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
+it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
+
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
+
+  "employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
+  resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
+  but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
+  evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
+  genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
+  irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
+  attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
+  difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
+  industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
+  reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
+  to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
+  taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
+  his employment with us."
+
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
+The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
+single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
+more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
+together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
+existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
+and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
+delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
+read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
+Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
+his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
+merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
+rules.
+
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+
+Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
+Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
+prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
+but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
+labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
+unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
+quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
+the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
+having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
+moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
+himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
+
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+
+  "Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
+  bore--
+  Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
+  Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                          POEMS OF LATER LIFE
+
+
+
+
+                                   TO
+
+                        THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
+                            TO THE AUTHOR OF
+                         "THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
+
+                                   TO
+
+                     MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
+
+                                OF ENGLAND,
+
+                          I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
+
+                WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
+                      WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
+
+                1845                                E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.
+
+1845. E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RAVEN.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
+          Only this and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+          Nameless here for evermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
+  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+      This it is and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
+        Darkness there and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
+    fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
+        Merely this and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
+  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
+      'Tis the wind and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
+  Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+      Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+        With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+        Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
+  Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
+      Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
+    door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+      Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
+        _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
+    sent thee
+  Respite--respite aad nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
+  Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+    upstarting--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+      Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+Published, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BELLS,
+
+
+I.
+
+  Hear the sledges with the bells--
+  Silver bells!
+  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
+  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
+  In their icy air of night!
+  While the stars, that oversprinkle
+  All the heavens, seem to twinkle
+  With a crystalline delight;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
+  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+
+II.
+
+  Hear the mellow wedding bells,
+  Golden bells!
+  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
+  Through the balmy air of night
+  How they ring out their delight!
+  From the molten golden-notes,
+  And all in tune,
+  What a liquid ditty floats
+  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
+  On the moon!
+  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
+  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
+  How it swells!
+  How it dwells
+  On the future! how it tells
+  Of the rapture that impels
+  To the swinging and the ringing
+  Of the bells, bells, bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Hear the loud alarum bells--
+  Brazen bells!
+  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
+  In the startled ear of night
+  How they scream out their affright!
+  Too much horrified to speak,
+  They can only shriek, shriek,
+  Out of tune,
+  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
+  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
+  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
+  With a desperate desire,
+  And a resolute endeavor
+  Now--now to sit or never,
+  By the side of the pale-faced moon.
+  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
+  What a tale their terror tells
+  Of Despair!
+  How they clang, and clash, and roar!
+  What a horror they outpour
+  On the bosom of the palpitating air!
+  Yet the ear it fully knows,
+  By the twanging,
+  And the clanging,
+  How the danger ebbs and flows;
+  Yet the ear distinctly tells,
+  In the jangling,
+  And the wrangling,
+  How the danger sinks and swells,
+  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
+  Of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Hear the tolling of the bells--
+  Iron bells!
+  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
+  In the silence of the night,
+  How we shiver with affright
+  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
+  For every sound that floats
+  From the rust within their throats
+     Is a groan.
+  And the people--ah, the people--
+  They that dwell up in the steeple.
+      All alone,
+  And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
+    In that muffled monotone,
+  Feel a glory in so rolling
+    On the human heart a stone--
+  They are neither man nor woman--
+  They are neither brute nor human--
+      They are Ghouls:
+  And their king it is who tolls;
+  And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
+           Rolls
+  A pæan from the bells!
+  And his merry bosom swells
+  With the pæan of the bells!
+  And he dances, and he yells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the pæan of the bells--
+      Of the bells:
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+    To the throbbing of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+    To the sobbing of the bells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+    As he knells, knells, knells,
+  In a happy Runic rhyme,
+  To the rolling of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+  To the tolling of the bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+    Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
+
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ULALUME.
+
+
+  The skies they were ashen and sober;
+    The leaves they were crisped and sere--
+    The leaves they were withering and sere;
+  It was night in the lonesome October
+    Of my most immemorial year;
+  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+    In the misty mid region of Weir--
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+    In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  Here once, through an alley Titanic.
+    Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
+    Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
+  These were days when my heart was volcanic
+    As the scoriac rivers that roll--
+    As the lavas that restlessly roll
+  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
+    In the ultimate climes of the pole--
+  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
+    In the realms of the boreal pole.
+
+  Our talk had been serious and sober,
+    But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
+    Our memories were treacherous and sere--
+  For we knew not the month was October,
+  And we marked not the night of the year--
+    (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
+  We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
+    (Though once we had journeyed down here)--
+  Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
+    Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  And now as the night was senescent
+    And star-dials pointed to morn--
+    As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
+  At the end of our path a liquescent
+    And nebulous lustre was born,
+  Out of which a miraculous crescent
+    Arose with a duplicate horn--
+  Astarte's bediamonded crescent
+    Distinct with its duplicate horn.
+
+  And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
+    She rolls through an ether of sighs--
+    She revels in a region of sighs:
+  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
+    These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
+  And has come past the stars of the Lion
+    To point us the path to the skies--
+    To the Lethean peace of the skies--
+  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
+    To shine on us with her bright eyes--
+  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
+    With love in her luminous eyes."
+
+  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
+    Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
+    Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
+  Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
+    Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
+  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
+    Wings till they trailed in the dust--
+  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
+    Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
+    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
+
+  I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
+    Let us on by this tremulous light!
+    Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
+  Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
+    With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
+    See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
+  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
+    And be sure it will lead us aright--
+  We safely may trust to a gleaming
+    That cannot but guide us aright,
+    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
+
+  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
+    And tempted her out of her gloom--
+    And conquered her scruples and gloom;
+  And we passed to the end of a vista,
+    But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
+    By the door of a legended tomb;
+  And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
+    On the door of this legended tomb?"
+    She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
+    'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
+
+  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
+    As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
+    As the leaves that were withering and sere;
+  And I cried--"It was surely October
+    On _this_ very night of last year
+    That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
+    That I brought a dread burden down here!
+    On this night of all nights in the year,
+    Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
+  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
+    This misty mid region of Weir--
+  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
+    This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
+
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
+  I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
+  It was a July midnight; and from out
+  A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
+  Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
+  There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
+  With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
+  Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
+  Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
+  Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That gave out, in return for the love-light,
+  Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
+  By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
+
+  Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
+  I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
+  And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
+
+  Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
+  Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
+  That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
+  To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
+  No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
+  Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
+  How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
+  Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
+  And in an instant all things disappeared.
+  (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
+  The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
+  The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
+  The happy flowers and the repining trees,
+  Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
+  Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
+  All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
+  Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
+  Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
+  I saw but them--they were the world to me.
+  I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
+  Saw only them until the moon went down.
+  What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
+  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
+  How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
+  How silently serene a sea of pride!
+  How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
+  How fathomless a capacity for love!
+
+  But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
+  Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
+  And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
+  Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
+  They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
+  Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
+  _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
+  They follow me--they lead me through the years.
+
+  They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
+  Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
+  My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
+  And purified in their electric fire,
+  And sanctified in their elysian fire.
+  They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
+  And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
+  In the sad, silent watches of my night;
+  While even in the meridian glare of day
+  I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
+  Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
+
+
+1846.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ANNABEL LEE.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea:
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love--
+    I and my ANNABEL LEE;
+  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went envying her and me--
+  Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
+    In this kingdom by the sea)
+  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
+    Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we--
+    Of many far wiser than we--
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea--
+    In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE.
+
+
+  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
+    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
+  Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
+    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
+  Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
+    Divine--a talisman--an amulet
+  That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
+    The words--the syllables! Do not forget
+  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
+    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
+  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
+    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
+  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
+    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
+  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
+    Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
+  Its letters, although naturally lying
+    Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
+  Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
+    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
+
+
+1846.
+
+[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AN ENIGMA.
+
+
+  "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
+      "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
+    Through all the flimsy things we see at once
+      As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
+      Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
+    Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
+    Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
+      Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
+    And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
+    The general tuckermanities are arrant
+    Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
+      But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
+    Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
+    Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
+
+
+[See note after previous poem.]
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER.
+
+
+  Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
+    The angels, whispering to one another,
+  Can find, among their burning terms of love,
+    None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
+  Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
+    You who are more than mother unto me,
+  And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
+    In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
+  My mother--my own mother, who died early,
+    Was but the mother of myself; but you
+  Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
+    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
+  By that infinity with which my wife
+    Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FOR ANNIE.
+
+
+  Thank Heaven! the crisis--
+    The danger is past,
+  And the lingering illness
+    Is over at last--
+  And the fever called "Living"
+    Is conquered at last.
+
+  Sadly, I know,
+    I am shorn of my strength,
+  And no muscle I move
+    As I lie at full length--
+  But no matter!--I feel
+    I am better at length.
+
+  And I rest so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  That any beholder
+    Might fancy me dead--
+  Might start at beholding me
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  The moaning and groaning,
+    The sighing and sobbing,
+  Are quieted now,
+    With that horrible throbbing
+  At heart:--ah, that horrible,
+    Horrible throbbing!
+
+  The sickness--the nausea--
+    The pitiless pain--
+  Have ceased, with the fever
+    That maddened my brain--
+  With the fever called "Living"
+    That burned in my brain.
+
+  And oh! of all tortures
+    _That_ torture the worst
+  Has abated--the terrible
+    Torture of thirst,
+  For the naphthaline river
+    Of Passion accurst:--
+  I have drank of a water
+    That quenches all thirst:--
+
+  Of a water that flows,
+    With a lullaby sound,
+  From a spring but a very few
+    Feet under ground--
+  From a cavern not very far
+    Down under ground.
+
+  And ah! let it never
+    Be foolishly said
+  That my room it is gloomy
+    And narrow my bed--
+  For man never slept
+    In a different bed;
+  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
+    In just such a bed.
+
+  My tantalized spirit
+    Here blandly reposes,
+  Forgetting, or never
+    Regretting its roses--
+  Its old agitations
+    Of myrtles and roses:
+
+  For now, while so quietly
+    Lying, it fancies
+  A holier odor
+    About it, of pansies--
+  A rosemary odor,
+    Commingled with pansies--
+  With rue and the beautiful
+    Puritan pansies.
+
+  And so it lies happily,
+    Bathing in many
+  A dream of the truth
+    And the beauty of Annie--
+  Drowned in a bath
+    Of the tresses of Annie.
+
+  She tenderly kissed me,
+    She fondly caressed,
+  And then I fell gently
+    To sleep on her breast--
+  Deeply to sleep
+    From the heaven of her breast.
+
+  When the light was extinguished,
+    She covered me warm,
+  And she prayed to the angels
+    To keep me from harm--
+  To the queen of the angels
+    To shield me from harm.
+
+  And I lie so composedly,
+    Now in my bed
+  (Knowing her love)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  And I rest so contentedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (With her love at my breast)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  That you shudder to look at me.
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  But my heart it is brighter
+    Than all of the many
+  Stars in the sky,
+    For it sparkles with Annie--
+  It glows with the light
+    Of the love of my Annie--
+  With the thought of the light
+    Of the eyes of my Annie.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO F--
+
+
+  Beloved! amid the earnest woes
+    That crowd around my earthly path--
+  (Drear path, alas! where grows
+  Not even one lonely rose)--
+    My soul at least a solace hath
+  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
+  An Eden of bland repose.
+
+  And thus thy memory is to me
+    Like some enchanted far-off isle
+  In some tumultuous sea--
+  Some ocean throbbing far and free
+    With storm--but where meanwhile
+  Serenest skies continually
+    Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
+
+
+  Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
+    From its present pathway part not;
+  Being everything which now thou art,
+    Be nothing which thou art not.
+  So with the world thy gentle ways,
+    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
+  Shall be an endless theme of praise.
+    And love a simple duty.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ELDORADO.
+
+
+    Gaily bedight,
+    A gallant knight,
+  In sunshine and in shadow,
+    Had journeyed long,
+    Singing a song,
+  In search of Eldorado.
+    But he grew old--
+    This knight so bold--
+  And o'er his heart a shadow
+    Fell as he found
+    No spot of ground
+  That looked like Eldorado.
+
+  And, as his strength
+    Failed him at length,
+  He met a pilgrim shadow--
+    "Shadow," said he,
+    "Where can it be--
+  This land of Eldorado?"
+
+    "Over the Mountains
+    Of the Moon,
+  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
+    Ride, boldly ride,"
+    The shade replied,
+  "If you seek for Eldorado!"
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EULALIE.
+
+
+               I dwelt alone
+               In a world of moan,
+           And my soul was a stagnant tide,
+  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
+  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
+               Ah, less--less bright
+               The stars of the night
+           Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
+               And never a flake
+               That the vapor can make
+           With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
+  Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
+  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
+    curl.
+               Now Doubt--now Pain
+               Come never again,
+           For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
+               And all day long
+               Shines, bright and strong,
+           Astarté within the sky,
+  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
+  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
+
+
+  Take this kiss upon the brow!
+  And, in parting from you now,
+  Thus much let me avow--
+  You are not wrong, who deem
+  That my days have been a dream:
+  Yet if hope has flown away
+  In a night, or in a day,
+  In a vision or in none,
+  Is it therefore the less _gone_?
+  _All_ that we see or seem
+  Is but a dream within a dream.
+
+  I stand amid the roar
+  Of a surf-tormented shore,
+  And I hold within my hand
+  Grains of the golden sand--
+  How few! yet how they creep
+  Through my fingers to the deep
+  While I weep--while I weep!
+  O God! can I not grasp
+  Them with a tighter clasp?
+  O God! can I not save
+  _One_ from the pitiless wave?
+  Is _all_ that we see or seem
+  But a dream within a dream?
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
+  Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
+  The blotting utterly from out high heaven
+  The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
+  Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
+  For the resurrection of deep buried faith
+  In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
+  Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
+  Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
+  At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
+  At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
+  In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
+  Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
+  Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
+  The truest, the most fervently devoted,
+  And think that these weak lines are written by him--
+  By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
+  His spirit is communing with an angel's.
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
+  In the mad pride of intellectuality,
+  Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
+  A thought arose within the human brain
+  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
+  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
+  Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
+  Italian tones, made only to be murmured
+  By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
+  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
+  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
+  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
+  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
+  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
+  (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
+  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
+  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
+  With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
+  I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
+  Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
+  This standing motionless upon the golden
+  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
+  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
+  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
+  Upon the left, and all the way along,
+  Amid empurpled vapors, far away
+  To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CITY IN THE SEA.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy Heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently--
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
+  Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
+  Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
+  Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine
+  Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas!
+  Along that wilderness of glass--
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea--
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene.
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven.
+  The waves have now a redder glow--
+  The hours are breathing faint and low--
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+
+1835?
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SLEEPER
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  (Her casement open to the skies)
+  Irene, with her Destinies!
+
+  Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
+  This window open to the night!
+  The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
+  Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully--so fearfully--
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
+  Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all-solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  For ever with unopened eye,
+  While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
+
+  My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep;
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold--
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And winged panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
+  Of her grand family funerals--
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood many an idle stone--
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
+  It was the dead who groaned within.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+BRIDAL BALLAD.
+
+
+  The ring is on my hand,
+    And the wreath is on my brow;
+  Satins and jewels grand
+  Are all at my command.
+    And I am happy now.
+
+  And my lord he loves me well;
+    But, when first he breathed his vow,
+  I felt my bosom swell--
+  For the words rang as a knell,
+  And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
+  In the battle down the dell,
+    And who is happy now.
+
+  But he spoke to reassure me,
+    And he kissed my pallid brow,
+  While a reverie came o'er me,
+  And to the churchyard bore me,
+  And I sighed to him before me,
+  Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
+    "Oh, I am happy now!"
+
+  And thus the words were spoken,
+    And thus the plighted vow,
+  And, though my faith be broken,
+  And, though my heart be broken,
+  Behold the golden keys
+    That _proves_ me happy now!
+
+  Would to God I could awaken
+    For I dream I know not how,
+  And my soul is sorely shaken
+  Lest an evil step be taken,--
+  Lest the dead who is forsaken
+    May not be happy now.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+1.   THE RAVEN
+
+
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
+It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
+by N. P. Willis:
+
+  "We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+  number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
+  Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+  'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+  English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+  versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+  'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+  feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
+
+In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
+as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
+suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+
+  ["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
+  strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+  ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+  intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
+  specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+  resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+  sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+  thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+  language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+  power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+  chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+  very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+  Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+  had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+  Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+  in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+  all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+  merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+  in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
+  (stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+  the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+  while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+  any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+  We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+  better understood."
+
+  ED. 'Am. Rev.']
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+2.   THE BELLS
+
+
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+
+
+
+I.
+
+      The bells!--ah the bells!
+      The little silver bells!
+  How fairy-like a melody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their merry little throats--
+          From the silver, tinkling throats
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+II.
+
+      The bells!--ah, the bells!
+      The heavy iron bells!
+  How horrible a monody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their deep-toned throats--
+          From their melancholy throats
+          How I shudder at the notes
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+
+
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
+following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+3.   ULALUME
+
+
+This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
+1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
+the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
+name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
+When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
+Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
+
+
+  Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
+      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
+      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
+  To bar up our path and to ban it
+      From the secret that lies in these wolds--
+  Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
+      From the limbo of lunary souls--
+  This sinfully scintillant planet
+      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+4.   TO HELEN
+
+
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
+desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
+coupling those two words".
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+5.   ANNABEL LEE
+
+
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
+published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
+any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+6.   A VALENTINE
+
+
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+7.   AN ENIGMA
+
+
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+8.   TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
+to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
+the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+9.   FOR ANNIE
+
+
+"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the 'Home Journal'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+10.   TO F----
+
+
+"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
+for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
+"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
+subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
+Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+11.   TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
+
+
+"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
+earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
+addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
+the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
+as "To----."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+12.   ELDORADO
+
+
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+13.   EULALIE
+
+
+"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
+1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+14.   A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
+
+
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+15   TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+16.  (2)  TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
+was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
+named posthumous collection.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+17.   THE CITY IN THE SEA
+
+
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
+whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
+Review' for April, 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+18.   THE SLEEPER
+
+
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
+and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+19.   THE BRIDAL BALLAD
+
+
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
+form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                         POEMS OF MANHOOD.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+LENORE.
+
+
+  Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
+  Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
+  And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
+  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
+  Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
+  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
+  A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
+
+  "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
+  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
+  How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
+  By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
+  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
+
+  _Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
+  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
+  The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
+  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
+  For her, the fair and _débonnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
+  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
+  The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
+
+  "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
+  But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
+  Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
+  Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
+  To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
+  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
+  From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
+
+
+1844.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ONE IN PARADISE,
+
+
+  Thou wast that all to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine--
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine,
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+  And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast!
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  "No more--no more--no more"--
+  (Such language holds the solemn sea
+    To the sands upon the shore)
+  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+    Or the stricken eagle soar!
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy dark eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams!
+
+  Alas! for that accursed time
+    They bore thee o'er the billow,
+  From love to titled age and crime,
+    And an unholy pillow!
+  From me, and from our misty clime,
+    Where weeps the silver willow!
+
+
+1835
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLISEUM.
+
+
+  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
+  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
+  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
+  At length--at length--after so many days
+  Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
+  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
+  I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
+  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
+  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
+
+  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
+  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
+  I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
+  O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
+  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
+  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
+  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
+
+  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
+  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
+  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
+  Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
+  Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
+  Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
+  Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
+  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
+  The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
+
+  But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
+  These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
+  These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
+  These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
+  These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
+  All of the famed, and the colossal left
+  By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
+
+  "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
+  Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
+  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
+  As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
+  We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
+  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
+  We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
+  Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
+  Not all the magic of our high renown--
+  Not all the wonder that encircles us--
+  Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
+  Not all the memories that hang upon
+  And cling around about us as a garment,
+  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED PALACE.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion--
+    It stood there!
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair!
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A winged odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley,
+    Through two luminous windows, saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tunëd law,
+  Bound about a throne where, sitting
+    (Porphyrogene!)
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate.
+  (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed,
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers, now, within that valley,
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms, that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody,
+    While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONQUEROR WORM.
+
+
+  Lo! 'tis a gala night
+    Within the lonesome latter years!
+  An angel throng, 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.
+
+  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
+    That shift the scenery to and fro,
+  Flapping from out their Condor wings
+    Invisible Wo!
+
+  That motley drama--oh, be sure
+    It shall not be forgot!
+  With its Phantom chased for evermore,
+    By a crowd that seize it not,
+  Through a circle that ever returneth in
+    To the self-same spot,
+  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
+    And Horror the soul of the plot.
+
+  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 the angels sob at vermin 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,
+  And the angels, all pallid and wan,
+    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
+  That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
+    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
+
+
+1838
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.
+
+
+  There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
+    That have a double life, which thus is made
+  A type of that twin entity which springs
+    From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
+  There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
+    Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
+    Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
+  Some human memories and tearful lore,
+  Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
+  He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
+    No power hath he of evil in himself;
+  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
+    Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
+  That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
+  No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
+
+
+1840
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMLAND.
+
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have reached these lands but newly
+  From an ultimate dim Thule--
+  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
+    Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
+
+  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
+  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
+  With forms that no man can discover
+  For the dews that drip all over;
+  Mountains toppling evermore
+  Into seas without a shore;
+  Seas that restlessly aspire,
+  Surging, unto skies of fire;
+  Lakes that endlessly outspread
+  Their lone waters--lone and dead,
+  Their still waters--still and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily.
+
+  By the lakes that thus outspread
+  Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
+  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily,--
+
+  By the mountains--near the river
+  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
+  By the gray woods,--by the swamp
+  Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
+  By the dismal tarns and pools
+    Where dwell the Ghouls,--
+  By each spot the most unholy--
+  In each nook most melancholy,--
+
+  There the traveller meets aghast
+  Sheeted Memories of the past--
+  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
+  As they pass the wanderer by--
+  White-robed forms of friends long given,
+  In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
+
+  For the heart whose woes are legion
+  'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
+  For the spirit that walks in shadow
+  'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
+  But the traveller, travelling through it,
+  May not--dare not openly view it;
+  Never its mysteries are exposed
+  To the weak human eye unclosed;
+  So wills its King, who hath forbid
+  The uplifting of the fringed lid;
+  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
+  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only.
+
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have wandered home but newly
+  From this ultimate dim Thule.
+
+
+1844
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ZANTE.
+
+
+  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
+    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
+  How many memories of what radiant hours
+    At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
+  How many scenes of what departed bliss!
+    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
+  How many visions of a maiden that is
+    No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
+
+  _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
+    Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
+  Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
+    Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
+  O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
+    "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
+
+
+1887.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+HYMN.
+
+
+  At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
+  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
+  In joy and wo--in good and ill--
+  Mother of God, be with me still!
+  When the Hours flew brightly by,
+  And not a cloud obscured the sky,
+  My soul, lest it should truant be,
+  Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
+  Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
+  Darkly my Present and my Past,
+  Let my future radiant shine
+  With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
+
+
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+
+20.   LENORE
+
+
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
+Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"--now first
+published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+21.   TO ONE IN PARADISE
+
+
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
+time, to the piece.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+22.   THE COLISEUM
+
+
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
+1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
+August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+23.   THE HAUNTED PALACE
+
+
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
+Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
+tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
+'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
+separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+24.   THE CONQUEROR WORM
+
+
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
+separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+25.   SILENCE
+
+
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for April, 1840.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+26.   DREAMLAND
+
+
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
+for June, 1844.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+37.   TO ZANTE
+
+
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+28.   HYMN
+
+
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
+1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
+first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                        SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
+
+                         AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
+
+
+I.
+
+ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
+
+_Alessandra_.     Thou art sad, Castiglione.
+
+_Castiglione_.    Sad!--not I.
+                  Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
+                  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
+                  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
+
+_Aless_.          Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
+                  Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
+                  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
+
+_Cas_.            Did I sigh?
+                  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
+                  A silly--a most silly fashion I have
+                  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
+
+_Aless_.          Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
+                  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
+                  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
+                  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
+                  Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
+                  The constitution as late hours and wine.
+
+_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
+                  Not even deep sorrow--
+                  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
+                  I will amend.
+
+_Aless_.          Do it! I would have thee drop
+                  Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
+                  Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
+                  And Alessandra's husband.
+
+_Cas_.            I will drop them.
+
+_Aless_.          Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
+                  To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
+                  For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
+                  Upon appearances.
+
+_Cas_.            I'll see to it.
+
+_Aless_.          Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
+                  To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
+                  In dignity.
+
+_Cas_.            Much, much, oh, much I want
+                  In proper dignity.
+
+_Aless.
+(haughtily_).     Thou mockest me, sir!
+
+_Cos.
+(abstractedly_).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!
+
+_Aless_.          Heard I aright?
+                  I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
+                  Sir Count!
+         (_places her hand on his shoulder_)
+                             what art thou dreaming?
+                  He's not well!
+                  What ails thee, sir?
+
+_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
+                  I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
+                  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
+                  This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
+
+_Enter Di Broglio_.
+
+_Di Broglio_.     My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
+                 --what's the matter?
+          (_observing Alessandra_).
+                  I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
+                  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
+                  I've news for you both. Politian is expected
+                  Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
+                  To the imperial city.
+
+_Aless_.          What! Politian
+                  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
+
+_Di Brog_.        The same, my love.
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
+                  In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
+                  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
+                  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
+                  And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
+
+_Aless_.          I have heard much of this Politian.
+                  Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
+                  And little given to thinking?
+
+_Di Brog_.        Far from it, love.
+                  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
+                  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
+                  Learned as few are learned.
+
+_Aless_.          'Tis very strange!
+                  I have known men have seen Politian
+                  And sought his company. They speak of him
+                  As of one who entered madly into life,
+                  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
+
+_Cas_.            Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
+                  And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
+                  He is a dreamer, and shut out
+                  From common passions.
+
+_Di Brog_.        Children, we disagree.
+                  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
+                  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
+                  Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
+
+                  (_Exeunt._)
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
+LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
+a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
+carelessly upon a chair.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         Jacinta! is it thou?
+
+_Jacinta
+(pertly_).        Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
+
+_Lal_.            I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
+                  Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
+                  Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
+
+_Jac. (aside_).   'Tis time.
+
+(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
+her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
+look. Lalage continues to read._)
+
+_Lal_.            "It in another climate, so he said,
+                  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
+
+           (_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
+
+                  "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
+                  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
+                  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
+                  Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
+                  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
+                  O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
+                  O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
+                  Jacinta!
+
+          (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
+
+                  Again!--a similar tale
+                  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
+                  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
+                  "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
+                  "I think not so--her infelicity
+                  Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
+                  Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
+                  Here's a far sterner story--
+                  But like--oh, very like in its despair--
+                  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
+                  A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
+                  She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
+                  Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
+                  With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
+                  Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
+
+_Jac_.
+(_pettishly_).    Madam, what is it?
+
+_Lal_.            Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
+                  As go down in the library and bring me
+                  The Holy Evangelists?
+
+_Jac_.            Pshaw!
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+_Lal_.            If there be balm
+                  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
+                  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
+                  Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
+                  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
+
+(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
+
+                  There, ma'am, 's the book.
+   (_aside_.)     Indeed she is very troublesome.
+
+_Lal_.
+(_astonished_).   What didst thou say, Jacinta?
+                  Have I done aught
+                  To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
+                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
+                  Trustworthy and respectful.
+              (_resumes her reading_.)
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
+                  She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
+
+_Lal_.            What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
+                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
+                  How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
+                  Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
+                  Thou needest, Jacinta?
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
+                  That's meant for me.  I'm sure, madam, you need not
+                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
+
+_Lal_.            Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
+                  I thought not of the jewels.
+
+_Jac_.            Oh, perhaps not!
+                  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
+                  There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
+                  For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
+                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
+                  And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
+                  Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
+short pause raises it_.)
+
+_Lal_.            Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
+                  Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
+                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
+                  (_taking up the mirror_)
+                  Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
+                  In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
+                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
+                  A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
+                  Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
+                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
+                  And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
+                  Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
+                  Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
+                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
+                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
+                  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
+                  _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
+                  Castiglione lied who said he loved----
+                  Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
+
+(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved_)
+
+_Monk_.           Refuge thou hast,
+                  Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
+                  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
+
+_Lal.
+(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
+                  The frightful sounds of merriment below;
+                  Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
+                  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
+                  Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
+                  Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
+                  With horror and awe!
+
+_Monk_.           Think of thy precious soul!
+
+_Lal_.            Think of my early days!--think of my father
+                  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
+                  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
+                  Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
+                  And think of me!--think of my trusting love
+                  And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
+                  Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
+                  Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
+                  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
+                  And vows before the throne?
+
+_Monk_.           I did.
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis well.
+                  There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
+                  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
+                  A solemn vow!
+
+_Monk_.           Daughter, this zeal is well!
+
+_Lal_.            Father, this zeal is anything but well!
+                  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
+                  A crucifix whereon to register
+                  This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
+                  Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
+                  Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
+                  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
+                  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
+                  _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
+                  The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
+                  And the deed's register should tally, father!
+         (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
+                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
+                  Is written in heaven!
+
+_Monk_.           Thy words are madness, daughter,
+                  And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
+                  Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
+                  Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
+                  Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis sworn!
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
+
+
+_Baldazzar_.      Arouse thee now, Politian!
+                  Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
+                  Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
+                  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
+                  And live, for now thou diest!
+
+_Politian_.       Not so, Baldazzar!
+                  _Surely_ I live.
+
+_Bal_.            Politian, it doth grieve me
+                  To see thee thus!
+
+_Pol_.            Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
+                  To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
+                  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
+                  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
+                  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
+                  Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
+                  And be no more Politian, but some other.
+                  Command me, sir!
+
+_Bal_.            To the field then--to the field--
+                  To the senate or the field.
+
+_Pol_.            Alas! alas!
+                  There is an imp would follow me even there!
+                  There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
+                  There is--what voice was that?
+
+_Bal_.            I heard it not.
+                  I heard not any voice except thine own,
+                  And the echo of thine own.
+
+_Pol_.            Then I but dreamed.
+
+_Bal_.            Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
+                  Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
+                  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
+                  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
+                  And phantom voices.
+
+_Pol_.            It _is_ a phantom voice!
+                  Didst thou not hear it _then_?
+
+_Bal_             I heard it not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
+                  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
+                  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
+                  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
+                  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
+                  We have been boys together--school-fellows--
+                  And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
+                  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
+                  A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
+                  A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
+                  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
+                  Unto thy friend.
+
+_Bal_.            Thou speakest a fearful riddle
+                  I _will_ not understand.
+
+_Pol_.            Yet now as Fate
+                  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
+                  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
+                  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
+                  I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
+                  So keen a relish for the beautiful
+                  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
+                  Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
+                  Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
+                  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
+                  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
+                  Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
+                  Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
+
+_Bal_.            Indeed I hear not.
+
+_Pol_.            Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
+                  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
+                  A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
+                  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
+                  Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
+                  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
+                  Surely I never heard--yet it were well
+                  Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
+                  In earlier days!
+
+_Bal_.            I myself hear it now.
+                  Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
+                  Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
+                  Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
+                  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
+                  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
+                  The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
+                  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
+                  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
+                  His son and heir.
+
+_Pol_.            Be still!--it comes again!
+
+_Voice_
+(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+
+_Bal_.            The song is English, and I oft have heard it
+                  In merry England--never so plaintively--
+                  Hist! hist! it comes again!
+
+_Voice
+(more loudly_).   "Is it so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            'Tis hushed and all is still!
+
+_Pol_.            All _is not_ still.
+
+_Bal_.            Let us go down.
+
+_Pol_.            Go down, Baldazzar, go!
+
+_Bal_.            The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
+                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
+                  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
+
+_Voice_
+(_distinctly_).   "Who have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among,
+                  And is thy heart so strong?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
+                  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
+                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
+                  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
+
+_Pol_.            Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
+               (_going_).
+                  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
+                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
+                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
+                  "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
+                  Once more that silent tongue."
+
+_Bal_.            Let me beg you, sir,
+                  Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
+                  Let us go down, I pray you.
+
+_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
+                     the voice
+                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
+             (_Approaching the window_)
+                  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
+                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
+                  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
+                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
+                  I go not down to-night.
+
+_Bal_.            Your lordship's pleasure
+                  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
+
+_Pol_.            Good-night, my friend, good-night.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         And dost thou speak of love
+                  To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
+                  To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
+                  This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
+
+_Politian_.       Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
+                  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
+                  Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
+                  And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
+                  And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
+                  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
+                  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
+                  Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
+                  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
+                  Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
+                  Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
+                  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
+                  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
+                  Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
+                  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
+                  Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
+               (_arising_.)
+                  Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
+                  Thy beauty and thy woes.
+
+_Lal_.            Alas, proud Earl,
+                  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
+                  How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
+                  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
+                  Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
+                  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
+                  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
+                  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
+                  And with thy glory?
+
+_Pol_.            Speak not to me of glory!
+                  I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
+                  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
+                  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
+                  Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
+                  What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
+                  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
+                  By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
+                  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
+                  There is no deed I would more glory in,
+                  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
+                  And trample it under foot. What matters it--
+                  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
+                  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
+                  Into the dust--so we descend together?
+                  Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And then perchance
+                  _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
+                  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
+                  And still--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And still _together_--_together_.
+
+_Lal_.            Now, Earl of Leicester!
+                  Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
+                  I feel thou lovest me truly.
+
+_Pol_.            O Lalage!
+               (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
+                  And lovest thou _me_?
+
+_Lal_.            Hist! hush! within the gloom
+                  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
+                  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
+                  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
+               (_walks across and returns_.)
+                  I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
+                  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
+
+_Pol_.            My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
+                  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
+                  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
+                  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
+                  Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
+                  Throw over all things a gloom.
+
+_Lal_.            Politian!
+                  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
+                  With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
+                  Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
+                  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
+                  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
+                  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
+                  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
+                  Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
+                  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
+                  In days that are to come?
+
+_Pol_.            Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
+                  Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
+                  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
+                  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
+                  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
+                  For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
+                  No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
+                  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
+                  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
+                  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
+                  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
+                  My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
+                  Fly thither with me?
+
+_Lal_.            A deed is to be done--
+                  Castiglione lives!
+
+_Pol_.            And he shall die!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Lal_.
+(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
+                  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
+                  Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
+                  Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
+                  I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
+                  Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
+                  With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
+                  And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
+                  To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
+                  To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
+                  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
+                  Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
+                  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
+                  Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
+                  And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
+                  Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
+                  So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
+                  'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
+
+
+_Politian_.       This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
+                  And much I fear me ill--it will not do
+                  To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
+                  O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
+                  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
+                  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
+                  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
+                  Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
+                  'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
+                  Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
+
+              _Enter Baldazzar_.
+
+_Baldazzar_.      That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
+                  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
+                  He doth decline your cartel.
+
+_Pol_.            _What_ didst thou say?
+                  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
+                  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
+                  Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
+                  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
+                  No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
+
+_Bal_.            That he, Castiglione, not being aware
+                  Of any feud existing, or any cause
+                  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
+                  Cannot accept the challenge.
+
+_Pol_.            It is most true--
+                  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
+                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
+                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
+                  A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
+                  From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
+
+_Bal_.            No more, my lord, than I have told you:
+                  The Count Castiglione will not fight.
+                  Having no cause for quarrel.
+
+_Pol_.            Now this is true--
+                  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
+                  And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
+                  A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
+                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
+                  Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
+                  Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
+                  He should have cause for quarrel.
+
+_Bal_.            My lord!--my friend!--
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
+       (_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
+                  I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
+                  Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
+                  Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
+                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
+                  I would adjust.
+
+_Bal_.            I go--to-morrow we meet,
+                  Do we not?--at the Vatican.
+
+_Pol_.            At the Vatican.
+
+                  (_Exit Bal_.)
+
+                  _Enter Castiglione_.
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl of Leicester here!
+
+_Pol_.            I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
+                  Dost thou not, that I am here?
+
+_Cas_.            My lord, some strange,
+                  Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
+                  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
+                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
+                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
+                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
+                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
+                  Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
+                  'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
+                  Do err at times.
+
+_Pol_.            Draw, villain, and prate no more!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
+                  Proud Earl!
+               (_Draws._)
+
+_Pol_.
+(_drawing_.)      Thus to the expiatory tomb,
+                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
+                  In the name of Lalage!
+
+_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
+         stage_.)
+                  Of Lalage!
+                  Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
+                  Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
+                  Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
+                  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
+
+_Cas_.            I dare not--dare not--
+                  Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
+                  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
+                  I cannot--dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Now, by my halidom,
+                  I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
+(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
+the Earl._)
+                  Alas! my lord,
+                  It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
+                  I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
+
+_Pol.
+(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
+
+_Cas_.            And Lalage--
+
+_Pol_.            _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
+
+_Cas_.            It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
+                  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
+                  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
+                  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
+                  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
+               (_baring his bosom_.)
+                  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
+                  Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
+
+_Pol_.            Now's Death and Hell!
+                  Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
+                  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
+                  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
+                  For public insult in the streets--before
+                  The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
+                  Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
+                  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
+                  Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
+                    thee,
+                  Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
+                  Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Cas_.            Now this indeed is just!
+                  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTE ON POLITIAN
+
+20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.
+
+
+
+_Duke_.           Why do you laugh?
+
+_Castiglione_.    Indeed.
+                  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
+                  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
+                  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
+                  Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
+                  We were walking in the garden.
+
+_Duke_.           Perfectly.
+                  I do remember it--what of it--what then?
+
+_Cas_.            O nothing--nothing at all.
+
+_Duke_.           Nothing at all!
+                  It is most singular that you should laugh
+                  At nothing at all!
+
+_Cas_.            Most singular--singular!
+
+_Duke_.           Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
+                  As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
+                  What are you talking of?
+
+_Cas_.            Was it not so?
+                  We differed in opinion touching him.
+
+_Duke_.           Him!--Whom?
+
+_Cas_.            Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
+
+_Duke_.           The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
+                  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
+                  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
+                  Was neither learned nor mirthful.
+
+_Cas_.            Ha! ha!--now did I?
+
+_Duke_.           That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
+                  You were wrong, it being not the character
+                  Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
+                  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
+                  Too positive again.
+
+_Cas_.            'Tis singular!
+                  Most singular! I could not think it possible
+                  So little time could so much alter one!
+                  To say the truth about an hour ago,
+                  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
+                  All arm in arm, we met this very man
+                  The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
+                  Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
+                  Such an account he gave me of his journey!
+                  'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
+                    told
+                  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
+                  Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
+                  Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
+                  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
+                  Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
+                  Was gravity itself--
+
+_Duke_.           Did I not tell you?
+
+_Cas_.            You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
+                  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
+                  The Earl a gloomy man.
+
+_Duke_.           So, so, you see!
+                  Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
+                  It cannot be the Earl?
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl! Oh no!
+                  Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
+                  Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
+                  (_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
+                  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
+                  To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
+                  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
+                  Of Leicester in Great Britain.
+                  [_Politian bows haughtily_.]
+                  That, his friend
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
+                  So please you, for Your Grace.
+
+_Duke_.           Ha! ha! Most welcome
+                  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
+                  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
+                  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
+                  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
+                  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
+                  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
+                  Most seasonable. The wedding--
+
+_Politian_.       Touching those letters, sir,
+                  Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
+                  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
+                  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
+                  Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
+                  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
+
+_Duke_.           Retire!--so soon?
+
+_Cas_.            What ho! Benito! Rupert!
+                  His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
+                  His lordship is unwell.
+
+             (_Enter Benito_.)
+
+_Ben_.            This way, my lord!
+
+             (_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
+
+_Duke_.           Retire! Unwell!
+
+_Bal_.            So please you, sir. I fear me
+                  'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
+                  The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
+                  Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
+                  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
+                  I will return anon.
+
+_Duke_.           Return anon!
+                  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
+                  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
+                  You surely were mistaken in what you said
+                  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
+                  Politian was a melancholy man?
+
+                 (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                           POEMS OF YOUTH
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
+
+
+LETTER TO MR. B--.
+
+"WEST POINT, 1831
+
+"DEAR B--
+
+...
+
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
+
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
+poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
+the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
+but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
+good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
+observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
+yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
+judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
+'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
+theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
+write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
+it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
+the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
+step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
+more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
+understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
+sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
+superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
+discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
+fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
+own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
+so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
+summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
+pinnacle.
+
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.
+
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.
+
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
+
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.
+
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.
+
+"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
+his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
+pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
+means of obtaining.
+
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.
+
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
+passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
+with the passions--or age with poetry.
+
+  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
+  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.
+
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
+Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
+treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
+of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
+contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
+it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
+surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
+useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
+
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
+Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
+glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
+that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
+glacier.
+
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.
+
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
+done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
+unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
+the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
+comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
+
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. 'Tantæne animis?' Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see
+what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,
+  And now she's at the pony's head,
+  On that side now, and now on this;
+  And, almost stifled with her bliss,
+  A few sad tears does Betty shed....
+  She pats the pony, where or when
+  She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
+  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
+
+"Secondly:
+
+  "'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
+  I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
+  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
+  A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
+  No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
+  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+  if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
+  will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
+  ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
+  be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
+  been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
+
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+  '_J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+  bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+  nient_;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
+the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
+think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
+Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
+man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
+from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
+light that are weltering below.
+
+"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
+Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
+of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
+Titania!
+
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
+its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
+poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
+perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
+to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
+sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
+pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
+the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
+
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?
+
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+  "'No Indian prince has to his palace
+  More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
+
+
+  SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
+    Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
+  Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
+    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
+  How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
+    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
+  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
+    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
+  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
+    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
+  To seek a shelter in some happier star?
+    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
+  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
+  The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
+the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
+acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
+that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AL AARAAF. [1]
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+  O! nothing earthly save the ray
+  (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
+  As in those gardens where the day
+  Springs from the gems of Circassy--
+  O! nothing earthly save the thrill
+  Of melody in woodland rill--
+  Or (music of the passion-hearted)
+  Joy's voice so peacefully departed
+  That like the murmur in the shell,
+  Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
+  O! nothing of the dross of ours--
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
+  Adorn yon world afar, afar--
+  The wandering star.
+
+  'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
+  Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
+  Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
+  An oasis in desert of the blest.
+  Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
+  Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
+  The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
+  Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
+  To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
+  And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
+  But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
+  She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
+  And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
+  Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
+
+  Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
+  Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
+  (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
+  Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
+  It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
+  She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
+  Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
+  Fit emblems of the model of her world--
+  Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
+  Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
+  A wreath that twined each starry form around,
+  And all the opal'd air in color bound.
+
+  All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
+  Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
+  On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
+  So eagerly around about to hang
+  Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
+  Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
+  The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
+  Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
+  And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
+  Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
+  All other loveliness: its honied dew
+  (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
+  Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
+  And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
+  In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
+  So like its own above that, to this hour,
+  It still remaineth, torturing the bee
+  With madness, and unwonted reverie:
+  In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
+  And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
+  Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
+  Repenting follies that full long have fled,
+  Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
+  Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
+  Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
+  She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
+  And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
+  While pettish tears adown her petals run:
+  And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
+  And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
+  Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
+  Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
+  And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
+  From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
+  And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
+  Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
+  And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
+  With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
+  Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
+  To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
+
+    "Spirit! that dwellest where,
+      In the deep sky,
+    The terrible and fair,
+      In beauty vie!
+    Beyond the line of blue--
+      The boundary of the star
+    Which turneth at the view
+      Of thy barrier and thy bar--
+    Of the barrier overgone
+      By the comets who were cast
+    From their pride, and from their throne
+      To be drudges till the last--
+    To be carriers of fire
+      (The red fire of their heart)
+    With speed that may not tire
+      And with pain that shall not part--
+    Who livest--_that_ we know--
+      In Eternity--we feel--
+    But the shadow of whose brow
+      What spirit shall reveal?
+    Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
+      Thy messenger hath known
+    Have dream'd for thy Infinity
+      A model of their own [11]--
+    Thy will is done, O God!
+      The star hath ridden high
+    Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
+      Beneath thy burning eye;
+    And here, in thought, to thee--
+      In thought that can alone
+    Ascend thy empire and so be
+      A partner of thy throne--
+    By winged Fantasy [12],
+       My embassy is given,
+    Till secrecy shall knowledge be
+      In the environs of Heaven."
+
+  She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
+  Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
+  A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
+  For the stars trembled at the Deity.
+  She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
+  How solemnly pervading the calm air!
+  A sound of silence on the startled ear
+  Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
+  Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
+  "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
+
+  All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
+  Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
+  But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
+  The eternal voice of God is passing by,
+  And the red winds are withering in the sky!
+  "What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
+  Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
+  Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
+  Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
+  The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
+  (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
+  What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
+  The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
+  Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
+  To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
+  Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
+  With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
+  Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
+  And wing to other worlds another light!
+  Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
+  To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
+  To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
+  Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
+
+   Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
+  The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
+  Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
+  The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
+  As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
+  Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
+  And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
+  Her way--but left not yet her Therasæan reign [15].
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+  High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
+  Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
+  Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
+  Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
+  With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
+  What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
+  Of rosy head, that towering far away
+  Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
+  Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
+  While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
+  Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
+  Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
+  Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
+  Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
+  And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
+  Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
+  Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
+  Of their own dissolution, while they die--
+  Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
+  A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
+  Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
+  A window of one circular diamond, there,
+  Look'd out above into the purple air
+  And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
+  And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
+  Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
+  Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
+  But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
+  The dimness of this world: that grayish green
+  That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
+  Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
+  And every sculptured cherub thereabout
+  That from his marble dwelling peered out,
+  Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
+  Achaian statues in a world so rich?
+  Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
+  From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
+  Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
+  Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
+  Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
+  Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
+  That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
+  Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
+  That stealeth ever on the ear of him
+  Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
+  And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
+  Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?  [20]
+   But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
+  A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
+  A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
+  And Nesace is in her halls again.
+  From the wild energy of wanton haste
+  Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
+  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
+  Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
+  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
+  She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
+  The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
+  And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
+
+  Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
+  To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
+  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
+  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
+  Yet silence came upon material things--
+  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
+  And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
+  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
+
+    "Neath blue-bell or streamer--
+      Or tufted wild spray
+    That keeps, from the dreamer,
+      The moonbeam away--[22]
+    Bright beings! that ponder,
+      With half-closing eyes,
+    On the stars which your wonder
+      Hath drawn from the skies,
+    Till they glance thro' the shade, and
+      Come down to your brow
+    Like--eyes of the maiden
+      Who calls on you now--
+    Arise! from your dreaming
+      In violet bowers,
+    To duty beseeming
+      These star-litten hours--
+    And shake from your tresses
+      Encumber'd with dew
+
+    The breath of those kisses
+      That cumber them too--
+    (O! how, without you, Love!
+      Could angels be blest?)
+    Those kisses of true love
+      That lull'd ye to rest!
+    Up! shake from your wing
+      Each hindering thing:
+    The dew of the night--
+      It would weigh down your flight;
+    And true love caresses--
+      O! leave them apart!
+    They are light on the tresses,
+      But lead on the heart.
+
+    Ligeia! Ligeia!
+      My beautiful one!
+    Whose harshest idea
+      Will to melody run,
+    O! is it thy will
+      On the breezes to toss?
+    Or, capriciously still,
+      Like the lone Albatross, [23]
+    Incumbent on night
+      (As she on the air)
+    To keep watch with delight
+      On the harmony there?
+
+    Ligeia! wherever
+      Thy image may be,
+    No magic shall sever
+      Thy music from thee.
+    Thou hast bound many eyes
+      In a dreamy sleep--
+    But the strains still arise
+      Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
+
+    The sound of the rain
+      Which leaps down to the flower,
+    And dances again
+      In the rhythm of the shower--
+    The murmur that springs [24]
+      From the growing of grass
+    Are the music of things--
+      But are modell'd, alas!
+    Away, then, my dearest,
+      O! hie thee away
+    To springs that lie clearest
+      Beneath the moon-ray--
+    To lone lake that smiles,
+      In its dream of deep rest,
+    At the many star-isles
+    That enjewel its breast--
+    Where wild flowers, creeping,
+      Have mingled their shade,
+    On its margin is sleeping
+      Full many a maid--
+    Some have left the cool glade, and
+      Have slept with the bee--[25]
+    Arouse them, my maiden,
+      On moorland and lea--
+
+    Go! breathe on their slumber,
+      All softly in ear,
+    The musical number
+      They slumber'd to hear--
+    For what can awaken
+      An angel so soon
+    Whose sleep hath been taken
+      Beneath the cold moon,
+    As the spell which no slumber
+      Of witchery may test,
+    The rhythmical number
+      Which lull'd him to rest?"
+
+  Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
+  A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
+  Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
+  Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
+  That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
+  O death! from eye of God upon that star;
+  Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
+  Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
+  Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
+  To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
+  For what (to them) availeth it to know
+  That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
+  Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
+  With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
+  Beyond that death no immortality--
+  But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
+  And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
+  Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
+
+  What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
+  Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
+  But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
+  To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
+  A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
+  O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
+  Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
+  Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
+
+  He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
+  A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
+  A gazer on the lights that shine above--
+  A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
+  What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
+  And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
+  And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
+  To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
+  The night had found (to him a night of wo)
+  Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
+  Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
+  And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
+  Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
+  With eagle gaze along the firmament:
+  Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
+  It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
+
+  "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
+  How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
+  She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
+  I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
+  That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
+  The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
+  On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
+  Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
+  And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
+  How drowsily it weighed them into night!
+  On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
+  With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
+  But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
+  Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
+  So softly that no single silken hair
+  Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
+
+  "The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
+  Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
+  More beauty clung around her columned wall
+  Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
+  And when old Time my wing did disenthral
+  Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
+  And years I left behind me in an hour.
+  What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
+  One half the garden of her globe was flung
+  Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
+  Tenantless cities of the desert too!
+  Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
+  And half I wished to be again of men."
+
+  "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
+  A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
+  And greener fields than in yon world above,
+  And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
+  "But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
+  Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
+  Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
+  I left so late was into chaos hurled,
+  Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
+  And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
+  Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
+  And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
+  But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
+  Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
+  Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
+  For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
+  Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
+  A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
+
+  "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
+  Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
+  We came, my love; around, above, below,
+  Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
+  Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
+  _She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
+  But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
+  Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
+  Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
+  Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
+  When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
+  Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
+  But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
+  As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
+  We paused before the heritage of men,
+  And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
+
+  Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
+  The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
+  They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
+  Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
+
+
+1839.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
+
+
+[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
+
+
+[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
+them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.]
+
+
+[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
+
+
+[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.]
+
+
+[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
+
+
+[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
+fol. edit.
+
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
+
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
+
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+
+  Dicite sacrorum præesides nemorum Dese, etc.,
+  Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
+  Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
+  Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
+  Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+--And afterwards,
+
+  Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
+  Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 12:
+
+  Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
+  Seinem Schosskinde
+  Der Phantasie.
+
+'Goethe'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.]
+
+
+[Footnote 15: Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.]
+
+
+[Footnote 16:
+
+  Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
+  Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+  "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
+  érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles--peut-il être un chef
+  d'oeuvre des arts!"]
+
+
+[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
+by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
+argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
+"Asphaltites."]
+
+
+[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
+
+
+[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
+
+
+[Footnote 21:
+
+  Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+  "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.]
+
+
+[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
+
+
+[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+  "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+  musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+  do make when they growe."]
+
+
+[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+  O! were there an island,
+    Tho' ever so wild,
+  Where woman might smile, and
+    No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
+
+
+[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+  Un no rompido sueno--
+  Un dia puro--allegre--libre
+  Quiera--
+  Libre de amor--de zelo--
+  De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
+
+'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
+
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.
+
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.]
+
+
+[Footnote 27:
+
+  There be tears of perfect moan
+  Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
+
+
+[Footnote 29:
+
+  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
+  Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+'Marlowe.']
+
+
+[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TAMERLANE.
+
+
+  Kind solace in a dying hour!
+  Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
+  I will not madly deem that power
+  Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
+  Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
+  I have no time to dote or dream:
+  You call it hope--that fire of fire!
+  It is but agony of desire:
+  If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
+  Its fount is holier--more divine--
+  I would not call thee fool, old man,
+  But such is not a gift of thine.
+
+  Know thou the secret of a spirit
+  Bowed from its wild pride into shame
+  O yearning heart! I did inherit
+  Thy withering portion with the fame,
+  The searing glory which hath shone
+  Amid the Jewels of my throne,
+  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
+  Not Hell shall make me fear again--
+  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
+  And sunshine of my summer hours!
+  The undying voice of that dead time,
+  With its interminable chime,
+  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
+  Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
+
+  I have not always been as now:
+  The fevered diadem on my brow
+  I claimed and won usurpingly--
+  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
+  Rome to the Cæsar--this to me?
+  The heritage of a kingly mind,
+  And a proud spirit which hath striven
+  Triumphantly with human kind.
+  On mountain soil I first drew life:
+  The mists of the Taglay have shed
+  Nightly their dews upon my head,
+  And, I believe, the winged strife
+  And tumult of the headlong air
+  Have nestled in my very hair.
+
+  So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
+  ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
+  Upon me with the touch of Hell,
+  While the red flashing of the light
+  From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
+  Appeared to my half-closing eye
+  The pageantry of monarchy;
+  And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
+  Came hurriedly upon me, telling
+  Of human battle, where my voice,
+  My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
+  (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
+  And leap within me at the cry)
+  The battle-cry of Victory!
+
+  The rain came down upon my head
+  Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
+  Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
+  It was but man, I thought, who shed
+  Laurels upon me: and the rush--
+  The torrent of the chilly air
+  Gurgled within my ear the crush
+  Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
+  The hum of suitors--and the tone
+  Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
+
+  My passions, from that hapless hour,
+  Usurped a tyranny which men
+  Have deemed since I have reached to power,
+  My innate nature--be it so:
+  But, father, there lived one who, then,
+  Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
+  Burned with a still intenser glow
+  (For passion must, with youth, expire)
+  E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
+  In woman's weakness had a part.
+
+  I have no words--alas!--to tell
+  The loveliness of loving well!
+  Nor would I now attempt to trace
+  The more than beauty of a face
+  Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
+  Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
+  Thus I remember having dwelt
+  Some page of early lore upon,
+  With loitering eye, till I have felt
+  The letters--with their meaning--melt
+  To fantasies--with none.
+
+  O, she was worthy of all love!
+  Love as in infancy was mine--
+  'Twas such as angel minds above
+  Might envy; her young heart the shrine
+  On which my every hope and thought
+  Were incense--then a goodly gift,
+  For they were childish and upright--
+  Pure--as her young example taught:
+  Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
+  Trust to the fire within, for light?
+
+  We grew in age--and love--together--
+  Roaming the forest, and the wild;
+  My breast her shield in wintry weather--
+  And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
+  And she would mark the opening skies,
+  _I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
+  Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
+  For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
+  When, from our little cares apart,
+  And laughing at her girlish wiles,
+  I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
+  And pour my spirit out in tears--
+  There was no need to speak the rest--
+  No need to quiet any fears
+  Of her--who asked no reason why,
+  But turned on me her quiet eye!
+
+  Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
+  My spirit struggled with, and strove
+  When, on the mountain peak, alone,
+  Ambition lent it a new tone--
+  I had no being--but in thee:
+  The world, and all it did contain
+  In the earth--the air--the sea--
+  Its joy--its little lot of pain
+  That was new pleasure--the ideal,
+  Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
+  And dimmer nothings which were real--
+  (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
+  Parted upon their misty wings,
+  And, so, confusedly, became
+  Thine image and--a name--a name!
+  Two separate--yet most intimate things.
+
+  I was ambitious--have you known
+  The passion, father? You have not:
+  A cottager, I marked a throne
+  Of half the world as all my own,
+  And murmured at such lowly lot--
+  But, just like any other dream,
+  Upon the vapor of the dew
+  My own had past, did not the beam
+  Of beauty which did while it thro'
+  The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
+  My mind with double loveliness.
+
+  We walked together on the crown
+  Of a high mountain which looked down
+  Afar from its proud natural towers
+  Of rock and forest, on the hills--
+  The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
+  And shouting with a thousand rills.
+
+  I spoke to her of power and pride,
+  But mystically--in such guise
+  That she might deem it nought beside
+  The moment's converse; in her eyes
+  I read, perhaps too carelessly--
+  A mingled feeling with my own--
+  The flush on her bright cheek, to me
+  Seemed to become a queenly throne
+  Too well that I should let it be
+  Light in the wilderness alone.
+
+  I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
+  And donned a visionary crown--
+  Yet it was not that Fantasy
+  Had thrown her mantle over me--
+  But that, among the rabble--men,
+  Lion ambition is chained down--
+  And crouches to a keeper's hand--
+  Not so in deserts where the grand--
+  The wild--the terrible conspire
+  With their own breath to fan his fire.
+
+  Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
+  Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
+  Above all cities? in her hand
+  Their destinies? in all beside
+  Of glory which the world hath known
+  Stands she not nobly and alone?
+  Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
+  Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
+  And who her sovereign? Timour--he
+  Whom the astonished people saw
+  Striding o'er empires haughtily
+  A diademed outlaw!
+
+  O, human love! thou spirit given,
+  On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
+  Which fall'st into the soul like rain
+  Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
+  And, failing in thy power to bless,
+  But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
+  Idea! which bindest life around
+  With music of so strange a sound
+  And beauty of so wild a birth--
+  Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
+
+  When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
+  No cliff beyond him in the sky,
+  His pinions were bent droopingly--
+  And homeward turned his softened eye.
+  'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
+  There comes a sullenness of heart
+  To him who still would look upon
+  The glory of the summer sun.
+  That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
+  So often lovely, and will list
+  To the sound of the coming darkness (known
+  To those whose spirits hearken) as one
+  Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
+  But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
+
+  What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
+  Shed all the splendor of her noon,
+  _Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
+  In that time of dreariness, will seem
+  (So like you gather in your breath)
+  A portrait taken after death.
+  And boyhood is a summer sun
+  Whose waning is the dreariest one--
+  For all we live to know is known,
+  And all we seek to keep hath flown--
+  Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
+  With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
+  I reached my home--my home no more--
+  For all had flown who made it so.
+  I passed from out its mossy door,
+  And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
+  A voice came from the threshold stone
+  Of one whom I had earlier known--
+  O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
+  On beds of fire that burn below,
+  An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
+
+  Father, I firmly do believe--
+  I _know_--for Death who comes for me
+  From regions of the blest afar,
+  Where there is nothing to deceive,
+  Hath left his iron gate ajar.
+  And rays of truth you cannot see
+  Are flashing thro' Eternity----
+  I do believe that Eblis hath
+  A snare in every human path--
+  Else how, when in the holy grove
+  I wandered of the idol, Love,--
+  Who daily scents his snowy wings
+  With incense of burnt-offerings
+  From the most unpolluted things,
+  Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
+  Above with trellised rays from Heaven
+  No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
+  The light'ning of his eagle eye--
+  How was it that Ambition crept,
+  Unseen, amid the revels there,
+  Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
+  In the tangles of Love's very hair!
+
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece,
+  To the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
+
+
+  _Once_ it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sun-light lazily lay,
+  _Now_ each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless--
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Unceasingly, from morn till even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye--
+  Over the lilies that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ISRAFEL. [1]
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamoured Moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven),
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty--
+  Where Love's a grow-up God--
+    Where the Houri glances are
+  Imbued with all the beauty
+    Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore, thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest!
+  Merrily live and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit--
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute--
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+    Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+
+1836.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+  sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+'Koran'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  I heed not that my earthly lot
+    Hath--little of Earth in it--
+  That years of love have been forgot
+    In the hatred of a minute:--
+  I mourn not that the desolate
+    Are happier, sweet, than I,
+  But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
+    Who am a passer-by.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
+    The wantonest singing birds,
+
+  Are lips--and all thy melody
+    Of lip-begotten words--
+
+  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
+    Then desolately fall,
+  O God! on my funereal mind
+    Like starlight on a pall--
+
+  Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
+    And sleep to dream till day
+  Of the truth that gold can never buy--
+    Of the baubles that it may.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIVER
+
+
+  Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
+    Of crystal, wandering water,
+  Thou art an emblem of the glow
+        Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
+        The playful maziness of art
+    In old Alberto's daughter;
+
+  But when within thy wave she looks--
+    Which glistens then, and trembles--
+  Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
+    Her worshipper resembles;
+  For in his heart, as in thy stream,
+    Her image deeply lies--
+  His heart which trembles at the beam
+    Of her soul-searching eyes.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONG.
+
+
+  I saw thee on thy bridal day--
+    When a burning blush came o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee:
+
+  And in thine eye a kindling light
+    (Whatever it might be)
+  Was all on Earth my aching sight
+    Of Loveliness could see.
+
+  That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
+    As such it well may pass--
+  Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
+    In the breast of him, alas!
+
+  Who saw thee on that bridal day,
+    When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
+
+
+  Thy soul shall find itself alone
+  'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
+  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--tho' 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 forever.
+  Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
+  Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
+  From thy spirit shall they pass
+  No more--like dew-drops 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!
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM.
+
+
+  In visions of the dark night
+    I have dreamed of joy departed--
+  But a waking dream of life and light
+    Hath left me broken-hearted.
+
+  Ah! what is not a dream by day
+    To him whose eyes are cast
+  On things around him with a ray
+    Turned back upon the past?
+
+  That holy dream--that holy dream,
+    While all the world were chiding,
+  Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
+    A lonely spirit guiding.
+
+  What though that light, thro' storm and night,
+    So trembled from afar--
+  What could there be more purely bright
+    In Truth's day star?
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE.
+
+
+  Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
+  With drowsy head and folded wing,
+  Among the green leaves as they shake
+  Far down within some shadowy lake,
+  To me a painted paroquet
+  Hath been--a most familiar bird--
+  Taught me my alphabet to say--
+  To lisp my very earliest word
+  While in the wild wood I did lie,
+  A child--with a most knowing eye.
+
+  Of late, eternal Condor years
+  So shake the very Heaven on high
+  With tumult as they thunder by,
+  I have no time for idle cares
+  Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
+  And when an hour with calmer wings
+  Its down upon my spirit flings--
+  That little time with lyre and rhyme
+  To while away--forbidden things!
+  My heart would feel to be a crime
+  Unless it trembled with the strings.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FAIRYLAND.
+
+
+  Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
+  And cloudy-looking woods,
+  Whose forms we can't discover
+  For the tears that drip all over
+  Huge moons there wax and wane--
+  Again--again--again--
+  Every moment of the night--
+  Forever changing places--
+  And they put out the star-light
+  With the breath from their pale faces.
+  About twelve by the moon-dial
+  One more filmy than the rest
+  (A kind which, upon trial,
+  They have found to be the best)
+  Comes down--still down--and down
+  With its centre on the crown
+  Of a mountain's eminence,
+  While its wide circumference
+  In easy drapery falls
+  Over hamlets, over halls,
+  Wherever they may be--
+  O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
+  Over spirits on the wing--
+  Over every drowsy thing--
+  And buries them up quite
+  In a labyrinth of light--
+  And then, how deep!--O, deep!
+  Is the passion of their sleep.
+  In the morning they arise,
+  And their moony covering
+  Is soaring in the skies,
+  With the tempests as they toss,
+  Like--almost any thing--
+  Or a yellow Albatross.
+  They use that moon no more
+  For the same end as before--
+  Videlicet a tent--
+  Which I think extravagant:
+  Its atomies, however,
+  Into a shower dissever,
+  Of which those butterflies,
+  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
+  And so come down again
+  (Never-contented thing!)
+  Have brought a specimen
+  Upon their quivering wings.
+
+
+1831
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAKE.
+
+
+  In spring of youth it was my lot
+  To haunt of the wide world a spot
+  The which I could not love the less--
+  So lovely was the loneliness
+  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
+  And the tall pines that towered around.
+
+  But when the Night had thrown her pall
+  Upon the spot, as upon all,
+  And the mystic wind went by
+  Murmuring in melody--
+  Then--ah, then, I would awake
+  To the terror of the lone lake.
+
+  Yet that terror was not fright,
+  But a tremulous delight--
+  A feeling not the jewelled mine
+  Could teach or bribe me to define--
+  Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
+
+  Death was in that poisonous wave,
+  And in its gulf a fitting grave
+  For him who thence could solace bring
+  To his lone imagining--
+  Whose solitary soul could make
+  An Eden of that dim lake.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EVENING STAR.
+
+
+  'Twas noontide of summer,
+    And midtime of night,
+  And stars, in their orbits,
+    Shone pale, through the light
+  Of the brighter, cold moon.
+    'Mid planets her slaves,
+  Herself in the Heavens,
+    Her beam on the waves.
+
+    I gazed awhile
+    On her cold smile;
+  Too cold--too cold for me--
+    There passed, as a shroud,
+    A fleecy cloud,
+  And I turned away to thee,
+    Proud Evening Star,
+    In thy glory afar
+  And dearer thy beam shall be;
+    For joy to my heart
+    Is the proud part
+  Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
+    And more I admire
+    Thy distant fire,
+  Than that colder, lowly light.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+IMITATION.
+
+
+  A dark unfathomed tide
+  Of interminable pride--
+  A mystery, and a dream,
+  Should my early life seem;
+  I say that dream was fraught
+  With a wild and waking thought
+  Of beings that have been,
+  Which my spirit hath not seen,
+  Had I let them pass me by,
+  With a dreaming eye!
+  Let none of earth inherit
+  That vision on my spirit;
+  Those thoughts I would control,
+  As a spell upon his soul:
+  For that bright hope at last
+  And that light time have past,
+  And my wordly rest hath gone
+  With a sigh as it passed on:
+  I care not though it perish
+  With a thought I then did cherish.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
+
+
+     I.       The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                My seared and blighted heart hath known,
+              The highest hope of pride and power,
+                I feel hath flown.
+
+
+     II.      Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
+                But they have vanished long, alas!
+              The visions of my youth have been--
+                But let them pass.
+
+
+     III.     And pride, what have I now with thee?
+                Another brow may ev'n inherit
+              The venom thou hast poured on me--
+                Be still my spirit!
+
+
+     IV.      The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
+              The brightest glance of pride and power
+                I feel have been:
+
+
+     V.       But were that hope of pride and power
+                Now offered with the pain
+              Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
+                I would not live again:
+
+     VI.      For on its wing was dark alloy
+                And as it fluttered--fell
+              An essence--powerful to destroy
+                A soul that knew it well.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Translation from the Greek.
+
+
+HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
+
+
+  I.      Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
+            Like those champions devoted and brave,
+          When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
+            And to Athens deliverance gave.
+
+  II.     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
+            In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
+          Where the mighty of old have their home--
+            Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
+
+  III.    In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
+            Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
+          When he made at the tutelar shrine
+            A libation of Tyranny's blood.
+
+  IV.     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
+            Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
+          Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
+            Embalmed in their echoing songs!
+
+1827
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMS.
+
+
+  Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
+  My spirit not awakening, till the beam
+  Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
+  Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
+  'Twere better than the cold reality
+  Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
+  And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
+  A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
+  But should it be--that dream eternally
+  Continuing--as dreams have been to me
+  In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
+  'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
+  For I have revelled when the sun was bright
+  I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
+  And loveliness,--have left my very heart
+  Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
+  From mine own home, with beings that have been
+  Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
+  'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
+  From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
+  Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
+  Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
+  Its image on my spirit--or the moon
+  Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
+  Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
+  That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
+  _I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
+  I have been happy--and I love the theme:
+  Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
+  As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
+  Of semblance with reality which brings
+  To the delirious eye, more lovely things
+  Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
+  Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
+
+
+          _How often we forget all time, when lone
+          Admiring Nature's universal throne;
+          Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
+          Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
+
+
+I.        In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
+            In secret communing held--as he with it,
+          In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
+            Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
+          From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
+            A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
+          And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
+            Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
+
+
+II.       Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
+            To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
+          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
+            With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
+          Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
+            The unembodied essence, and no more
+          That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
+            As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
+
+
+III.      Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
+            To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
+          Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
+            And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
+          From us in life--but common--which doth lie
+            Each hour before us--but then only bid
+          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
+            T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
+
+
+IV.       Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
+            In beauty by our God, to those alone
+          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
+            Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
+          That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
+            Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
+          With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
+            Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A PÆAN.
+
+
+
+I.        How shall the burial rite be read?
+            The solemn song be sung?
+          The requiem for the loveliest dead,
+            That ever died so young?
+
+
+II.       Her friends are gazing on her,
+            And on her gaudy bier,
+          And weep!--oh! to dishonor
+            Dead beauty with a tear!
+
+
+III.     They loved her for her wealth--
+           And they hated her for her pride--
+          But she grew in feeble health,
+            And they _love_ her--that she died.
+
+
+IV.      They tell me (while they speak
+           Of her "costly broider'd pall")
+         That my voice is growing weak--
+           That I should not sing at all--
+
+
+V.       Or that my tone should be
+           Tun'd to such solemn song
+         So mournfully--so mournfully,
+           That the dead may feel no wrong.
+
+
+VI.      But she is gone above,
+           With young Hope at her side,
+         And I am drunk with love
+           Of the dead, who is my bride.--
+
+VII.     Of the dead--dead who lies
+           All perfum'd there,
+         With the death upon her eyes.
+           And the life upon her hair.
+
+
+VIII.    Thus on the coffin loud and long
+           I strike--the murmur sent
+         Through the gray chambers to my song,
+           Shall be the accompaniment.
+
+
+IX.      Thou diedst in thy life's June--
+           But thou didst not die too fair:
+         Thou didst not die too soon,
+           Nor with too calm an air.
+
+
+X.       From more than friends on earth,
+           Thy life and love are riven,
+         To join the untainted mirth
+           Of more than thrones in heaven.--
+
+
+XI.      Therefore, to thee this night
+           I will no requiem raise,
+         But waft thee on thy flight,
+           With a Pæan of old days.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+
+AL AARAAF.
+
+
+  Mysterious star!
+  Thou wert my dream
+  All a long summer night--
+  Be now my theme!
+  By this clear stream,
+  Of thee will I write;
+  Meantime from afar
+  Bathe me in light!
+
+  Thy world has not the dross of ours,
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our love or deck our bowers
+  In dreamy gardens, where do lie
+  Dreamy maidens all the day;
+  While the silver winds of Circassy
+  On violet couches faint away.
+  Little--oh! little dwells in thee
+  Like unto what on earth we see:
+  Beauty's eye is here the bluest
+  In the falsest and untruest--
+  On the sweetest air doth float
+  The most sad and solemn note--
+  If with thee be broken hearts,
+  Joy so peacefully departs,
+  That its echo still doth dwell,
+  Like the murmur in the shell.
+  Thou! thy truest type of grief
+  Is the gently falling leaf--
+  Thou! thy framing is so holy
+  Sorrow is not melancholy.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+
+  Succeeding years, too wild for song,
+  Then rolled like tropic storms along,
+  Where, though the garish lights that fly
+  Dying along the troubled sky,
+  Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
+  The blackness of the general Heaven,
+  That very blackness yet doth fling
+  Light on the lightning's silver wing.
+
+  For being an idle boy lang syne,
+  Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
+  I early found Anacreon rhymes
+  Were almost passionate sometimes--
+  And by strange alchemy of brain
+  His pleasures always turned to pain--
+  His naïveté to wild desire--
+  His wit to love--his wine to fire--
+  And so, being young and dipt in folly,
+  I fell in love with melancholy.
+
+  And used to throw my earthly rest
+  And quiet all away in jest--
+  I could not love except where Death
+  Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
+  Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
+  Were stalking between her and me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
+  Gone are the glory and the gloom--
+  The black hath mellow'd into gray,
+  And all the fires are fading away.
+
+  My draught of passion hath been deep--
+  I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
+  And after drunkenness of soul
+  Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
+  An idle longing night and day
+  To dream my very life away.
+
+  But dreams--of those who dream as I,
+  Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
+  Yet should I swear I mean alone,
+  By notes so very shrilly blown,
+  To break upon Time's monotone,
+  While yet my vapid joy and grief
+  Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
+  Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
+  Will shake his shadow in my path--
+  And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
+  Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                 DOUBTFUL POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ALONE.
+
+
+  From childhood's hour I have not been
+  As others were--I have not seen
+  As others saw--I could not bring
+  My passions from a common spring--
+  From the same source I have not taken
+  My sorrow--I could not awaken
+  My heart to joy at the same tone--
+  And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
+  _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
+  Of a most stormy life--was drawn
+  From every depth of good and ill
+  The mystery which binds me still--
+  From the torrent, or the fountain--
+  From the red cliff of the mountain--
+  From the sun that round me roll'd
+  In its autumn tint of gold--
+  From the lightning in the sky
+  As it passed me flying by--
+  From the thunder and the storm--
+  And the cloud that took the form
+  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
+  Of a demon in my view.
+
+
+March 17, 1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ISADORE.
+
+
+I.       Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
+             Whose shadows fall before
+             Thy lowly cottage door--
+         Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
+         Within thy snowy clasped hand
+             The purple flowers it bore.
+         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
+         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
+         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
+             Most beauteous Isadore!
+
+
+II.      And when I bade the dream
+             Upon thy spirit flee,
+             Thy violet eyes to me
+         Upturned, did overflowing seem
+         With the deep, untold delight
+             Of Love's serenity;
+         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
+         And pale as the Imperial Night
+         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
+             Enthralled my soul to thee!
+
+
+III.     Ah! ever I behold
+             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
+             Blue as the languid skies
+         Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
+         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
+             And olden memories
+         Are startled from their long repose
+         Like shadows on the silent snows
+         When suddenly the night-wind blows
+             Where quiet moonlight lies.
+
+
+IV.      Like music heard in dreams,
+             Like strains of harps unknown,
+             Of birds for ever flown,--
+         Audible as the voice of streams
+         That murmur in some leafy dell,
+             I hear thy gentlest tone,
+         And Silence cometh with her spell
+         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
+         When tremulous in dreams I tell
+             My love to thee alone!
+
+V.       In every valley heard,
+             Floating from tree to tree,
+             Less beautiful to me,
+         The music of the radiant bird,
+         Than artless accents such as thine
+             Whose echoes never flee!
+         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
+         For uttered in thy tones benign
+         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
+             Doth seem a melody!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE STREET.
+
+
+  In these rapid, restless shadows,
+    Once I walked at eventide,
+  When a gentle, silent maiden,
+    Walked in beauty at my side.
+  She alone there walked beside me
+  All in beauty, like a bride.
+
+  Pallidly the moon was shining
+    On the dewy meadows nigh;
+  On the silvery, silent rivers,
+    On the mountains far and high,--
+  On the ocean's star-lit waters,
+    Where the winds a-weary die.
+
+  Slowly, silently we wandered
+    From the open cottage door,
+  Underneath the elm's long branches
+    To the pavement bending o'er;
+  Underneath the mossy willow
+    And the dying sycamore.
+
+  With the myriad stars in beauty
+    All bedight, the heavens were seen,
+  Radiant hopes were bright around me,
+    Like the light of stars serene;
+  Like the mellow midnight splendor
+    Of the Night's irradiate queen.
+
+  Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
+    Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
+  Like the distant murmured music
+    Of unquiet, lovely seas;
+  While the winds were hushed in slumber
+    In the fragrant flowers and trees.
+
+  Wondrous and unwonted beauty
+    Still adorning all did seem,
+  While I told my love in fables
+    'Neath the willows by the stream;
+  Would the heart have kept unspoken
+    Love that was its rarest dream!
+
+  Instantly away we wandered
+    In the shadowy twilight tide,
+  She, the silent, scornful maiden,
+    Walking calmly at my side,
+  With a step serene and stately,
+    All in beauty, all in pride.
+
+  Vacantly I walked beside her.
+    On the earth mine eyes were cast;
+  Swift and keen there came unto me
+    Bitter memories of the past--
+  On me, like the rain in Autumn
+    On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
+
+  Underneath the elms we parted,
+    By the lowly cottage door;
+  One brief word alone was uttered--
+    Never on our lips before;
+  And away I walked forlornly,
+  Broken-hearted evermore.
+
+  Slowly, silently I loitered,
+    Homeward, in the night, alone;
+  Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
+    That my youth had never known;
+  Wild unrest, like that which cometh
+    When the Night's first dream hath flown.
+
+  Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
+    Mad, discordant melodies,
+  And keen melodies like shadows
+    Haunt the moaning willow trees,
+  And the sycamores with laughter
+    Mock me in the nightly breeze.
+
+  Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
+    Through the sighing foliage streams;
+  And each morning, midnight shadow,
+    Shadow of my sorrow seems;
+  Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
+    And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE FOREST REVERIE.
+
+
+      'Tis said that when
+      The hands of men
+    Tamed this primeval wood,
+  And hoary trees with groans of wo,
+  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
+    Were in their strength subdued,
+      The virgin Earth
+      Gave instant birth
+    To springs that ne'er did flow--
+      That in the sun
+      Did rivulets run,
+  And all around rare flowers did blow--
+      The wild rose pale
+      Perfumed the gale,
+  And the queenly lily adown the dale
+      (Whom the sun and the dew
+      And the winds did woo),
+  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
+
+      So when in tears
+      The love of years
+    Is wasted like the snow,
+  And the fine fibrils of its life
+  By the rude wrong of instant strife
+    Are broken at a blow--
+      Within the heart
+      Do springs upstart
+    Of which it doth now know,
+      And strange, sweet dreams,
+      Like silent streams
+  That from new fountains overflow,
+      With the earlier tide
+      Of rivers glide
+  Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
+  Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
+    Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
+      Sweet flowers, ere long,--
+    The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
+had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
+publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
+of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
+publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
+adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
+guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
+a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
+'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
+If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
+from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
+the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
+the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
+The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
+his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
+qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
+claimed for them."
+
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
+Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
+no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
+questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
+were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
+'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
+them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
+to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
+works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
+whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
+is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
+be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
+elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
+assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
+so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
+by the author of "The Raven."
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                              PROSE POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
+
+
+    "Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
+
+    _Servius_.
+
+
+"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
+our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
+mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
+de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
+the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
+them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
+complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
+exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
+_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
+_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
+its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
+tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
+estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
+will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
+for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
+of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
+does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
+experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
+who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
+behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
+but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
+upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
+war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
+valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
+forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
+that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
+colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
+form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
+whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
+moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
+thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
+are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
+own cognizance of the _animalculæ_ which infest the brain, a being which
+we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
+same manner as these _animalculæ_ must thus regard us.
+
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
+[2].
+
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
+in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
+une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
+est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
+is a thing that does not exist.
+
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
+
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.
+
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+  So blended bank and shadow there,
+  That each seemed pendulous in air--
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings [4].
+
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
+wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
+conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
+deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
+and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
+and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
+not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
+clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
+seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
+with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
+and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
+and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
+momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
+entombed.
+
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
+
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."
+
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
+at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
+"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+'De Sitû Orbis', says,
+
+  "Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4:
+
+  "Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera."
+
+'P. Commire'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POWER OF WORDS.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
+  immortality!
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+  Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
+  the angels freely, that it may be given!
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+  all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+  knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+  all, were the curse of a fiend.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But does not The Most High know all?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  _That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
+  unknown even to HIM.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
+  be known?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
+  the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+  thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+  points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
+  walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+  appeared to blend into unity?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
+  infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
+  at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
+  unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
+  soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
+  Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
+  swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
+  where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
+  triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
+  earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+  now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+  accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+  not God?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Explain!
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+  throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+  be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+  immediate results of the Divine creative power.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+  extreme.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
+  Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+  to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
+  final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
+  successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
+  denominate the creation of animalculæ.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+  creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
+  since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+  hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
+  immediate handiwork of the King?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+  conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+  perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+  example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+  vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+  indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+  earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
+  one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
+  well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
+  by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
+  became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+  extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+  atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+  a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+  the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+  of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
+  portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+  of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
+  retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+  analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+  progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+  applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+  applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+  deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+  understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
+  lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
+  given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
+  consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+  demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
+  end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
+  universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
+  we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
+  impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+  particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
+  modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
+  new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
+  the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
+  but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
+  these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
+  inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+  analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+  power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
+  faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
+  causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
+  variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
+  itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+  proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
+  pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+  _creation_.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+  motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  God.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+  lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  You did.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+  the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
+  air?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+  we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
+  terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+  flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
+  passions of a turbulent heart.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
+  since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
+  beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
+  brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
+  raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
+  unhallowed of hearts!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
+
+
+  [Greek: Mellonta  sauta']
+
+  These things are in the future.
+
+  _Sophocles_--'Antig.'
+
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  "Born again?"
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+  upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+  explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+  secret.
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Death!
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+  vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+  confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+  Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+  which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+  upon all pleasures!
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+  we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+  did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+  no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+  within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+  in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+  strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+  evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+  became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+  say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+  incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+  be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+  begin?
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  At what point?
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  You have said.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+  of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+  the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
+  instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+  breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+  eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+  epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+  forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
+  ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+  to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+  five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+  some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+  truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+  --principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+  guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+  long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+  in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+  Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
+  have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
+  of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+  _analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
+  the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
+  intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
+  the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
+  of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
+  intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
+  of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
+  scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
+  themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
+  scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
+  upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
+  enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
+  solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
+  blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
+  solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
+  exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
+  opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+  days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
+  diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
+  and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+  them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+  of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+  still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+  God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+  be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+  system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+  Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+  in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
+  voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
+  Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+  made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+  Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+  cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+  of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+  of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+  slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+  arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+  destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
+  neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
+  crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
+  between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
+  have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
+  gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
+  contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
+  [Greek: mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+  education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
+  desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
+  [1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+  truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se réduit à céder au
+  sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+  natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+  over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+  not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+  age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+  living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+  myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+  the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+  Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+  the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+  either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+  regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+  artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+  and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+  but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+  save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+  that he must be "_born again._"
+
+  And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+  daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+  days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+  undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+  obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+  mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+  length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
+  man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+  no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+  but still for the _material_, man.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+  the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+  corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+  and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+  grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+  the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+  together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+  of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+  the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+  had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+  fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+  replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+  pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
+  days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+  torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
+
+  Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+  It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+  him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+  fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+  consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+  being awakened by external disturbances.
+
+  I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+  beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+  unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
+  other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+  confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+  rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+  last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
+  far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+  have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+  offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+  the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
+  range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+  distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+  the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+  struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+  this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+  _sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+  themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
+  in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+  was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
+  extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+  undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+  received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+  highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+  upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+  long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+  immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
+  purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+  senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+  understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+  much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+  floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+  appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+  musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+  intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+  constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+  heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+  alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
+  spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
+  loud cries.
+
+  They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
+  flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+  vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
+  images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+  dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+  in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
+
+  The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+  vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+  sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
+  solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+  dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+  oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+  palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+  reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+  first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+  lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+  forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+  but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+  great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+  there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+  melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+  which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+  from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+  tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+  sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+  sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+  to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+  pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+  faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+  purely sensual pleasure as before.
+
+  And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+  appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+  exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
+  inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+  frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+  artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+  _that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
+  even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
+  pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
+  _Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
+  this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
+  By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
+  and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
+  to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
+  these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
+  abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
+  no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
+  accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
+  mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
+  this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
+  sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
+  exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
+  sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
+  obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
+  the temporal eternity.
+
+  It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+  from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+  lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+  monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+  distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+  nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+  of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+  of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+  the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+  the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+  duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+  the deadly _Decay_.
+
+  Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+  sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+  intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+  flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+  of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+  sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+  not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+  which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+  hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+  heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+  and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
+
+  And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+  rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+  each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+  flight--without effort and without object.
+
+  A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
+  indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
+  its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
+  _place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
+  body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
+  happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
+  imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
+  slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
+  yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
+  of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
+  startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
+  which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
+  bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
+  That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
+  vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
+  had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
+  had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
+  instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
+  and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
+  form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
+  sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+  portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+  grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+  which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+  may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+  _music_ for the soul."
+
+Repub. lib. 2.
+
+  "For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+  causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+  taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
+  the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
+  beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
+  and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
+
+Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
+in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
+the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
+the true.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
+
+
+  I will bring fire to thee.
+
+  _Euripides_.--'Androm'.
+
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Why do you call me Eiros?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
+  earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  This is indeed no dream!
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+  see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+  already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+  allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+  induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
+  terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+  rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+  senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+  of _the new_.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
+  feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+  undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+  suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  In Aidenn?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  In Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+  things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
+  the august and certain Present.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+  Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+  of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
+  burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+  which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+  things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+  fearfully perished.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+  cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+  of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+  mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
+  remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+  unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+  philosophy of the day.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+  analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+  astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+  left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+  writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+  having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+  immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+  epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+  the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+  been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+  satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+  either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+  had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+  tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+  substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+  in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+  accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
+  the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
+  inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
+  strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
+  the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
+  by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
+  received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
+
+  The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+  was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+  would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+  two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+  that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+  effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+  would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+  among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+  truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+  understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+  astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+  approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+  very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+  perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+  in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+  Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+  absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+  respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+  their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
+  gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
+  fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
+  for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
+  in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
+  bowed down and adored.
+
+  That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+  from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+  among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+  reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+  density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
+  gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+  satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+  served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+  fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+  to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+  instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+  be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+  enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+  nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+  great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+  It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+  regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
+  every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
+  some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+  from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+  excessive interest.
+
+  What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+  question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+  probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+  possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+  or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+  discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+  larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+  grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
+
+  There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+  comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+  previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+  lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+  certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+  hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+  A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+  sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+  orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
+  disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
+  saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
+  incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
+  with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
+  rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
+
+  Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+  were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+  felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+  exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+  heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+  vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+  predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+  luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+  vegetable thing.
+
+  Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+  evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+  over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
+  general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+  rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+  dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+  radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+  possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+  topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+  thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
+
+  It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+  of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+  of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+  atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+  vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+  life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+  Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+  life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+  ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+  latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+  which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
+  extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
+  omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
+  minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
+  denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
+
+  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+  That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+  was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+  gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+  Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
+  Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+  bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+  possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+  threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+  of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+  I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+  moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+  all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+  majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
+  sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
+  mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+  intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+  even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+  Thus ended all.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
+
+
+    Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
+
+    'Psalm of David'.
+
+
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
+
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.
+
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
+heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
+all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
+the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
+thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
+limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
+drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
+save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
+Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
+burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
+formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
+assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
+glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
+merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
+Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
+reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
+the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
+enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
+portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
+plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
+of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
+the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
+although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
+still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
+expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
+mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
+Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
+off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
+undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.--A FABLE.
+
+
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
+
+"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
+"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
+of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
+
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.
+
+"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.
+
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.
+
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
+
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
+
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
+down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
+the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.
+
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
+the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
+more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
+SILENCE.
+
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
+
+...
+
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                   ESSAYS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
+
+
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
+
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
+
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
+commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
+
+In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
+very long poem will ever be popular again.
+
+That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
+its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
+sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
+Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
+considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
+concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
+saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
+physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
+the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
+material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
+instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
+_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
+the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
+about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
+gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
+effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
+praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
+sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
+rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
+the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
+effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
+fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
+can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
+proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
+as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
+falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
+
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
+while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
+profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.
+
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+
+  I arise from dreams of thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night
+  When the winds are breathing low,
+    And the stars are shining bright.
+  I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+  Has led me--who knows how?--
+    To thy chamber-window, sweet!
+
+  The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark the silent stream--
+  The champak odors fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+  The nightingale's complaint,
+    It dies upon her heart,
+  As I must die on thine,
+    O, beloved as thou art!
+
+  O, lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+  Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+  My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast:
+  O, press it close to thine again,
+    Where it will break at last!
+
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
+
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
+    Walk'd spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
+    And honor charm'd the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true--
+  For heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo--
+  But honor'd well her charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail--
+  Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
+    And nothing could avail.
+
+  No mercy now can clear her brow
+    From this world's peace to pray,
+  For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
+    Her woman's heart gave way!--
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
+    By man is cursed alway!
+
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.
+
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
+has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
+the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
+should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
+work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
+idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
+have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
+sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
+confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
+force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
+look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
+the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
+dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
+se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
+solely for the poem's sake.
+
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
+with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
+flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
+truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
+simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
+we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
+converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
+perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
+poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
+who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
+reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
+
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
+
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
+those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
+_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
+
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
+which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
+feel_ as poetic.
+
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
+in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
+that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
+unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
+union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
+widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
+had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
+own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
+
+To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
+Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
+Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
+Truth.
+
+A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
+the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
+maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
+of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
+elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
+Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
+satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
+the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
+sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
+obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
+possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
+deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
+attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
+incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
+Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
+may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
+work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
+proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.
+
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
+    That my soul cannot resist;
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day,
+  Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+
+           --the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+  Down the corridors of Time.
+
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
+of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
+sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
+"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
+to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
+attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
+should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
+writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
+in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
+adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
+author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
+upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
+occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
+considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
+sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
+
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+
+  There, through the long, long summer hours,
+    The golden light should lie,
+  And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
+    Stand in their beauty by.
+  The oriole should build and tell
+  His love-tale, close beside my cell;
+    The idle butterfly
+  Should rest him there, and there be heard
+  The housewife-bee and humming bird.
+
+  And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
+    Come, from the village sent,
+  Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
+    With fairy laughter blent?
+  And what if, in the evening light,
+  Betrothed lovers walk in sight
+    Of my low monument?
+  I would the lovely scene around
+  Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
+
+  I know, I know I should not see
+    The season's glorious show,
+  Nor would its brightness shine for me;
+    Nor its wild music flow;
+
+  But if, around my place of sleep,
+  The friends I love should come to weep,
+    They might not haste to go.
+  Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
+  Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
+
+  These to their soften'd hearts should bear
+    The thought of what has been,
+  And speak of one who cannot share
+    The gladness of the scene;
+  Whose part in all the pomp that fills
+  The circuit of the summer hills,
+    Is--that his grave is green;
+  And deeply would their hearts rejoice
+  To hear again his living voice.
+
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+
+  I fill this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon;
+  To whom the better elements
+    And kindly stars have given
+  A form so fair, that like the air,
+    'Tis less of earth than heaven.
+
+  Her every tone is music's own,
+    Like those of morning birds,
+  And something more than melody
+    Dwells ever in her words;
+  The coinage of her heart are they,
+    And from her lips each flows
+  As one may see the burden'd bee
+    Forth issue from the rose.
+
+  Affections are as thoughts to her,
+    The measures of her hours;
+  Her feelings have the fragrancy,
+    The freshness of young flowers;
+  And lovely passions, changing oft,
+    So fill her, she appears
+  The image of themselves by turns,--
+    The idol of past years!
+
+  Of her bright face one glance will trace
+    A picture on the brain,
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain;
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When death is nigh my latest sigh
+    Will not be life's, but hers.
+
+  I fill'd this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon--
+  Her health! and would on earth there stood,
+    Some more of such a frame,
+  That life might be all poetry,
+    And weariness a name.
+
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
+especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
+refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
+hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
+
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
+of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
+Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
+once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
+book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
+replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
+Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
+the chaff_ for his reward.
+
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
+_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
+point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
+they are _not_ merits altogether.
+
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
+which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
+human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
+
+
+  Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
+  Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
+  Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
+  And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
+
+  Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
+  Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
+  I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
+  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
+
+  Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
+  And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
+  Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
+  And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
+
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
+greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
+In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
+profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
+lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
+composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
+
+One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+
+  O saw ye not fair Ines?
+    She's gone into the West,
+  To dazzle when the sun is down
+    And rob the world of rest
+  She took our daylight with her,
+    The smiles that we love best,
+  With morning blushes on her cheek,
+    And pearls upon her breast.
+
+  O turn again, fair Ines,
+    Before the fall of night,
+  For fear the moon should shine alone,
+    And stars unrivall'd bright;
+  And blessed will the lover be
+    That walks beneath their light,
+  And breathes the love against thy cheek
+    I dare not even write!
+
+  Would I had been, fair Ines,
+    That gallant cavalier,
+  Who rode so gaily by thy side,
+    And whisper'd thee so near!
+  Were there no bonny dames at home,
+    Or no true lovers here,
+  That he should cross the seas to win
+    The dearest of the dear?
+
+  I saw thee, lovely Ines,
+    Descend along the shore,
+  With bands of noble gentlemen,
+    And banners-waved before;
+  And gentle youth and maidens gay,
+    And snowy plumes they wore;
+  It would have been a beauteous dream,
+    If it had been no more!
+
+  Alas, alas, fair Ines,
+    She went away with song,
+  With Music waiting on her steps,
+    And shoutings of the throng;
+  But some were sad and felt no mirth,
+    But only Music's wrong,
+  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
+    To her you've loved so long.
+
+  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
+    That vessel never bore
+  So fair a lady on its deck,
+    Nor danced so light before,--
+  Alas for pleasure on the sea,
+    And sorrow on the shore!
+  The smile that blest one lover's heart
+    Has broken many more!
+
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+
+  One more Unfortunate,
+  Weary of breath,
+  Rashly importunate
+  Gone to her death!
+
+  Take her up tenderly,
+  Lift her with care;--
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young and so fair!
+
+  Look at her garments
+  Clinging like cerements;
+  Whilst the wave constantly
+  Drips from her clothing;
+  Take her up instantly,
+  Loving, not loathing.
+
+  Touch her not scornfully
+  Think of her mournfully,
+  Gently and humanly;
+  Not of the stains of her,
+  All that remains of her
+  Now is pure womanly.
+
+  Make no deep scrutiny
+  Into her mutiny
+  Rash and undutiful;
+  Past all dishonor,
+  Death has left on her
+  Only the beautiful.
+
+  Where the lamps quiver
+  So far in the river,
+  With many a light
+  From window and casement,
+  From garret to basement,
+  She stood, with amazement,
+  Houseless by night.
+
+  The bleak wind of March
+  Made her tremble and shiver;
+  But not the dark arch,
+  Or the black flowing river:
+  Mad from life's history,
+  Glad to death's mystery,
+  Swift to be hurl'd--
+  Anywhere, anywhere
+  Out of the world!
+
+  In she plunged boldly,
+  No matter how coldly
+  The rough river ran,--
+  Over the brink of it,
+  Picture it,--think of it,
+  Dissolute Man!
+  Lave in it, drink of it
+  Then, if you can!
+
+  Still, for all slips of hers,
+  One of Eve's family--
+  Wipe those poor lips of hers
+  Oozing so clammily,
+  Loop up her tresses
+  Escaped from the comb,
+  Her fair auburn tresses;
+  Whilst wonderment guesses
+  Where was her home?
+
+  Who was her father?
+  Who was her mother!
+  Had she a sister?
+  Had she a brother?
+  Or was there a dearer one
+  Still, and a nearer one
+  Yet, than all other?
+
+  Alas! for the rarity
+  Of Christian charity
+  Under the sun!
+  Oh! it was pitiful!
+  Near a whole city full,
+  Home she had none.
+
+  Sisterly, brotherly,
+  Fatherly, motherly,
+  Feelings had changed:
+  Love, by harsh evidence,
+  Thrown from its eminence;
+  Even God's providence
+  Seeming estranged.
+
+  Take her up tenderly;
+  Lift her with care;
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young, and so fair!
+  Ere her limbs frigidly
+  Stiffen too rigidly,
+  Decently,--kindly,--
+  Smooth and compose them;
+  And her eyes, close them,
+  Staring so blindly!
+
+  Dreadfully staring
+  Through muddy impurity,
+  As when with the daring
+  Last look of despairing
+  Fixed on futurity.
+
+  Perishing gloomily,
+  Spurred by contumely,
+  Cold inhumanity,
+  Burning insanity,
+  Into her rest,--
+  Cross her hands humbly,
+  As if praying dumbly,
+  Over her breast!
+  Owning her weakness,
+  Her evil behavior,
+  And leaving, with meekness,
+  Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.
+
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+
+  Though the day of my destiny's over,
+    And the star of my fate hath declined,
+  Thy soft heart refused to discover
+    The faults which so many could find;
+  Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
+    It shrunk not to share it with me,
+  And the love which my spirit hath painted
+    It never hath found but in _thee._
+
+  Then when nature around me is smiling,
+    The last smile which answers to mine,
+  I do not believe it beguiling,
+    Because it reminds me of thine;
+  And when winds are at war with the ocean,
+    As the breasts I believed in with me,
+  If their billows excite an emotion,
+    It is that they bear me from _thee._
+
+  Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
+    And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
+  Though I feel that my soul is delivered
+    To pain--it shall not be its slave.
+  There is many a pang to pursue me:
+    They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
+  They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
+    'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
+
+  Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
+    Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
+  Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
+    Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
+  Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
+    Though parted, it was not to fly,
+  Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
+    Nor mute, that the world might belie.
+
+  Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
+    Nor the war of the many with one--
+  If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
+    'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
+  And if dearly that error hath cost me,
+    And more than I once could foresee,
+  I have found that whatever it lost me,
+    It could not deprive me of _thee_.
+
+  From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
+    Thus much I at least may recall,
+  It hath taught me that which I most cherished
+    Deserved to be dearest of all:
+  In the desert a fountain is springing,
+    In the wide waste there still is a tree,
+  And a bird in the solitude singing,
+    Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
+
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.
+
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
+_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
+profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
+_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
+ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
+so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
+long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+
+    Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
+  Tears from the depth of some divine despair
+  Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
+  In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
+  And thinking of the days that are no more.
+
+    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
+  That brings our friends up from the underworld,
+  Sad as the last which reddens over one
+  That sinks with all we love below the verge;
+  So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
+
+    Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
+  The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
+  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
+  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
+  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
+
+    Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
+  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
+  On lips that are for others; deep as love,
+  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
+  O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
+quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
+Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
+regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
+Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her _love._
+
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+
+  A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
+    A sword of metal keene!
+  Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
+    Al else on earth is meane.
+  The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
+    The rowleing of the drum,
+  The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
+    Be soundes from heaven that come.
+  And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
+    When as their war-cryes welle,
+  May tole from heaven an angel bright,
+    And rowse a fiend from hell,
+
+  Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
+    And don your helmes amaine,
+  Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
+    Us to the field againe.
+  No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
+    When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
+  Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
+    For the fayrest of the land;
+  Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
+    Thus weepe and puling crye,
+  Our business is like men to fight,
+    And hero-like to die!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
+
+
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
+the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
+He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
+volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
+accounting for what had been done."
+
+I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
+least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
+plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_
+constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
+consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
+tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
+
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.
+
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
+originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
+dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
+interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.
+
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections
+and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
+
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
+
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
+the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
+part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
+put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
+design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
+referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.
+
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
+circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.
+
+We commence, then, with this intention.
+
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
+paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
+advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
+depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.
+
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
+limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
+its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
+other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
+capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
+ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
+proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
+the production of any effect at all.
+
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
+for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
+fact, a hundred and eight.
+
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
+--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
+Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
+object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
+to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
+Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
+truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
+to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
+elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
+that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
+introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
+general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
+artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
+subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
+far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
+of the poem.
+
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
+this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
+development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
+is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
+
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
+in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
+one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
+universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
+value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
+considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
+depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
+thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
+repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
+adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
+that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
+novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
+_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
+
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
+_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
+clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
+an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
+any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
+would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
+a single word as the best _refrain_.
+
+The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
+my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
+course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
+such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
+protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
+inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
+connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
+
+The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
+select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
+possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
+tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
+impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
+first which presented itself.
+
+The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
+word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
+inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
+I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
+pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
+spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
+the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
+exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
+then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
+of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
+suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
+capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
+_tone_.
+
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
+mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
+when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
+what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
+obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
+then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
+the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
+such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
+
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
+such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
+I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
+which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
+query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
+so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
+frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
+the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
+wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
+solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
+superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
+self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
+prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
+merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
+frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
+_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
+of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
+strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
+first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
+which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
+reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
+conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
+
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+
+  "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
+  By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
+
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
+stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
+verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.
+
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
+remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
+
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
+_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
+_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
+
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.
+
+The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
+the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
+idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
+flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
+the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
+curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
+the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
+adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
+knocked.
+
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.
+
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
+being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
+lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
+
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+
+  Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
+  _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
+
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
+  By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
+  "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
+      With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+
+The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the _dénouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+_directly_ as possible.
+
+With the _dénouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
+the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
+
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
+which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
+_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
+instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
+of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
+transcendentalists.
+
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+
+  "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
+              Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+
+
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
+
+
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
+love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
+sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
+which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
+with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
+merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
+admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
+would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
+wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
+being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
+would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
+handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
+ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
+desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
+sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
+error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
+supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
+and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
+two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
+artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
+poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
+channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
+what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
+which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
+not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
+multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
+but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
+was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
+this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
+volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
+again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
+good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
+as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
+in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
+(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
+
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
+to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
+successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
+of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
+their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
+us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
+opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
+Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
+untenable and absurd.
+
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.
+
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
+author says:
+
+
+  "By the murmur of a spring,
+  Or the least boughs rustleling,
+  By a daisy whose leaves spread,
+  Shut when Titan goes to bed,
+  Or a shady bush or tree,
+  She could more infuse in me
+  Than all Nature's beauties con
+  In some other wiser man.
+  By her help I also now
+  Make this churlish place allow
+  Something that may sweeten gladness
+  In the very gall of sadness--
+  The dull loneness, the black shade,
+  That these hanging vaults have made
+  The strange music of the waves
+  Beating on these hollow caves,
+  This black den which rocks emboss,
+  Overgrown with eldest moss,
+  The rude portals that give light
+  More to terror than delight,
+  This my chamber of neglect
+  Walled about with disrespect;
+  From all these and this dull air
+  A fit object for despair,
+  She hath taught me by her might
+  To draw comfort and delight."
+
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
+of its species:
+
+
+  "It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+  'Twas on those little silver feet,
+  With what a pretty skipping grace
+  It oft would challenge me the race,
+  And when't had left me far away
+  'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
+  For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+  And trod as if on the four winds.
+  I have a garden of my own,
+  But so with roses overgrown,
+  And lilies, that you would it guess
+  To be a little wilderness;
+  And all the spring-time of the year
+  It only loved to be there.
+  Among the beds of lilies I
+  Have sought it oft where it should lie,
+  Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+  Find it, although before mine eyes.
+  For in the flaxen lilies shade
+  It like a bank of lilies laid;
+  Upon the roses it would feed
+  Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
+  And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+  And print those roses on my lip,
+  But all its chief delight was still
+  With roses thus itself to fill,
+  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
+  Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
+fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+
+  "And trod as if on the four winds!"
+
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
+being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+
+  "And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
+
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+
+  "Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
+
+
+END OF TEXT
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10031 ***
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+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10031 ***</div>
+
+<h1>The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe</h1>
+
+<h4>edited by<br/>
+<br/>
+John H. Ingram</h4>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:55%;">
+<img src="images/PI1.gif" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" />
+</div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>Table of Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#introduction"><b>Preface</b></a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section1"><b>Memoir</b></a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2"><b>Poems of Later Life</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2a">Dedication</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2b">Preface</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2c">The Raven</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2d">The Bells</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2e">Ulalume</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2f">To Helen</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2g">Annabel Lee</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2h">A Valentine</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2i">An Enigma</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2j">To My Mother</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2k">For Annie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2l">To F&mdash;&mdash;</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2m">To Frances S. Osgood</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2n">Eldorado</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2o">Eulalie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2p">A Dream Within a Dream</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2q">To Marie Louise (Shew)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2r">To The Same</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2s">The City in the Sea</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2t">The Sleeper</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2u">Bridal Ballad</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2v">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3"><b>Poems of Manhood</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3a">Lenore</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3b">To One in Paradise</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3c">The Coliseum</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3d">The Haunted Palace</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3e">The Conqueror Worm</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3f">Silence</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3g">Dreamland</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3h">To Zante</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3i">Hymn</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3j">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section4"><b>Scenes from <i>Politian</i></b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section4a">Note</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5"><b>Poems of Youth</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5a">Introduction (1831)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5b">To Science</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5c">Al Aaraaf</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5d">Tamerlane</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5e">To Helen</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5f">The Valley of Unrest</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5g">Israfel</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5h">To &mdash;&mdash; ("I heed not that my earthly lot")</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5i">To &mdash;&mdash; ("The Bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5j">To the River</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5k">Song</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5l">Spirits of the Dead</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5m">A Dream</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5n">Romance</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5o">Fairyland</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5p">The Lake</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5q">Evening Star</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5r">Imitation</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5s">"The Happiest Day"</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5t">Hymn (Translation from the Greek)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5u">Dreams</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5v">"In Youth I have known one"</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5w">A Pæan</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5x">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6"><b>Doubtful Poems</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6a">Alone</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6b">To Isadore</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6c">The Village Street</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6d">The Forest Reverie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6e">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7"><b>Prose Poems</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7a">The Island of the Fay</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7b">The Power of Words</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7c">The Colloquy of Monos and Una</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7d">The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7e">Shadow&mdash;a Parable</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7f">Silence&mdash;a Fable</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8"><b>Essays</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8a">The Poetic Principle</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8b">The Philosophy of Composition</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8c">Old English Poetry</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<h2><a name="introduction">Preface</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been <i>verbatim</i> reprints of the first posthumous
+collection, published at New York in 1850.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>John H. Ingram.</b>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section1">Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of <i>William Wilson</i>,
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of <i>William Wilson</i>. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of <i>William Wilson</i>
+went through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of
+the author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness.
+His schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an
+"old, irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until
+its destruction a few years ago.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The <i>soi-disant</i> William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says, "The teeming brain of childhood requires no
+external world of incident to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the
+nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical
+half-holidays and perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its
+pastimes, its intrigues&mdash;these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were
+made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a universe
+of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring,
+<i>'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle de fer!'"</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats&mdash;accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+not been heard of, he was <i>facile princeps</i>,"
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+"a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+"A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+golden apples."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+among the first&mdash;not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+recitation:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce<br/>
+Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'
+</p>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+and
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+'Non ebur neque aureum<br/>
+Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,' etc.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride, &mdash;fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,&mdash;Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked,
+"Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+&mdash;to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+passionate youth."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Pæan," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter&mdash;a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of <i>his</i> dreams&mdash;the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and
+supernal loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean
+of <i>his</i> thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived
+with her father in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young
+people met again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed
+away, recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+"He entered the schools of ancient and
+modern languages, attending the lectures on Latin, Greek, French,
+Spanish, and Italian. I was a member of the last three classes," says
+Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently deceased librarian, "and can
+testify that he was tolerably regular in his attendance, and a
+successful student, having obtained distinction at the final examination
+in Latin and French, and this was at that time the highest honor a
+student could obtain. The present regulations in regard to degrees had
+not then been adopted. Under existing regulations, he would have
+graduated in the two languages above-named, and have been entitled to
+diplomas."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+"I was <i>acquainted</i>,
+with him, but that is about all. My impression was, and is, that no one
+could say that he <i>knew</i> him. He wore a melancholy face always, and
+even his smile&mdash;for I do not ever remember to have seen him laugh&mdash;
+seemed to be forced. When he engaged sometimes with others in athletic
+exercises, in which, so far as high or long jumping, I believe he
+excelled all the rest, Poe, with the same ever sad face, appeared to
+participate in what was amusement to the others more as a task than
+sport."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying <i>to divide his mind,</i> to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+"As
+librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was at or
+near the close of the session before I met him in the social circle.
+After spending an evening together at a private house he invited me, on
+our return, into his room. It was a cold night in December, and his fire
+having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of some tallow candles, and
+the fragments of a small table which he broke up for the purpose, he
+soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze I spent a very pleasant
+hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with regret of the large amount
+of money he had wasted, and of the debts he had contracted during the
+session. If my memory be not at fault, he estimated his indebtedness at
+$2,000 and, though they were gaming debts, he was earnest and emphatic
+in the declaration that he was bound by honor to pay them at the
+earliest opportunity."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his <i>alma mater</i> is now only too proud
+to enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his <i>protégé's</i> collegiate career with
+equal pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's
+scholastic successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling
+debts which, like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent
+altercation took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily
+quitted the shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,&mdash;that dream of all young authors,&mdash;is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i>, a moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe
+became first a paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the
+publication, which ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and
+profitable periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the
+brilliancy and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the <i>Messenger</i> began to attract attention
+and to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his
+editorial salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the <i>Messenger</i>, and moved with all his
+household goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that
+Poe was desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his
+employer, or of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his
+own labors procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small
+and irregular, his most important work having been a republication from
+the <i>Messenger</i> in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled
+<i>Arthur Gordon Pym</i>. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well
+as its other merits, excited public curiosity both in England and
+America; but Poe's remuneration does not appear to have been
+proportionate to its success, nor did he receive anything from the
+numerous European editions the work rapidly passed through.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for 1837 he had
+contributed a few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor
+to take up the editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of
+his own, and it was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one
+of his conditions for accepting the editorship of the <i>Gentleman's
+Magazine</i> was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe worked hard at the <i>Gentleman's</i> for some time, contributing to
+its columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as <i>Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques</i>, twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of <i>Graham's Magazine</i>. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+<i>Graham's Magazine</i> became a grand success. To its pages Poe
+contributed some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to
+the publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of <i>pabulum</i> put
+before it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+<i>Graham's</i>, attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series&mdash;<i>"une espèce de
+trilogie,"</i> as Baudelaire styles them&mdash;illustrative of an analytic
+phase of Poe's peculiar mind. This <i>trilogie</i> of tales, of which
+the later two were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie
+Roget," was avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the
+puzzling riddles of life by identifying another person's mind by our
+own. By trying to follow the processes by which a person would reason
+out a certain thing, Poe propounded the theory that another person might
+ultimately arrive, as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed,
+penetrate the innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret
+thoughts. Whilst the public was still pondering over the startling
+proposition, and enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still
+further increased his popularity and drew attention to his works by
+putting forward the attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human
+ingenuity could not construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not
+solve."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+<i>Graham's Magazine</i> and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+<i>Graham's</i> was small. He was not permitted to have undivided
+control, and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had
+rendered world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all
+his hopes, and caused him to resort to that refuge of the
+broken-hearted&mdash;to that drink which finally destroyed his prospects and
+his life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+"You say, 'Can you <i>hint</i>
+to me what was "that terrible evil" which caused the "irregularities" so
+profoundly lamented? Yes, I can do more than hint. This 'evil' was the
+greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife whom I loved as
+no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. Her life
+was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and underwent all the
+agonies of her death. She recovered partially, and I again hoped. At the
+end of a year, the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same
+scene.... Then again&mdash;again&mdash; and even once again at varying intervals.
+Each time I felt all the agonies of her death&mdash;and at each accession of
+the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more
+desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive&mdash;nervous in a
+very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible
+sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank&mdash;God only
+knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred
+the insanity to the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had,
+indeed, nearly abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one
+in the <i>death</i> of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a
+man. It was the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and
+despair which I could <i>not</i> longer have endured, without total loss
+of reason."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother&mdash;his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from
+<i>Graham's</i>, owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his
+fragile schemes of happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means
+melted away, and he became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to
+earn more. The terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved
+ones were reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from
+Mr. A. B. Harris's reminiscences.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+"It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while
+singing one evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she
+suffered a hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure,
+and needed the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment
+and surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she lay
+for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of her
+dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+"would steal out of the house at night, and go
+off and wander about the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing,
+not knowing which way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would
+endure the anxiety at home as long as she could, and then start off in
+search of him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to <i>Graham's
+Magazine,</i> the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to
+the end of his life, and also to some other leading publications of
+Philadelphia and New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P.
+Willis, of the latter city, he determined to once more wander back to
+it, as he found it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where
+he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the <i>Evening Mirror</i>. He was, says Willis,
+"employed
+by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He resided with his
+wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town, but was at his desk
+in the office from nine in the morning till the evening paper went to
+press. With the highest admiration for his genius, and a willingness to
+let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common
+report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
+occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on, however,
+and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his pale,
+beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what genius was in
+him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always with
+deferential courtesy.... With a prospect of taking the lead in another
+periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up his employment with us."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the <i>Evening Mirror</i>, his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was
+published. The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever
+since, has a single short poem produced such a great and immediate
+enthusiasm. It did more to render its author famous than all his other
+writings put together. It made him the literary lion of the season;
+called into existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various
+languages, and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was
+naturally delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from
+time to time read it in his musical manner in public halls or at
+literary receptions. Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of
+art only, and wrote his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition,"
+to prove that it was merely a mechanical production made in accordance
+with certain set rules.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe left the <i>Evening Mirror</i> in order to take part in the
+<i>Broadway Journal</i>, wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly
+the whole of his prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of
+this periodical, but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months
+of heartbreaking labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and
+mind, the unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her
+mother to a quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here
+after a time the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need,
+not even having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this
+dire moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of
+Poe himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless
+family.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm, &mdash;writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,&mdash;of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,&mdash;and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+"Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster<br/>
+Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore&mdash;<br/>
+Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore<br/>
+Of 'Never&mdash;nevermore.'"
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+<b>John H. Ingram.</b>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2">Poems of Later Life</a></h3>
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
+<a name="section2a"></a>
+<img src="images/PI2.gif" width="503" height="367" alt="[Illustration]" />
+</div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2b"></a>Preface</h3>
+
+<p>
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not&mdash;they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.<br/>
+<br/>
+1845. E. A. P.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2c"></a>The Raven</h3>
+
+<p>
+Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,<br/>
+Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore&mdash;<br/>
+While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br/>
+As of some one gently rapping&mdash;rapping at my chamber door.<br/>
+"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Only this and nothing more."<br/><br/>
+
+Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,<br/>
+And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.<br/>
+Eagerly I wished the morrow;&mdash;vainly I had sought to borrow<br/>
+From my books surcease of sorrow&mdash;sorrow for the lost Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+Nameless here for evermore.<br/><br/>
+
+And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain<br/>
+Thrilled me&mdash;filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;<br/>
+So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating<br/>
+"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;&mdash;<br/>
+This it is and nothing more."<br/><br/>
+
+Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,<br/>
+"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;<br/>
+But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,<br/>
+And so faintly you came tapping&mdash;tapping at my chamber door,<br/>
+That I scarce was sure I heard you"&mdash;here I opened wide the door:&mdash;<br/>
+Darkness there and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,<br/>
+Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;<br/>
+But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,<br/>
+And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"<br/>
+This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"<br/>
+Merely this and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,<br/>
+Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.<br/>
+"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;<br/>
+Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore&mdash;<br/>
+Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis the wind and nothing more."<br/>
+<br/>
+Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,<br/>
+In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;<br/>
+Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;<br/>
+But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-<br/>
+Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Perched, and sat, and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,<br/>
+By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,<br/>
+"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,<br/>
+Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,<br/>
+Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;<br/>
+For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br/>
+Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,<br/>
+With such name as "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only<br/>
+That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.<br/>
+Nothing further then he uttered&mdash;not a feather then he fluttered&mdash;<br/>
+Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before&mdash;<br/>
+On the morrow <i>he</i> will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."<br/>
+Then the bird said, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,<br/>
+"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,<br/>
+Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster<br/>
+Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore&mdash;<br/>
+Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore<br/>
+Of 'Never&mdash;nevermore.'"<br/>
+<br/>
+But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,<br/>
+Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;<br/>
+Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking<br/>
+Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore&mdash;<br/>
+What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore<br/>
+Meant in croaking "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing<br/>
+To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;<br/>
+This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining<br/>
+On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,<br/>
+But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,<br/>
+<i>She</i> shall press, ah, nevermore!<br/>
+<br/>
+Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer<br/>
+Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.<br/>
+"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee&mdash;by these angels he hath sent thee<br/>
+Respite&mdash;respite and nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!<br/>
+Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, and forget this lost Lenore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!&mdash;<br/>
+Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,<br/>
+Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted&mdash;<br/>
+On this home by Horror haunted&mdash;tell me truly, I implore&mdash;<br/>
+Is there&mdash;<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?&mdash;tell me&mdash;tell me, I implore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!<br/>
+By that Heaven that bends above us &mdash; by that God we both adore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,<br/>
+It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore &mdash;<br/>
+Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting&mdash;<br/>
+"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!<br/>
+Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!<br/>
+Leave my loneliness unbroken!&mdash;quit the bust above my door!<br/>
+Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting<br/>
+On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;<br/>
+And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br/>
+And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br/>
+And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor<br/>
+Shall be lifted&mdash;nevermore!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Published, 1845.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2d"></a>The Bells</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Bells" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the sledges with the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Silver bells!<br/>
+What a world of merriment their melody foretells!<br/>
+How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,<br/>
+In their icy air of night!<br/>
+While the stars, that oversprinkle<br/>
+All the heavens, seem to twinkle<br/>
+With a crystalline delight;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells<br/>
+From the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the mellow wedding bells,<br/>
+Golden bells!<br/>
+What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!<br/>
+Through the balmy air of night<br/>
+How they ring out their delight!<br/>
+From the molten golden-notes,<br/>
+And all in tune,<br/>
+What a liquid ditty floats<br/>
+To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats<br/>
+On the moon!<br/>
+Oh, from out the sounding cells,<br/>
+What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!<br/>
+How it swells!<br/>
+How it dwells<br/>
+On the future! how it tells<br/>
+Of the rapture that impels<br/>
+To the swinging and the ringing<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the loud alarum bells&mdash;<br/>
+Brazen bells!<br/>
+What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!<br/>
+In the startled ear of night<br/>
+How they scream out their affright!<br/>
+Too much horrified to speak,<br/>
+They can only shriek, shriek,<br/>
+Out of tune,<br/>
+In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,<br/>
+In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire<br/>
+Leaping higher, higher, higher,<br/>
+With a desperate desire,<br/>
+And a resolute endeavor<br/>
+Now&mdash;now to sit or never,<br/>
+By the side of the pale-faced moon.<br/>
+Oh, the bells, bells, bells!<br/>
+What a tale their terror tells<br/>
+Of Despair!<br/>
+How they clang, and clash, and roar!<br/>
+What a horror they outpour<br/>
+On the bosom of the palpitating air!<br/>
+Yet the ear it fully knows,<br/>
+By the twanging,<br/>
+And the clanging,<br/>
+How the danger ebbs and flows;<br/>
+Yet the ear distinctly tells,<br/>
+In the jangling,<br/>
+And the wrangling,<br/>
+How the danger sinks and swells,<br/>
+By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the tolling of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Iron bells!<br/>
+What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!<br/>
+In the silence of the night,<br/>
+How we shiver with affright<br/>
+At the melancholy menace of their tone!<br/>
+For every sound that floats<br/>
+From the rust within their throats<br/>
+Is a groan.<br/>
+And the people&mdash;ah, the people&mdash;<br/>
+They that dwell up in the steeple.<br/>
+All alone,<br/>
+And who tolling, tolling, tolling,<br/>
+In that muffled monotone,<br/>
+Feel a glory in so rolling<br/>
+On the human heart a stone&mdash;<br/>
+They are neither man nor woman&mdash;<br/>
+They are neither brute nor human &mdash;<br/>
+They are Ghouls:<br/>
+And their king it is who tolls;<br/>
+And he rolls, rolls, rolls,<br/>
+Rolls<br/>
+A pæan from the bells!<br/>
+And his merry bosom swells<br/>
+With the pæan of the bells!<br/>
+And he dances, and he yells;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the pæan of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells:<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the throbbing of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells &mdash;<br/>
+To the sobbing of the bells;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+As he knells, knells, knells,<br/>
+In a happy Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the rolling of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells-<br/>
+To the tolling of the bells,<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells &mdash;<br/>
+To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2e"></a>Ulalume</h3>
+
+<p>
+The skies they were ashen and sober;<br/>
+The leaves they were crisped and sere&mdash;<br/>
+The leaves they were withering and sere;<br/>
+It was night in the lonesome October<br/>
+Of my most immemorial year;<br/>
+It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,<br/>
+In the misty mid region of Weir&mdash;<br/>
+It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,<br/>
+In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.<br/><br/>
+
+Here once, through an alley Titanic.<br/>
+Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul&mdash;<br/>
+Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.<br/>
+These were days when my heart was volcanic<br/>
+As the scoriac rivers that roll&mdash;<br/>
+As the lavas that restlessly roll<br/>
+Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek<br/>
+In the ultimate climes of the pole&mdash;<br/>
+That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek<br/>
+In the realms of the boreal pole.<br/><br/>
+
+Our talk had been serious and sober,<br/>
+But our thoughts they were palsied and sere&mdash;<br/>
+Our memories were treacherous and sere&mdash;<br/>
+For we knew not the month was October,<br/>
+And we marked not the night of the year&mdash;<br/>
+(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)<br/>
+We noted not the dim lake of Auber&mdash;<br/>
+(Though once we had journeyed down here)&mdash;<br/>
+Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,<br/>
+Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.<br/><br/>
+
+And now as the night was senescent<br/>
+And star-dials pointed to morn&mdash;<br/>
+As the sun-dials hinted of morn&mdash;<br/>
+At the end of our path a liquescent<br/>
+And nebulous lustre was born,<br/>
+Out of which a miraculous crescent<br/>
+Arose with a duplicate horn&mdash;<br/>
+Astarte's bediamonded crescent<br/>
+Distinct with its duplicate horn.<br/><br/>
+
+And I said&mdash;"She is warmer than Dian:<br/>
+She rolls through an ether of sighs&mdash;<br/>
+She revels in a region of sighs:<br/>
+She has seen that the tears are not dry on<br/>
+These cheeks, where the worm never dies,<br/>
+And has come past the stars of the Lion<br/>
+To point us the path to the skies&mdash;<br/>
+To the Lethean peace of the skies&mdash;<br/>
+Come up, in despite of the Lion,<br/>
+To shine on us with her bright eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Come up through the lair of the Lion,<br/>
+With love in her luminous eyes."<br/><br/>
+
+But Psyche, uplifting her finger,<br/>
+Said&mdash;"Sadly this star I mistrust&mdash;<br/>
+Her pallor I strangely mistrust:&mdash;<br/>
+Oh, hasten!&mdash;oh, let us not linger!<br/>
+Oh, fly!&mdash;let us fly!&mdash;for we must."<br/>
+In terror she spoke, letting sink her<br/>
+Wings till they trailed in the dust&mdash;<br/>
+In agony sobbed, letting sink her<br/>
+Plumes till they trailed in the dust&mdash;<br/>
+Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.<br/><br/>
+
+I replied&mdash;"This is nothing but dreaming:<br/>
+Let us on by this tremulous light!<br/>
+Let us bathe in this crystalline light!<br/>
+Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming<br/>
+With Hope and in Beauty to-night:&mdash;<br/>
+See!&mdash;it flickers up the sky through the night!<br/>
+Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,<br/>
+And be sure it will lead us aright&mdash;<br/>
+We safely may trust to a gleaming<br/>
+That cannot but guide us aright,<br/>
+Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."<br/><br/>
+
+Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,<br/>
+And tempted her out of her gloom&mdash;<br/>
+And conquered her scruples and gloom;<br/>
+And we passed to the end of a vista,<br/>
+But were stopped by the door of a tomb&mdash;<br/>
+By the door of a legended tomb;<br/>
+And I said&mdash;"What is written, sweet sister,<br/>
+On the door of this legended tomb?"<br/>
+She replied&mdash;"Ulalume&mdash;Ulalume&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"<br/><br/>
+
+Then my heart it grew ashen and sober<br/>
+As the leaves that were crisped and sere&mdash;<br/>
+As the leaves that were withering and sere;<br/>
+And I cried&mdash;"It was surely October<br/>
+On <i>this</i> very night of last year<br/>
+That I journeyed&mdash;I journeyed down here&mdash;<br/>
+That I brought a dread burden down here!<br/>
+On this night of all nights in the year,<br/>
+Ah, what demon has tempted me here?<br/>
+Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber&mdash;<br/>
+This misty mid region of Weir&mdash;<br/>
+Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,&mdash;<br/>
+This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."<br/><br/>
+
+1847<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2f"></a>To Helen</h3>
+
+<p>
+I saw thee once&mdash;once only&mdash;years ago:<br/>
+I must not say <i>how</i> many&mdash;but <i>not</i> many.<br/>
+It was a July midnight; and from out<br/>
+A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,<br/>
+Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,<br/>
+There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,<br/>
+With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,<br/>
+Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand<br/>
+Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,<br/>
+Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe&mdash;<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses<br/>
+That gave out, in return for the love-light,<br/>
+Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death&mdash;<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses<br/>
+That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted<br/>
+By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.<br/><br/>
+
+Clad all in white, upon a violet bank<br/>
+I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,<br/>
+And on thine own, upturn'd&mdash;alas, in sorrow!<br/><br/>
+
+Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight&mdash;<br/>
+Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),<br/>
+That bade me pause before that garden-gate,<br/>
+To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?<br/>
+No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,<br/>
+Save only thee and me&mdash;(O Heaven!&mdash;O God!<br/>
+How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)&mdash;<br/>
+Save only thee and me. I paused&mdash;I looked&mdash;<br/>
+And in an instant all things disappeared.<br/>
+(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)<br/>
+The pearly lustre of the moon went out:<br/>
+The mossy banks and the meandering paths,<br/>
+The happy flowers and the repining trees,<br/>
+Were seen no more: the very roses' odors<br/>
+Died in the arms of the adoring airs.<br/>
+All&mdash;all expired save thee&mdash;save less than thou:<br/>
+Save only the divine light in thine eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.<br/>
+I saw but them&mdash;they were the world to me.<br/>
+I saw but them&mdash;saw only them for hours&mdash;<br/>
+Saw only them until the moon went down.<br/>
+What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten<br/>
+Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!<br/>
+How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!<br/>
+How silently serene a sea of pride!<br/>
+How daring an ambition! yet how deep&mdash;<br/>
+How fathomless a capacity for love!<br/><br/>
+
+But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,<br/>
+Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;<br/>
+And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees<br/>
+Didst glide away. <i>Only thine eyes remained.</i><br/>
+They <i>would not</i> go&mdash;they never yet have gone.<br/>
+Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,<br/>
+<i>They</i> have not left me (as my hopes have) since.<br/>
+They follow me&mdash;they lead me through the years.<br/><br/>
+
+They are my ministers&mdash;yet I their slave.<br/>
+Their office is to illumine and enkindle&mdash;<br/>
+My duty, <i>to be saved</i> by their bright light,<br/>
+And purified in their electric fire,<br/>
+And sanctified in their elysian fire.<br/>
+They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),<br/>
+And are far up in Heaven&mdash;the stars I kneel to<br/>
+In the sad, silent watches of my night;<br/>
+While even in the meridian glare of day<br/>
+I see them still&mdash;two sweetly scintillant<br/>
+Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1846<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2f">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2g"></a>Annabel Lee</h3>
+
+<p>
+It was many and many a year ago,<br/>
+In a kingdom by the sea,<br/>
+That a maiden there lived whom you may know<br/>
+By the name of <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br/>
+Than to love and be loved by me.<br/><br/>
+
+<i>I</i> was a child and <i>she</i> was a child,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea:<br/>
+But we loved with a love that was more than love&mdash;<br/>
+I and my <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven<br/>
+Coveted her and me.<br/><br/>
+
+And this was the reason that, long ago,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea,<br/>
+A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling<br/>
+My beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+So that her highborn kinsmen came<br/>
+And bore her away from me,<br/>
+To shut her up in a sepulchre<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea.<br/><br/>
+
+The angels, not half so happy in heaven,<br/>
+Went envying her and me&mdash;<br/>
+Yes!&mdash;that was the reason (as all men know,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea)<br/>
+That the wind came out of the cloud by night,<br/>
+Chilling and killing my <b>Annabel Lee</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br/>
+Of those who were older than we&mdash;<br/>
+Of many far wiser than we&mdash;<br/>
+And neither the angels in heaven above,<br/>
+Nor the demons down under the sea,<br/>
+Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side<br/>
+Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,<br/>
+In her sepulchre there by the sea&mdash;<br/>
+In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2g">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2h"></a>A Valentine</h3>
+
+<p>
+For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,<br/>
+Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,<br/>
+Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies<br/>
+Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.<br/>
+Search narrowly the lines!&mdash;they hold a treasure<br/>
+Divine&mdash;a talisman&mdash;an amulet<br/>
+That must be worn <i>at heart</i>. Search well the measure&mdash;<br/>
+The words&mdash;the syllables! Do not forget<br/>
+The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!<br/>
+And yet there is in this no Gordian knot<br/>
+Which one might not undo without a sabre,<br/>
+If one could merely comprehend the plot.<br/>
+Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering<br/>
+Eyes scintillating soul, there lie <i>perdus</i><br/>
+Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing<br/>
+Of poets by poets&mdash;as the name is a poet's, too.<br/>
+Its letters, although naturally lying<br/>
+Like the knight Pinto&mdash;Mendez Ferdinando&mdash;<br/>
+Still form a synonym for Truth&mdash;Cease trying!<br/>
+You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you <i>can</i> do.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1846<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>{To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.} </i><br/>
+<a href="#note2h">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2i"></a>An Enigma</h3>
+
+<p>
+"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,<br/>
+"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.<br/>
+Through all the flimsy things we see at once<br/>
+As easily as through a Naples bonnet&mdash;<br/>
+Trash of all trash!&mdash;how <i>can</i> a lady don it?<br/>
+Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff&mdash;<br/>
+Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff<br/>
+Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."<br/>
+And, veritably, Sol is right enough.<br/>
+The general tuckermanities are arrant<br/>
+Bubbles&mdash;ephemeral and <i>so</i> transparent&mdash;<br/>
+But <i>this is</i>, now&mdash;you may depend upon it&mdash;<br/>
+Stable, opaque, immortal&mdash;all by dint<br/>
+Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>{See comment after previous poem.}</i><br/>
+<a href="#note2i">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2j"></a>To My Mother</h3>
+
+<p>
+Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,<br/>
+The angels, whispering to one another,<br/>
+Can find, among their burning terms of love,<br/>
+None so devotional as that of "Mother,"<br/>
+Therefore by that dear name I long have called you&mdash;<br/>
+You who are more than mother unto me,<br/>
+And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,<br/>
+In setting my Virginia's spirit free.<br/>
+My mother&mdash;my own mother, who died early,<br/>
+Was but the mother of myself; but you<br/>
+Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,<br/>
+And thus are dearer than the mother I knew<br/>
+By that infinity with which my wife<br/>
+Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>{The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.&mdash;Ed.}</i><br/>
+<a href="#note2j">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2k"></a>For Annie</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thank Heaven! the crisis&mdash;<br/>
+The danger is past,<br/>
+And the lingering illness<br/>
+Is over at last&mdash;<br/>
+And the fever called "Living"<br/>
+Is conquered at last.<br/><br/>
+
+Sadly, I know,<br/>
+I am shorn of my strength,<br/>
+And no muscle I move<br/>
+As I lie at full length&mdash;<br/>
+But no matter!&mdash;I feel<br/>
+I am better at length.<br/><br/>
+
+And I rest so composedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed,<br/>
+That any beholder<br/>
+Might fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+Might start at beholding me<br/>
+Thinking me dead.<br/><br/>
+
+The moaning and groaning,<br/>
+The sighing and sobbing,<br/>
+Are quieted now,<br/>
+With that horrible throbbing<br/>
+At heart:&mdash;ah, that horrible,<br/>
+Horrible throbbing!<br/><br/>
+
+The sickness&mdash;the nausea&mdash;<br/>
+The pitiless pain&mdash;<br/>
+Have ceased, with the fever<br/>
+That maddened my brain&mdash;<br/>
+With the fever called "Living"<br/>
+That burned in my brain.<br/><br/>
+
+And oh! of all tortures<br/>
+<i>That</i> torture the worst<br/>
+Has abated&mdash;the terrible<br/>
+Torture of thirst,<br/>
+For the naphthaline river<br/>
+Of Passion accurst:&mdash;<br/>
+I have drank of a water<br/>
+That quenches all thirst:&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Of a water that flows,<br/>
+With a lullaby sound,<br/>
+From a spring but a very few<br/>
+Feet under ground&mdash;<br/>
+From a cavern not very far<br/>
+Down under ground.<br/><br/>
+
+And ah! let it never<br/>
+Be foolishly said<br/>
+That my room it is gloomy<br/>
+And narrow my bed&mdash;<br/>
+For man never slept<br/>
+In a different bed;<br/>
+And, to <i>sleep</i>, you must slumber<br/>
+In just such a bed.<br/><br/>
+
+My tantalized spirit<br/>
+Here blandly reposes,<br/>
+Forgetting, or never<br/>
+Regretting its roses&mdash;<br/>
+Its old agitations<br/>
+Of myrtles and roses:<br/><br/>
+
+For now, while so quietly<br/>
+Lying, it fancies<br/>
+A holier odor<br/>
+About it, of pansies&mdash;<br/>
+A rosemary odor,<br/>
+Commingled with pansies&mdash;<br/>
+With rue and the beautiful<br/>
+Puritan pansies.<br/><br/>
+
+And so it lies happily,<br/>
+Bathing in many<br/>
+A dream of the truth<br/>
+And the beauty of Annie&mdash;<br/>
+Drowned in a bath<br/>
+Of the tresses of Annie.<br/><br/>
+
+She tenderly kissed me,<br/>
+She fondly caressed,<br/>
+And then I fell gently<br/>
+To sleep on her breast&mdash;<br/>
+Deeply to sleep<br/>
+From the heaven of her breast.<br/><br/>
+
+When the light was extinguished,<br/>
+She covered me warm,<br/>
+And she prayed to the angels<br/>
+To keep me from harm&mdash;<br/>
+To the queen of the angels<br/>
+To shield me from harm.<br/><br/>
+
+And I lie so composedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed<br/>
+(Knowing her love)<br/>
+That you fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+And I rest so contentedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed,<br/>
+(With her love at my breast)<br/>
+That you fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+That you shudder to look at me.<br/>
+Thinking me dead.<br/><br/>
+
+But my heart it is brighter<br/>
+Than all of the many<br/>
+Stars in the sky,<br/>
+For it sparkles with Annie&mdash;<br/>
+It glows with the light<br/>
+Of the love of my Annie&mdash;<br/>
+With the thought of the light<br/>
+Of the eyes of my Annie.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2k">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2l"></a>To F&mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+Beloved! amid the earnest woes<br/>
+That crowd around my earthly path&mdash;<br/>
+(Drear path, alas! where grows<br/>
+Not even one lonely rose)&mdash;<br/>
+My soul at least a solace hath<br/>
+In dreams of thee, and therein knows<br/>
+An Eden of bland repose.<br/><br/>
+
+And thus thy memory is to me<br/>
+Like some enchanted far-off isle<br/>
+In some tumultuous sea&mdash;<br/>
+Some ocean throbbing far and free<br/>
+With storm&mdash;but where meanwhile<br/>
+Serenest skies continually<br/>
+Just o'er that one bright inland smile.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2l">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2m"></a>To Frances S. Osgood</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thou wouldst be loved?&mdash;then let thy heart<br/>
+From its present pathway part not;<br/>
+Being everything which now thou art,<br/>
+Be nothing which thou art not.<br/>
+So with the world thy gentle ways,<br/>
+Thy grace, thy more than beauty,<br/>
+Shall be an endless theme of praise.<br/>
+And love a simple duty.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2m">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2n"></a>Eldorado</h3>
+
+<p>
+Gaily bedight,<br/>
+A gallant knight,<br/>
+In sunshine and in shadow,<br/>
+Had journeyed long,<br/>
+Singing a song,<br/>
+In search of Eldorado.<br/>
+But he grew old&mdash;<br/>
+This knight so bold&mdash;<br/>
+And o'er his heart a shadow<br/>
+Fell as he found<br/>
+No spot of ground<br/>
+That looked like Eldorado.<br/><br/>
+
+And, as his strength<br/>
+Failed him at length,<br/>
+He met a pilgrim shadow&mdash;<br/>
+"Shadow," said he,<br/>
+"Where can it be&mdash;<br/>
+This land of Eldorado?"<br/><br/>
+
+"Over the Mountains<br/>
+Of the Moon,<br/>
+Down the Valley of the Shadow,<br/>
+Ride, boldly ride,"<br/>
+The shade replied,<br/>
+"If you seek for Eldorado!"<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2n">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2o"></a>Eulalie</h3>
+
+<table summary="Eulalie" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td align="center">             I dwelt alone<br/>
+In a world of moan,<br/>
+And my soul was a stagnant tide,<br/>
+Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride&mdash;<br/>
+Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.<br/>
+Ah, less&mdash;less bright<br/>
+The stars of the night<br/>
+Than the eyes of the radiant girl!<br/>
+And never a flake<br/>
+That the vapor can make<br/>
+With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,<br/>
+Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl&mdash;<br/>
+Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.<br/>
+Now Doubt&mdash;now Pain<br/>
+Come never again,<br/>
+For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,<br/>
+And all day long<br/>
+Shines, bright and strong,<br/>
+Astarté within the sky,<br/>
+While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye&mdash;<br/>
+While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2o">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2p"></a>A Dream within a Dream</h3>
+
+<p>
+Take this kiss upon the brow!<br/>
+And, in parting from you now,<br/>
+Thus much let me avow&mdash;<br/>
+You are not wrong, who deem<br/>
+That my days have been a dream:<br/>
+Yet if hope has flown away<br/>
+In a night, or in a day,<br/>
+In a vision or in none,<br/>
+Is it therefore the less <i>gone</i>?<br/>
+<i>All</i> that we see or seem<br/>
+Is but a dream within a dream.<br/><br/>
+
+I stand amid the roar<br/>
+Of a surf-tormented shore,<br/>
+And I hold within my hand<br/>
+Grains of the golden sand&mdash;<br/>
+How few! yet how they creep<br/>
+Through my fingers to the deep<br/>
+While I weep&mdash;while I weep!<br/>
+O God! can I not grasp<br/>
+Them with a tighter clasp?<br/>
+O God! can I not save<br/>
+<i>One</i> from the pitiless wave?<br/>
+Is <i>all</i> that we see or seem<br/>
+But a dream within a dream?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2p">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2q"></a>Marie Louise (Shew)</h3>
+
+<p>
+Of all who hail thy presence as the morning&mdash;<br/>
+Of all to whom thine absence is the night&mdash;<br/>
+The blotting utterly from out high heaven<br/>
+The sacred sun&mdash;of all who, weeping, bless thee<br/>
+Hourly for hope&mdash;for life&mdash;ah, above all,<br/>
+For the resurrection of deep buried faith<br/>
+In truth, in virtue, in humanity&mdash;<br/>
+Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed<br/>
+Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen<br/>
+At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"<br/>
+At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled<br/>
+In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude<br/>
+Nearest resembles worship,&mdash;oh, remember<br/>
+The truest, the most fervently devoted,<br/>
+And think that these weak lines are written by him&mdash;<br/>
+By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think<br/>
+His spirit is communing with an angel's.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1847<br/>
+<a href="#note2q">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2r"></a>(2) To Marie Louise (Shew) </h3>
+
+<p>
+Not long ago, the writer of these lines,<br/>
+In the mad pride of intellectuality,<br/>
+Maintained "the power of words"&mdash;denied that ever<br/>
+A thought arose within the human brain<br/>
+Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:<br/>
+And now, as if in mockery of that boast,<br/>
+Two words&mdash;two foreign soft dissyllables&mdash;<br/>
+Italian tones, made only to be murmured<br/>
+By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew<br/>
+That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"&mdash;<br/>
+Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,<br/>
+Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,<br/>
+Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions<br/>
+Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,<br/>
+(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")<br/>
+Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.<br/>
+The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.<br/>
+With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,<br/>
+I cannot write&mdash;I cannot speak or think&mdash;<br/>
+Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,<br/>
+This standing motionless upon the golden<br/>
+Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,<br/>
+Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,<br/>
+And thrilling as I see, upon the right,<br/>
+Upon the left, and all the way along,<br/>
+Amid empurpled vapors, far away<br/>
+To where the prospect terminates&mdash;<i>thee only!</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2r">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2s"></a>The City in the Sea</h3>
+
+<p>
+Lo! Death has reared himself a throne<br/>
+In a strange city lying alone<br/>
+Far down within the dim West,<br/>
+Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best<br/>
+Have gone to their eternal rest.<br/>
+There shrines and palaces and towers<br/>
+(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)<br/>
+Resemble nothing that is ours.<br/>
+Around, by lifting winds forgot,<br/>
+Resignedly beneath the sky<br/>
+The melancholy waters lie.    <br/><br/>
+
+No rays from the holy Heaven come down<br/>
+On the long night-time of that town;<br/>
+But light from out the lurid sea<br/>
+Streams up the turrets silently&mdash;<br/>
+Gleams up the pinnacles far and free&mdash;<br/>
+Up domes&mdash;up spires&mdash;up kingly halls&mdash;<br/>
+Up fanes&mdash;up Babylon-like walls&mdash;<br/>
+Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers<br/>
+Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers&mdash;<br/>
+Up many and many a marvellous shrine<br/>
+Whose wreathed friezes intertwine<br/>
+The viol, the violet, and the vine.<br/><br/>
+
+Resignedly beneath the sky<br/>
+The melancholy waters lie.<br/>
+So blend the turrets and shadows there<br/>
+That all seem pendulous in air,<br/>
+While from a proud tower in the town<br/>
+Death looks gigantically down.<br/><br/>
+
+There open fanes and gaping graves<br/>
+Yawn level with the luminous waves;<br/>
+But not the riches there that lie<br/>
+In each idol's diamond eye&mdash;<br/>
+Not the gaily-jewelled dead<br/>
+Tempt the waters from their bed;<br/>
+For no ripples curl, alas!<br/>
+Along that wilderness of glass&mdash;<br/>
+No swellings tell that winds may be<br/>
+Upon some far-off happier sea&mdash;<br/>
+No heavings hint that winds have been<br/>
+On seas less hideously serene. <br/><br/>
+
+But lo, a stir is in the air!<br/>
+The wave&mdash;there is a movement there!<br/>
+As if the towers had thrust aside,<br/>
+In slightly sinking, the dull tide&mdash;<br/>
+As if their tops had feebly given<br/>
+A void within the filmy Heaven.<br/>
+The waves have now a redder glow&mdash;<br/>
+The hours are breathing faint and low&mdash;<br/>
+And when, amid no earthly moans,<br/>
+Down, down that town shall settle hence,<br/>
+Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,<br/>
+Shall do it reverence.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1835?<br/>
+<a href="#note2s">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2t"></a>The Sleeper</h3>
+
+<p>
+At midnight, in the month of June,<br/>
+I stand beneath the mystic moon.<br/>
+An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,<br/>
+Exhales from out her golden rim,<br/>
+And, softly dripping, drop by drop,<br/>
+Upon the quiet mountain top,<br/>
+Steals drowsily and musically<br/>
+Into the universal valley.<br/>
+The rosemary nods upon the grave;<br/>
+The lily lolls upon the wave;<br/>
+Wrapping the fog about its breast,<br/>
+The ruin moulders into rest;<br/>
+Looking like Lethe, see! the lake<br/>
+A conscious slumber seems to take,<br/>
+And would not, for the world, awake.<br/>
+All Beauty sleeps!&mdash;and lo! where lies<br/>
+(Her casement open to the skies)<br/>
+Irene, with her Destinies!<br/><br/>
+
+Oh, lady bright! can it be right&mdash;<br/>
+This window open to the night!<br/>
+The wanton airs, from the tree-top,<br/>
+Laughingly through the lattice-drop&mdash;<br/>
+The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,<br/>
+Flit through thy chamber in and out,<br/>
+And wave the curtain canopy<br/>
+So fitfully&mdash;so fearfully&mdash;<br/>
+Above the closed and fringed lid<br/>
+'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,<br/>
+That, o'er the floor and down the wall,<br/>
+Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!<br/>
+Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?<br/>
+Why and what art thou dreaming here?<br/>
+Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,<br/>
+A wonder to these garden trees!<br/>
+Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!<br/>
+Strange, above all, thy length of tress,<br/>
+And this all-solemn silentness!<br/><br/>
+
+The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep<br/>
+Which is enduring, so be deep!<br/>
+Heaven have her in its sacred keep!<br/>
+This chamber changed for one more holy,<br/>
+This bed for one more melancholy,<br/>
+I pray to God that she may lie<br/>
+For ever with unopened eye,<br/>
+While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!<br/><br/>
+
+My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,<br/>
+As it is lasting, so be deep;<br/>
+Soft may the worms about her creep!<br/>
+Far in the forest, dim and old,<br/>
+For her may some tall vault unfold&mdash;<br/>
+Some vault that oft hath flung its black<br/>
+And winged panels fluttering back,<br/>
+Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,<br/>
+Of her grand family funerals&mdash;<br/>
+Some sepulchre, remote, alone,<br/>
+Against whose portal she hath thrown,<br/>
+In childhood many an idle stone&mdash;<br/>
+Some tomb from out whose sounding door<br/>
+She ne'er shall force an echo more,<br/>
+Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!<br/>
+It was the dead who groaned within.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2t">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2u"></a>Bridal Ballad</h3>
+
+<p>
+The ring is on my hand,<br/>
+And the wreath is on my brow;<br/>
+Satins and jewels grand<br/>
+Are all at my command.<br/>
+And I am happy now.<br/><br/>
+
+And my lord he loves me well;<br/>
+But, when first he breathed his vow,<br/>
+I felt my bosom swell&mdash;<br/>
+For the words rang as a knell,<br/>
+And the voice seemed <i>his</i> who fell<br/>
+In the battle down the dell,<br/>
+And who is happy now.<br/><br/>
+
+But he spoke to reassure me,<br/>
+And he kissed my pallid brow,<br/>
+While a reverie came o'er me,<br/>
+And to the churchyard bore me,<br/>
+And I sighed to him before me,<br/>
+Thinking him dead D'Elormie,<br/>
+"Oh, I am happy now!"<br/><br/>
+
+And thus the words were spoken,<br/>
+And thus the plighted vow,<br/>
+And, though my faith be broken,<br/>
+And, though my heart be broken,<br/>
+Behold the golden keys<br/>
+That <i>proves</i> me happy now!<br/><br/>
+
+Would to God I could awaken<br/>
+For I dream I know not how,<br/>
+And my soul is sorely shaken<br/>
+Lest an evil step be taken,&mdash;<br/>
+Lest the dead who is forsaken<br/>
+May not be happy now.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2u">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section2v"></a>Notes</h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note2c"></a>Note on <i>The Raven</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York <i>Evening Mirror</i>&mdash;a paper its author was then assistant editor
+of. It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been
+written by N. P. Willis:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+number of the <i>American Review</i>, the following remarkable poem by
+Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it." 
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the February number of the <i>American Review</i> the poem was
+published as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note,
+evidently suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+["The following lines from a correspondent&mdash;besides the deep, quaint
+strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+intended by the author&mdash;appears to us one of the most felicitous
+specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+in all the others of one line&mdash;mostly the second in the verse"
+(stanza?)&mdash;"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+better understood."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Ed.</b> <i>Am. Rev.</i>] 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2d"></a>Note on <i>The Bells</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+</p>
+
+<table summary="draft of The Bells" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">The bells!&mdash;ah the bells!<br/>
+The little silver bells!<br/>
+How fairy-like a melody there floats<br/>
+From their throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their merry little throats&mdash;<br/>
+From the silver, tinkling throats<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">The bells!&mdash;ah, the bells!<br/>
+The heavy iron bells!<br/>
+How horrible a monody there floats<br/>
+From their throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their deep-toned throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their melancholy throats<br/>
+How I shudder at the notes<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the <i>Union Magazine</i>. It was not published. So, in
+the following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+<i>Union Magazine</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2e"></a>Note on <i>Ulalume</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+This poem was first published in Colton's <i>American Review</i> for
+December 1847, as "To &mdash; &mdash; Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted
+immediately in the <i>Home Journal</i>, it was copied into various
+publications with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and
+was ascribed to him. When first published, it contained the following
+additional stanza which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs.
+Whitman wisely suppressed:
+</p>
+
+<table summary="draft addition to Ulalume" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td align="center">Said we then&mdash;the two, then&mdash;"Ah, can it<br/>
+Have been that the woodlandish ghouls&mdash;<br/>
+The pitiful, the merciful ghouls&mdash;<br/>
+To bar up our path and to ban it<br/>
+From the secret that lies in these wolds&mdash;<br/>
+Had drawn up the spectre of a planet<br/>
+From the limbo of lunary souls&mdash;<br/>
+This sinfully scintillant planet<br/>
+From the Hell of the planetary souls?"</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2f"></a>Note on <i>To Helen</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+<i>Union Magazine</i> and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge
+or desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven&mdash;how my heart beats
+in coupling those two words".
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2g"></a>Note on <i>Annabel Lee</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the <i>Union Magazine</i>, in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i>,
+who published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York <i>Tribune</i>,
+before any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2h"></a>Note on <i>A Valentine</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2i"></a>Note on <i>An Enigma</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's <i>Union Magazine</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2j"></a>Note on <i>To My Mother</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived <i>Flag of our Union</i>, early in 1849, but does not
+appear to have been issued until after its author's death, when it
+appeared in the <i>Leaflets of Memory</i> for 1850.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2k"></a>Note on <i>For Annie</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"For Annie" was first published in the <i>Flag of our Union</i>, in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the <i>Home
+Journal</i>.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2l"></a>Note on <i>To F&mdash;&mdash;</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To F&mdash;&mdash;" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the <i>Broadway
+Journal</i> for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from
+those inscribed "To Mary," in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for
+July 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas
+transposed, in <i>Graham's Magazine</i> for March 1842, as "To One
+Departed."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2m"></a>Note on <i>To Frances S. Osgood</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To F&mdash;s S. O&mdash;d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for September 1845.
+The earliest version of these lines appeared in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and
+was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly
+revised, the poem reappeared in Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for
+August, 1839, as "To &mdash;&mdash;."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2n"></a>Note on <i>Eldorado</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+<i>Flag of our Union</i>, it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2o"></a>Note on <i>Eulalie</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Eulalie&mdash;a Song" first appears in Colton's <i>American Review</i> for
+July, 1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2p"></a>Note on <i>A Dream within a Dream</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2q"></a>Note on <i>To Marie Louise (Shew)</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To M&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash; S&mdash;&mdash;," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2r"></a>>Note on the second poem entitled &nbsp;<i>To Marie Louise (Shew)</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To&mdash;&mdash;," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in
+1848, was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the
+above named posthumous collection.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2s"></a>Note on <i>The City in the Sea</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for August
+1835, whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's
+<i>American Review</i> for April, 1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2t"></a>Note on <i>The Sleeper</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the <i>Literary Messenger</i> for May
+1836, and, in its present form, in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for May
+1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2u"></a>Note on <i>The Bridal Ballad</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and
+revised form, was reprinted in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for August,
+1845.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section3">Poems of Manhood</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section3a"></a>Lenore</h3>
+
+<p>
+Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!<br/>
+Let the bell toll!&mdash;a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.<br/>
+And, Guy de Vere, hast <i>thou</i> no tear?&mdash;weep now or never more!<br/>
+See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!<br/>
+Come! let the burial rite be read&mdash;the funeral song be sung!&mdash;<br/>
+An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young&mdash;<br/>
+A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,<br/>
+And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her&mdash;that she died!<br/>
+How <i>shall</i> the ritual, then, be read?&mdash;the requiem how be sung<br/>
+By you&mdash;by yours, the evil eye,&mdash;by yours, the slanderous tongue<br/>
+That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"<br/><br/>
+
+<i>Peccavimus;</i> but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song<br/>
+Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!<br/>
+The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,<br/>
+Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride&mdash;<br/>
+For her, the fair and <i>débonnaire</i>, that now so lowly lies,<br/>
+The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes&mdash;<br/>
+The life still there, upon her hair&mdash;the death upon her eyes.<br/><br/>
+
+"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,<br/>
+But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!<br/>
+Let <i>no</i> bell toll!&mdash;lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,<br/>
+Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.<br/>
+To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven&mdash;<br/>
+From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven&mdash;<br/>
+From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1833<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3a">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3b"></a>To One in Paradise</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thou wast that all to me, love,<br/>
+For which my soul did pine&mdash;<br/>
+A green isle in the sea, love,<br/>
+A fountain and a shrine,<br/>
+All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,<br/>
+And all the flowers were mine.<br/><br/>
+
+Ah, dream too bright to last!<br/>
+Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise<br/>
+But to be overcast!<br/>
+A voice from out the Future cries,<br/>
+"On! on!"&mdash;but o'er the Past<br/>
+(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies<br/>
+Mute, motionless, aghast!<br/><br/>
+
+For, alas! alas! with me<br/>
+The light of Life is o'er!<br/>
+"No more&mdash;no more&mdash;no more"&mdash;<br/>
+(Such language holds the solemn sea<br/>
+To the sands upon the shore)<br/>
+Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,<br/>
+Or the stricken eagle soar!<br/><br/>
+
+And all my days are trances,<br/>
+And all my nightly dreams<br/>
+Are where thy dark eye glances,<br/>
+And where thy footstep gleams&mdash;<br/>
+In what ethereal dances,<br/>
+By what eternal streams!<br/><br/>
+
+Alas! for that accursed time<br/>
+They bore thee o'er the billow,<br/>
+From love to titled age and crime,<br/>
+And an unholy pillow!<br/>
+From me, and from our misty clime,<br/>
+Where weeps the silver willow!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1835<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3c"></a>The Coliseum</h3>
+
+<p>
+Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary<br/>
+Of lofty contemplation left to Time<br/>
+By buried centuries of pomp and power!<br/>
+At length&mdash;at length&mdash;after so many days<br/>
+Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,<br/>
+(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)<br/>
+I kneel, an altered and an humble man,<br/>
+Amid thy shadows, and so drink within<br/>
+My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!<br/><br/>
+
+Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!<br/>
+Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!<br/>
+I feel ye now&mdash;I feel ye in your strength&mdash;<br/>
+O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king<br/>
+Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!<br/>
+O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee<br/>
+Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!<br/><br/>
+
+Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!<br/>
+Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,<br/>
+A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!<br/>
+Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair<br/>
+Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!<br/>
+Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,<br/>
+Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,<br/>
+Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,<br/>
+The swift and silent lizard of the stones!<br/><br/>
+
+But stay! these walls&mdash;these ivy-clad arcades&mdash;<br/>
+These mouldering plinths&mdash;these sad and blackened shafts&mdash;<br/>
+These vague entablatures&mdash;this crumbling frieze&mdash;<br/>
+These shattered cornices&mdash;this wreck&mdash;this ruin&mdash;<br/>
+These stones&mdash;alas! these gray stones&mdash;are they all&mdash;<br/>
+All of the famed, and the colossal left<br/>
+By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?<br/><br/>
+
+"Not all"&mdash;the Echoes answer me&mdash;"not all!<br/>
+Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever<br/>
+From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,<br/>
+As melody from Memnon to the Sun.<br/>
+We rule the hearts of mightiest men&mdash;we rule<br/>
+With a despotic sway all giant minds.<br/>
+We are not impotent&mdash;we pallid stones.<br/>
+Not all our power is gone&mdash;not all our fame&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the magic of our high renown&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the wonder that encircles us&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the mysteries that in us lie&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the memories that hang upon<br/>
+And cling around about us as a garment,<br/>
+Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3d"></a>The Haunted Palace</h3>
+
+<p>
+In the greenest of our valleys<br/>
+By good angels tenanted,<br/>
+Once a fair and stately palace&mdash;<br/>
+Radiant palace&mdash;reared its head.<br/>
+In the monarch Thought's dominion&mdash;<br/>
+It stood there!<br/>
+Never seraph spread a pinion<br/>
+Over fabric half so fair!<br/><br/>
+
+Banners yellow, glorious, golden,<br/>
+On its roof did float and flow,<br/>
+(This&mdash;all this&mdash;was in the olden<br/>
+Time long ago),<br/>
+And every gentle air that dallied,<br/>
+In that sweet day,<br/>
+Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,<br/>
+A winged odor went away.<br/><br/>
+
+Wanderers in that happy valley,<br/>
+Through two luminous windows, saw<br/>
+Spirits moving musically,<br/>
+To a lute's well-tunëd law,<br/>
+Bound about a throne where, sitting<br/>
+(Porphyrogene!)<br/>
+In state his glory well befitting,<br/>
+The ruler of the realm was seen.<br/><br/>
+
+And all with pearl and ruby glowing<br/>
+Was the fair palace door,<br/>
+Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,<br/>
+And sparkling evermore,<br/>
+A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty<br/>
+Was but to sing,<br/>
+In voices of surpassing beauty,<br/>
+The wit and wisdom of their king.<br/><br/>
+
+But evil things, in robes of sorrow,<br/>
+Assailed the monarch's high estate.<br/>
+(Ah, let us mourn!&mdash;for never morrow<br/>
+Shall dawn upon him desolate !)<br/>
+And round about his home the glory<br/>
+That blushed and bloomed,<br/>
+Is but a dim-remembered story<br/>
+Of the old time entombed.<br/><br/>
+
+And travellers, now, within that valley,<br/>
+Through the red-litten windows see<br/>
+Vast forms, that move fantastically<br/>
+To a discordant melody,<br/>
+While, like a ghastly rapid river,<br/>
+Through the pale door<br/>
+A hideous throng rush out forever<br/>
+And laugh&mdash;but smile no more.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3e"></a>The Conqueror Worm</h3>
+
+<p>
+Lo! 'tis a gala night<br/>
+Within the lonesome latter years!<br/>
+An angel throng, bewinged, bedight<br/>
+In veils, and drowned in tears,<br/>
+Sit in a theatre, to see<br/>
+A play of hopes and fears,<br/>
+While the orchestra breathes fitfully<br/>
+The music of the spheres.<br/><br/>
+
+Mimes, in the form of God on high,<br/>
+Mutter and mumble low,<br/>
+And hither and thither fly&mdash;<br/>
+Mere puppets they, who come and go<br/>
+At bidding of vast formless things<br/>
+That shift the scenery to and fro,<br/>
+Flapping from out their Condor wings<br/>
+Invisible Wo!<br/><br/>
+
+That motley drama&mdash;oh, be sure<br/>
+It shall not be forgot!<br/>
+With its Phantom chased for evermore,<br/>
+By a crowd that seize it not,<br/>
+Through a circle that ever returneth in<br/>
+To the self-same spot,<br/>
+And much of Madness, and more of Sin,<br/>
+And Horror the soul of the plot.<br/><br/>
+
+But see, amid the mimic rout<br/>
+A crawling shape intrude!<br/>
+A blood-red thing that writhes from out<br/>
+The scenic solitude!<br/>
+It writhes!&mdash;it writhes!&mdash;with mortal pangs<br/>
+The mimes become its food,<br/>
+And the angels sob at vermin fangs<br/>
+In human gore imbued.<br/><br/>
+
+Out&mdash;out are the lights&mdash;out all!<br/>
+And, over each quivering form,<br/>
+The curtain, a funeral pall,<br/>
+Comes down with the rush of a storm,<br/>
+And the angels, all pallid and wan,<br/>
+Uprising, unveiling, affirm<br/>
+That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"<br/>
+And its hero the Conqueror Worm.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3f"></a>Silence</h3>
+
+<p>
+There are some qualities&mdash;some incorporate things,<br/>
+That have a double life, which thus is made<br/>
+A type of that twin entity which springs<br/>
+From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.<br/>
+There is a twofold <i>Silence</i>&mdash;sea and shore&mdash;<br/>
+Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,<br/>
+Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,<br/>
+Some human memories and tearful lore,<br/>
+Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."<br/>
+He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!<br/>
+No power hath he of evil in himself;<br/>
+But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)<br/>
+Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,<br/>
+That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod<br/>
+No foot of man), commend thyself to God!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1840<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3f">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3g"></a>Dreamland</h3>
+
+<p>
+By a route obscure and lonely,<br/>
+Haunted by ill angels only,<br/>
+Where an Eidolon, named <b>Night</b>,<br/>
+On a black throne reigns upright,<br/>
+I have reached these lands but newly<br/>
+From an ultimate dim Thule&mdash;<br/>
+From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,<br/>
+Out of <b>Space</b>&mdash;out of <b>Time</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+Bottomless vales and boundless floods,<br/>
+And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,<br/>
+With forms that no man can discover<br/>
+For the dews that drip all over;<br/>
+Mountains toppling evermore<br/>
+Into seas without a shore;<br/>
+Seas that restlessly aspire,<br/>
+Surging, unto skies of fire;<br/>
+Lakes that endlessly outspread<br/>
+Their lone waters&mdash;lone and dead,<br/>
+Their still waters&mdash;still and chilly<br/>
+With the snows of the lolling lily.<br/><br/>
+
+By the lakes that thus outspread<br/>
+Their lone waters, lone and dead,&mdash;<br/>
+Their sad waters, sad and chilly<br/>
+With the snows of the lolling lily,&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+By the mountains&mdash;near the river<br/>
+Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,&mdash;<br/>
+By the gray woods,&mdash;by the swamp<br/>
+Where the toad and the newt encamp,&mdash;<br/>
+By the dismal tarns and pools<br/>
+Where dwell the Ghouls,&mdash;<br/>
+By each spot the most unholy&mdash;<br/>
+In each nook most melancholy,&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+There the traveller meets aghast<br/>
+Sheeted Memories of the past&mdash;<br/>
+Shrouded forms that start and sigh<br/>
+As they pass the wanderer by&mdash;<br/>
+White-robed forms of friends long given,<br/>
+In agony, to the Earth&mdash;and Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+For the heart whose woes are legion<br/>
+'Tis a peaceful, soothing region&mdash;<br/>
+For the spirit that walks in shadow<br/>
+'Tis&mdash;oh, 'tis an Eldorado!<br/>
+But the traveller, travelling through it,<br/>
+May not&mdash;dare not openly view it;<br/>
+Never its mysteries are exposed<br/>
+To the weak human eye unclosed;<br/>
+So wills its King, who hath forbid<br/>
+The uplifting of the fringed lid;<br/>
+And thus the sad Soul that here passes<br/>
+Beholds it but through darkened glasses.<br/><br/>
+
+By a route obscure and lonely,<br/>
+Haunted by ill angels only.<br/>
+Where an Eidolon, named <b>Night</b>,<br/>
+On a black throne reigns upright,<br/>
+I have wandered home but newly<br/>
+From this ultimate dim Thule.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1844<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3g">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3h"></a>To Zante</h3>
+
+<p>
+Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,<br/>
+Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!<br/>
+How many memories of what radiant hours<br/>
+At sight of thee and thine at once awake!<br/>
+How many scenes of what departed bliss!<br/>
+How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!<br/>
+How many visions of a maiden that is<br/>
+No more&mdash;no more upon thy verdant slopes!<br/><br/>
+
+<i>No more!</i> alas, that magical sad sound<br/>
+Transforming all! Thy charms shall please <i>no more</i>&mdash;<br/>
+Thy memory <i>no more!</i> Accursed ground<br/>
+Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,<br/>
+O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!<br/>
+"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1887<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3h">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3i"></a>Hymn</h3>
+
+<p>
+At morn&mdash;at noon&mdash;at twilight dim&mdash;<br/>
+Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!<br/>
+In joy and wo&mdash;in good and ill&mdash;<br/>
+Mother of God, be with me still!<br/>
+When the Hours flew brightly by,<br/>
+And not a cloud obscured the sky,<br/>
+My soul, lest it should truant be,<br/>
+Thy grace did guide to thine and thee<br/>
+Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast<br/>
+Darkly my Present and my Past,<br/>
+Let my future radiant shine<br/>
+With sweet hopes of thee and thine!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1885<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3i">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section3j"></a>Notes</h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note3a"></a>Note on <i>Lenore</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in <i>The
+Pioneer</i> for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"&mdash;now first
+published in the <b>Poems Of Youth</b>&mdash;the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3b"></a>Note on <i>To One in Paradise</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's <i>Gentleman's
+Magazine</i> for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the
+first time, to the piece.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3c"></a>Note on <i>The Coliseum</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore <i>Saturday Visitor</i>
+(<i>sic</i>) in 1833, and was republished in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3d"></a>Note on <i>The Haunted Palace</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore <i>American
+Museum</i> for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much
+admired tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in
+Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for September, 1839. It reappeared
+in that as a separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3e"></a>Note on <i>The Conqueror Worm</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the <i>American Museum</i> for September, 1838.
+As a separate poem, it reappeared in <i>Graham's Magazine</i> for
+January, 1843.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3f"></a>Note on <i>Silence</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's
+<i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for April, 1840.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3g"></a>Note on <i>Dreamland</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in <i>Graham's
+Magazine</i> for June, 1844.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3h"></a>Note on <i>To Zante</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3i"></a>Note on <i>Hymn</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for
+April, 1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title,
+were first published in the <i>Broadway Journal for August</i>, 1845.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section4">Scenes from <i>Politian</i></a></h2>
+
+<h4>an unpublished drama</h4>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>ROME &mdash; a Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE.</i>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou art sad, Castiglione.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Sad!&mdash;not I.<br/>
+Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!<br/>
+A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,<br/>
+Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing<br/>
+Thy happiness&mdash;what ails thee, cousin of mine?<br/>
+Why didst thou sigh so deeply?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Did I sigh?<br/>
+I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,<br/>
+A silly&mdash;a most silly fashion I have<br/>
+When I am <i>very</i> happy. Did I sigh? [<i>sighing</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged<br/>
+Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.<br/>
+Late hours and wine, Castiglione,&mdash;these<br/>
+Will ruin thee! thou art already altered&mdash;<br/>
+Thy looks are haggard&mdash;nothing so wears away<br/>
+The constitution as late hours and wine. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (musing)</i></td>
+<td>Nothing, fair cousin, nothing&mdash;<br/>
+Not even deep sorrow&mdash;<br/>
+Wears it away like evil hours and wine.<br/>
+I will amend. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Do it! I would have thee drop<br/>
+Thy riotous company, too&mdash;fellows low born<br/>
+Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir<br/>
+And Alessandra's husband. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I will drop them.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou wilt&mdash;thou must. Attend thou also more<br/>
+To thy dress and equipage&mdash;they are over plain<br/>
+For thy lofty rank and fashion&mdash;much depends<br/>
+Upon appearances. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I'll see to it.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Then see to it!&mdash;pay more attention, sir,<br/>
+To a becoming carriage&mdash;much thou wantest<br/>
+In dignity. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Much, much, oh, much I want<br/>
+In proper dignity. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra (haughtily)</i></td>
+<td>Thou mockest me, sir! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (abstractedly)</i></td>
+<td>Sweet, gentle Lalage!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Heard I aright?<br/>
+I speak to him&mdash;he speaks of Lalage?<br/>
+Sir Count!<br/>
+<i>[places her hand on his shoulder</i>]<br/>
+what art thou dreaming?<br/>
+He's not well!<br/>
+What ails thee, sir? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (starting)</i></td>
+<td>Cousin! fair cousin!&mdash;madam!<br/>
+I crave thy pardon&mdash;indeed I am not well&mdash;<br/>
+Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.<br/>
+This air is most oppressive!&mdash;Madam&mdash;the Duke! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td><i>Enter Di Broglio</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>My son, I've news for thee!&mdash;hey!&mdash;what's the matter?<br/>
+[<i>observing Alessandra</i>].<br/>
+I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,<br/>
+You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!<br/>
+I've news for you both. Politian is expected<br/>
+Hourly in Rome&mdash;Politian, Earl of Leicester!<br/>
+We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit<br/>
+To the imperial city. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>What! Politian<br/>
+Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>The same, my love.<br/>
+We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young<br/>
+In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,<br/>
+But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy<br/>
+Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,<br/>
+And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>I have heard much of this Politian.<br/>
+Gay, volatile and giddy&mdash;is he not,<br/>
+And little given to thinking? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>Far from it, love.<br/>
+No branch, they say, of all philosophy<br/>
+So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.<br/>
+Learned as few are learned. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>'Tis very strange!<br/>
+I have known men have seen Politian<br/>
+And sought his company. They speak of him<br/>
+As of one who entered madly into life,<br/>
+Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ridiculous! Now <i>I</i> have seen Politian<br/>
+And know him well&mdash;nor learned nor mirthful he.<br/>
+He is a dreamer, and shut out<br/>
+From common passions. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>Children, we disagree.<br/>
+Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air<br/>
+Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear<br/>
+Politian was a <i>melancholy</i> man?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exeunt</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>ROME.&mdash;A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and
+looking into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading
+at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror.
+In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly
+upon a chair. </i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Jacinta! is it thou? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (pertly)</i></td>
+<td>Yes, ma'am, I'm here. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.<br/>
+Sit down!&mdash;let not my presence trouble you&mdash;<br/>
+Sit down!&mdash;for I am humble, most humble.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis time. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td><i>(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner
+upon the chair, resting her elbows upon
+the back, and regarding her mistress with
+a contemptuous look. Lalage continues
+to read.) </i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>"It in another climate, so he said,<br/>
+Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"<br/>
+[<i>pauses&mdash;turns over some leaves and resumes.</i>]<br/>
+"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower&mdash;<br/>
+But Ocean ever to refresh mankind<br/>
+Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"<br/>
+Oh, beautiful!&mdash;most beautiful!&mdash;how like<br/>
+To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!<br/>
+O happy land! [<i>pauses</i>] She died!&mdash;the maiden died!<br/>
+O still more happy maiden who couldst die!<br/>
+Jacinta!<br/>
+[<i>Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage
+presently resumes,</i>]<br/>
+Again!&mdash;a similar tale<br/>
+Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!<br/>
+Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play&mdash;<br/>
+"She died full young"&mdash;one Bossola answers him&mdash;<br/>
+"I think not so&mdash;her infelicity<br/>
+Seemed to have years too many"&mdash;Ah, luckless lady!<br/>
+Jacinta! [<i>still no answer.</i>]<br/>
+Here's a far sterner story&mdash;<br/>
+But like&mdash;oh, very like in its despair&mdash;<br/>
+Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily<br/>
+A thousand hearts&mdash;losing at length her own.<br/>
+She died. Thus endeth the history&mdash;and her maids<br/>
+Lean over her and keep&mdash;two gentle maids<br/>
+With gentle names&mdash;Eiros and Charmion!<br/>
+Rainbow and Dove!&mdash;Jacinta!<br/>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (pettishly)</i></td>
+<td>Madam, what is it?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind<br/>
+As go down in the library and bring me<br/>
+The Holy Evangelists? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i></td>
+<td>Pshaw! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>If there be balm<br/>
+For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!<br/>
+Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble<br/>
+Will there be found&mdash;"dew sweeter far than that<br/>
+Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i><br/>
+(<i>aside</i>)</td>
+<td>There, ma'am, 's the book.<br/>
+Indeed she is very troublesome.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (astonished)</i></td>
+<td>What didst thou say, Jacinta?<br/>
+Have I done aught<br/>
+To grieve thee or to vex thee?&mdash;I am sorry.<br/>
+For thou hast served me long and ever been<br/>
+Trustworthy and respectful.<br/>
+[<i>resumes her reading.</i>] </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>I can't believe<br/>
+She has any more jewels&mdash;no&mdash;no&mdash;she gave me all.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me<br/>
+Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.<br/>
+How fares good Ugo?&mdash;and when is it to be?<br/>
+Can I do aught?&mdash;is there no further aid<br/>
+Thou needest, Jacinta? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>Is there no <i>further</i> aid!<br/>
+That's meant for me. <br/>
+[<i>aloud</i>]<br/>
+I'm sure, madam, you need not<br/>
+Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Jewels! Jacinta,&mdash;now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i></td>
+<td>Oh, perhaps not!<br/>
+But then I might have sworn it. After all,<br/>
+There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,<br/>
+For he's sure the Count Castiglione never<br/>
+Would have given a real diamond to such as you;<br/>
+And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot<br/>
+Have use for jewels <i>now</i>. But I might have sworn it.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table&mdash;after a
+short pause raises it.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Poor Lalage!&mdash;and is it come to this?<br/>
+Thy servant maid!&mdash;but courage!&mdash;'tis but a viper<br/>
+Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!<br/>
+[<i>taking up the mirror</i>]<br/>
+Ha! here at least's a friend&mdash;too much a friend<br/>
+In earlier days&mdash;a friend will not deceive thee.<br/>
+Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)<br/>
+A tale&mdash;a pretty tale&mdash;and heed thou not<br/>
+Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.<br/>
+It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,<br/>
+And beauty long deceased&mdash;remembers me,<br/>
+Of Joy departed&mdash;Hope, the Seraph Hope,<br/>
+Inurned and entombed!&mdash;now, in a tone<br/>
+Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,<br/>
+Whispers of early grave untimely yawning<br/>
+For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!&mdash;thou liest not!<br/>
+<i>Thou</i> hast no end to gain&mdash;no heart to break&mdash;<br/>
+Castiglione lied who said he loved&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+Thou true&mdash;he false!&mdash;false!&mdash;false! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Refuge thou hast,<br/>
+Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!<br/>
+Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (arising hurriedly)</i></td>
+<td>I <i>cannot</i> pray!&mdash;My soul is at war with God!<br/>
+The frightful sounds of merriment below;<br/>
+Disturb my senses&mdash;go! I cannot pray&mdash;<br/>
+The sweet airs from the garden worry me!<br/>
+Thy presence grieves me&mdash;go!&mdash;thy priestly raiment<br/>
+Fills me with dread&mdash;thy ebony crucifix<br/>
+With horror and awe! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Think of thy precious soul! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Think of my early days!&mdash;think of my father<br/>
+And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,<br/>
+And the rivulet that ran before the door!<br/>
+Think of my little sisters!&mdash;think of them!<br/>
+And think of me!&mdash;think of my trusting love<br/>
+And confidence&mdash;his vows&mdash;my ruin&mdash;think&mdash;think<br/>
+Of my unspeakable misery!&mdash;&mdash;begone!<br/>
+Yet stay! yet stay!&mdash;what was it thou saidst of prayer<br/>
+And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith<br/>
+And vows before the throne? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>I did. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>'Tis well.<br/>
+There <i>is</i> a vow 'twere fitting should be made&mdash;<br/>
+A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,<br/>
+A solemn vow! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Daughter, this zeal is well! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Father, this zeal is anything but well!<br/>
+Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?<br/>
+A crucifix whereon to register<br/>
+This sacred vow? [<i>he hands her his own.</i>]<br/>
+Not that&mdash;Oh! no!&mdash;no!&mdash;no [<i>shuddering.</i>]<br/>
+Not that! Not that!&mdash;I tell thee, holy man,<br/>
+Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!<br/>
+Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,&mdash;<br/>
+<i>I</i> have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting<br/>
+The deed&mdash;the vow&mdash;the symbol of the deed&mdash;<br/>
+And the deed's register should tally, father!<br/>
+[<i>draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.</i>]<br/>
+Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine<br/>
+Is written in heaven! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Thy words are madness, daughter,<br/>
+And speak a purpose unholy&mdash;thy lips are livid&mdash;<br/>
+Thine eyes are wild&mdash;tempt not the wrath divine!<br/>
+Pause ere too late!&mdash;oh, be not&mdash;be not rash!<br/>
+Swear not the oath&mdash;oh, swear it not! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>'Tis sworn!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR. </i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Arouse thee now, Politian!<br/>
+Thou must not&mdash;nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not<br/>
+Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!<br/>
+Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee<br/>
+And live, for now thou diest! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Not so, Baldazzar!<br/>
+<i>Surely</i> I live!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Politian, it doth grieve me<br/>
+To see thee thus! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Baldazzar, it doth grieve me<br/>
+To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.<br/>
+Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?<br/>
+At thy behest I will shake off that nature<br/>
+Which from my forefathers I did inherit,<br/>
+Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,<br/>
+And be no more Politian, but some other.<br/>
+Command me, sir! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>To the field then&mdash;to the field&mdash;<br/>
+To the senate or the field. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Alas! alas!<br/>
+There is an imp would follow me even there!<br/>
+There is an imp <i>hath</i> followed me even there!<br/>
+There is&mdash;what voice was that? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I heard it not.<br/>
+I heard not any voice except thine own,<br/>
+And the echo of thine own. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Then I but dreamed. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp&mdash;the court<br/>
+Befit thee&mdash;Fame awaits thee&mdash;Glory calls&mdash;<br/>
+And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear<br/>
+In hearkening to imaginary sounds<br/>
+And phantom voices. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>It <i>is</i> a phantom voice!<br/>
+Didst thou not hear it <i>then</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I heard it not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thou heardst it not!&mdash;Baldazzar, speak no more<br/>
+To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.<br/>
+Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,<br/>
+Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities<br/>
+Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile<br/>
+We have been boys together&mdash;school-fellows&mdash;<br/>
+And now are friends&mdash;yet shall not be so long&mdash;<br/>
+For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me<br/>
+A kind and gentle office, and a Power&mdash;<br/>
+A Power august, benignant, and supreme&mdash;<br/>
+Shall then absolve thee of all further duties<br/>
+Unto thy friend. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Thou speakest a fearful riddle<br/>
+I <i>will</i> not understand.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Yet now as Fate<br/>
+Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,<br/>
+The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,<br/>
+And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!<br/>
+I <i>cannot</i> die, having within my heart<br/>
+So keen a relish for the beautiful<br/>
+As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air<br/>
+Is balmier now than it was wont to be&mdash;<br/>
+Rich melodies are floating in the winds&mdash;<br/>
+A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth&mdash;<br/>
+And with a holier lustre the quiet moon<br/>
+Sitteth in Heaven.&mdash;Hist! hist! thou canst not say<br/>
+Thou hearest not <i>now</i>, Baldazzar? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Indeed I hear not.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Not hear it!&mdash;listen&mdash;now&mdash;listen!&mdash;the faintest sound<br/>
+And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!<br/>
+A lady's voice!&mdash;and sorrow in the tone!<br/>
+Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!<br/>
+Again!&mdash;again!&mdash;how solemnly it falls<br/>
+Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice<br/>
+Surely I never heard&mdash;yet it were well<br/>
+Had I <i>but</i> heard it with its thrilling tones<br/>
+In earlier days!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I myself hear it now.<br/>
+Be still!&mdash;the voice, if I mistake not greatly,<br/>
+Proceeds from younder lattice&mdash;which you may see<br/>
+Very plainly through the window&mdash;it belongs,<br/>
+Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.<br/>
+The singer is undoubtedly beneath<br/>
+The roof of his Excellency&mdash;and perhaps<br/>
+Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke<br/>
+As the betrothed of Castiglione,<br/>
+His son and heir. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Be still!&mdash;it comes again!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (very faintly)</i></td>
+<td>"<a name="fr1">And</a> is thy heart so strong<a href="#f1"><sup>1</sup></a><br/>
+As for to leave me thus,<br/>
+That have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among?<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>The song is English, and I oft have heard it<br/>
+In merry England&mdash;never so plaintively&mdash;<br/>
+Hist! hist! it comes again! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (more loudly)</i></td>
+<td>"Is it so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus,<br/>
+That have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among?<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>'Tis hushed and all is still!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>All <i>is not</i> still.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let us go down.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Go down, Baldazzar, go!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>The hour is growing late&mdash;the Duke awaits us,&mdash;<br/>
+Thy presence is expected in the hall<br/>
+Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (distinctly)</i></td>
+<td>"Who have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among,<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let us descend!&mdash;'tis time. Politian, give<br/>
+These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,<br/>
+Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness<br/>
+Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Remember? I do. Lead on! I <i>do</i> remember.[<i>going</i>].<br/>
+Let us descend. Believe me I would give,<br/>
+Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom<br/>
+To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice&mdash;<br/>
+"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear<br/>
+Once more that silent tongue."</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let me beg you, sir,<br/>
+Descend with me&mdash;the Duke may be offended.<br/>
+Let us go down, I pray you. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (loudly)</i></td>
+<td><i>Say nay!&mdash;say nay!</i> </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis strange!&mdash;'tis very strange&mdash;methought the voice<br/>
+Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!<br/>
+[<i>Approaching the window</i>]<br/>
+Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.<br/>
+Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,<br/>
+Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make<br/>
+Apology unto the Duke for me;<br/>
+I go not down to-night. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Your lordship's pleasure<br/>
+Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Good-night, my friend, good-night. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>The Gardens of a Palace&mdash;Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.</i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>And dost thou speak of love<br/>
+To <i>me</i>, Politian?&mdash;dost thou speak of love<br/>
+To Lalage?&mdash;ah woe&mdash;ah woe is me!<br/>
+This mockery is most cruel&mdash;most cruel indeed! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Weep not! oh, sob not thus!&mdash;thy bitter tears<br/>
+Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage&mdash;<br/>
+Be comforted! I know&mdash;I know it all,<br/>
+And <i>still</i> I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,<br/>
+And beautiful Lalage!&mdash;turn here thine eyes!<br/>
+Thou askest me if I could speak of love,<br/>
+Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen<br/>
+Thou askest me that&mdash;and thus I answer thee&mdash;<br/>
+Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. [<i>kneeling</i>]<br/>
+Sweet Lalage, <i>I love thee&mdash;love thee&mdash;love thee</i>;<br/>
+Thro' good and ill&mdash;thro' weal and woe, <i>I love thee</i>.<br/>
+Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,<br/>
+Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.<br/>
+Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,<br/>
+Burned there a holier fire than burneth now<br/>
+Within my spirit for <i>thee</i>. And do I love?<br/>
+[<i>arising</i>]<br/>
+Even for thy woes I love thee&mdash;even for thy woes&mdash;<br/>
+Thy beauty and thy woes. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Alas, proud Earl,<br/>
+Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!<br/>
+How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens<br/>
+Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,<br/>
+Could the dishonored Lalage abide?<br/>
+Thy wife, and with a tainted memory&mdash;<br/>
+My seared and blighted name, how would it tally<br/>
+With the ancestral honors of thy house,<br/>
+And with thy glory? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Speak not to me of glory!<br/>
+I hate&mdash;I loathe the name; I do abhor<br/>
+The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.<br/>
+Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?<br/>
+Do I not love&mdash;art thou not beautiful&mdash;<br/>
+What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:<br/>
+By all I hold most sacred and most solemn&mdash;<br/>
+By all my wishes now&mdash;my fears hereafter&mdash;<br/>
+By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven&mdash;<br/>
+There is no deed I would more glory in,<br/>
+Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory<br/>
+And trample it under foot. What matters it&mdash;<br/>
+What matters it, my fairest, and my best,<br/>
+That we go down unhonored and forgotten<br/>
+Into the dust&mdash;so we descend together?<br/>
+Descend together&mdash;and then&mdash;and then perchance&mdash; </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Why dost thou pause, Politian? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And then perchance<br/>
+<i>Arise</i> together, Lalage, and roam<br/>
+The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,<br/>
+And still&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Why dost thou pause, Politian?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And still<i> together&mdash;together</i>. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Now, Earl of Leicester!<br/>
+Thou <i>lovest</i> me, and in my heart of hearts<br/>
+I feel thou lovest me truly. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>O Lalage!<br/>
+[<i>throwing himself upon his knee.</i>]<br/>
+And lovest thou <i>me</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Hist! hush! within the gloom<br/>
+Of yonder trees methought a figure passed&mdash;<br/>
+A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless&mdash;<br/>
+Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.<br/>
+[<i>walks across and returns</i>]<br/>
+I was mistaken&mdash;'twas but a giant bough<br/>
+Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>My Lalage&mdash;my love! why art thou moved?<br/>
+Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,<br/>
+Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,<br/>
+Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind<br/>
+Is chilly&mdash;and these melancholy boughs<br/>
+Throw over all things a gloom. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Politian!<br/>
+Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land<br/>
+With which all tongues are busy&mdash;a land new found&mdash;<br/>
+Miraculously found by one of Genoa&mdash;<br/>
+A thousand leagues within the golden west?<br/>
+A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,&mdash;<br/>
+And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,<br/>
+And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds<br/>
+Of Heaven untrammelled flow&mdash;which air to breathe<br/>
+Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter<br/>
+In days that are to come? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Oh, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou<br/>
+Fly to that Paradise&mdash;my Lalage, wilt thou<br/>
+Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,<br/>
+And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.<br/>
+And life shall then be mine, for I will live<br/>
+For thee, and in thine eyes&mdash;and thou shalt be<br/>
+No more a mourner&mdash;but the radiant Joys<br/>
+Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope<br/>
+Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee<br/>
+And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,<br/>
+My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,<br/>
+My all;&mdash;oh, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou, Lalage,<br/>
+Fly thither with me? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>A deed is to be done&mdash;<br/>
+Castiglione lives! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And he shall die!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (after a pause)</i></td>
+<td>And&mdash;he&mdash;shall&mdash;die!&mdash;alas!<br/>
+Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?<br/>
+Where am I?&mdash;what was it he said?&mdash;Politian!<br/>
+Thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;thou art not <i>gone</i>, Politian!<br/>
+I <i>feel</i> thou art not gone&mdash;yet dare not look,<br/>
+Lest I behold thee not&mdash;thou <i>couldst</i> not go<br/>
+With those words upon thy lips&mdash;oh, speak to me!<br/>
+And let me hear thy voice&mdash;one word&mdash;one word,<br/>
+To say thou art not gone,&mdash;one little sentence,<br/>
+To say how thou dost scorn&mdash;how thou dost hate<br/>
+My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;<br/>
+Oh, speak to me! I <i>knew</i> thou wouldst not go!<br/>
+I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, <i>durst</i> not go.<br/>
+Villain, thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;thou mockest me!<br/>
+And thus I clutch thee&mdash;thus!&mdash;He is gone, he is gone&mdash;<br/>
+Gone&mdash;gone. Where am I?&mdash;'tis well&mdash;'tis very well!<br/>
+So that the blade be keen&mdash;the blow be sure,<br/>
+'Tis well, 'tis <i>very</i> well&mdash;alas! alas! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">V</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.</i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>This weakness grows upon me. I am fain<br/>
+And much I fear me ill&mdash;it will not do<br/>
+To die ere I have lived!&mdash;Stay&mdash;stay thy hand,<br/>
+O Azrael, yet awhile!&mdash;Prince of the Powers<br/>
+Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!<br/>
+Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,<br/>
+In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!<br/>
+Give me to live yet&mdash;yet a little while:<br/>
+'Tis I who pray for life&mdash;I who so late<br/>
+Demanded but to die!&mdash;What sayeth the Count?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Baldazzar</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud<br/>
+Between the Earl Politian and himself,<br/>
+He doth decline your cartel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td><i>What</i> didst thou say?<br/>
+What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?<br/>
+With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes<br/>
+Laden from yonder bowers!&mdash;a fairer day,<br/>
+Or one more worthy Italy, methinks<br/>
+No mortal eyes have seen!&mdash;<i>what</i> said the Count? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>That he, Castiglione, not being aware<br/>
+Of any feud existing, or any cause<br/>
+Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,<br/>
+Cannot accept the challenge. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>It is most true&mdash;<br/>
+All this is very true. When saw you, sir,<br/>
+When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid<br/>
+Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,<br/>
+A heaven so calm as this&mdash;so utterly free<br/>
+From the evil taint of clouds?&mdash;and he did <i>say</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>No more, my lord, than I have told you:<br/>
+The Count Castiglione will not fight.<br/>
+Having no cause for quarrel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now this is true&mdash;<br/>
+All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,<br/>
+And I have not forgotten it&mdash;thou'lt do me<br/>
+A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say<br/>
+Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,<br/>
+Hold him a villain?&mdash;thus much, I pr'ythee, say<br/>
+Unto the Count&mdash;it is exceeding just<br/>
+He should have cause for quarrel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>My lord!&mdash;my friend!&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis he&mdash;he comes himself!<br/>
+[<i>aloud</i>] Thou reasonest well.<br/>
+I know what thou wouldst say&mdash;not send the message&mdash;<br/>
+Well!&mdash;I will think of it&mdash;I will not send it.<br/>
+Now pr'ythee, leave me&mdash;hither doth come a person<br/>
+With whom affairs of a most private nature<br/>
+I would adjust. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I go&mdash;to-morrow we meet,<br/>
+Do we not?&mdash;at the Vatican. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>At the Vatican. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit Baldazzar</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Castiglione</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>The Earl of Leicester here! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>I <i>am</i> the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,<br/>
+Dost thou not, that I am here?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>My lord, some strange,<br/>
+Some singular mistake&mdash;misunderstanding&mdash;<br/>
+Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged<br/>
+Thereby, in heat of anger, to address<br/>
+Some words most unaccountable, in writing,<br/>
+To me, Castiglione; the bearer being<br/>
+Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware<br/>
+Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,<br/>
+Having given thee no offence. Ha!&mdash;am I right?<br/>
+'Twas a mistake?&mdash;undoubtedly&mdash;we all<br/>
+Do err at times. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Draw, villain, and prate no more! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha!&mdash;draw?&mdash;and villain? have at thee then at once,<br/>
+Proud Earl!<br/>
+[<i>Draws</i>.] </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thus to the expiatory tomb,<br/>
+Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee<br/>
+In the name of Lalage! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione<br/>
+(letting fall his sword and recoiling<br/>
+to the extremity of the stage)</i></td>
+<td>Of Lalage!<br/>
+Hold off&mdash;thy sacred hand!&mdash;avaunt, I say!<br/>
+Avaunt&mdash;I will not fight thee&mdash;indeed I dare not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?<br/>
+Shall I be baffled thus?&mdash;now this is well;<br/>
+Didst say thou <i>darest</i> not? Ha! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I dare not&mdash;dare not&mdash;<br/>
+Hold off thy hand&mdash;with that beloved name<br/>
+So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee&mdash;<br/>
+I cannot&mdash;dare not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now, by my halidom,<br/>
+I do believe thee!&mdash;coward, I do believe thee!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha!&mdash;coward!&mdash;this may not be!<br/>
+[<i>clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
+the Earl</i>]<br/>
+Alas! my lord,<br/>
+It is&mdash;it is&mdash;most true. In such a cause<br/>
+I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (greatly softened)</i></td>
+<td>Alas!&mdash;I do&mdash;indeed I pity thee.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>And Lalage&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td><i>Scoundrel!&mdash;arise and die!</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>It needeth not be&mdash;thus&mdash;thus&mdash;Oh, let me die<br/>
+Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting<br/>
+That in this deep humiliation I perish.<br/>
+For in the fight I will not raise a hand<br/>
+Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home&mdash;<br/>
+[<i>baring his bosom</i>]<br/>
+Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon&mdash;<br/>
+Strike home. I <i>will not</i> fight thee. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now's Death and Hell!<br/>
+Am I not&mdash;am I not sorely&mdash;grievously tempted<br/>
+To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:<br/>
+Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare<br/>
+For public insult in the streets&mdash;before<br/>
+The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee&mdash;<br/>
+Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee<br/>
+Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest&mdash;<br/>
+Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,&mdash;I'll taunt thee,<br/>
+Dost hear? with <i>cowardice</i>&mdash;thou <i>wilt not</i> fight me?<br/>
+Thou liest! thou <i>shalt</i>! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Now this indeed is just!<br/>
+Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f1"></a>Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr1">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section4a"></a>Note on <i>Politian</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Why do you laugh? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Indeed.<br/>
+I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not<br/>
+On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?<br/>
+Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.<br/>
+Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!<br/>
+We were walking in the garden. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Perfectly.<br/>
+I do remember it&mdash;what of it&mdash;what then? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td> O nothing&mdash;nothing at all. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Nothing at all!<br/>
+It is most singular that you should laugh<br/>
+At nothing at all! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Most singular&mdash;singular! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind<br/>
+As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.<br/>
+What are you talking of? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Was it not so?<br/>
+We differed in opinion touching him. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Him!&mdash;Whom? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Why, sir, the Earl Politian. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>The Earl of Leicester! Yes!&mdash;is it he you mean?<br/>
+We differed, indeed. If I now recollect<br/>
+The words you used were that the Earl you knew<br/>
+Was neither learned nor mirthful. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha! ha!&mdash;now did I? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time<br/>
+You were wrong, it being not the character<br/>
+Of the Earl&mdash;whom all the world allows to be<br/>
+A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,<br/>
+Too positive again. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>'Tis singular!<br/>
+Most singular! I could not think it possible<br/>
+So little time could so much alter one!<br/>
+To say the truth about an hour ago,<br/>
+As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,<br/>
+All arm in arm, we met this very man<br/>
+The Earl&mdash;he, with his friend Baldazzar,<br/>
+Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he <i>is</i> altered!<br/>
+Such an account he gave me of his journey!<br/>
+'Twould have made you die with laughter&mdash;such tales he told<br/>
+Of his caprices and his merry freaks<br/>
+Along the road&mdash;such oddity&mdash;such humor&mdash;<br/>
+Such wit&mdash;such whim&mdash;such flashes of wild merriment<br/>
+Set off too in such full relief by the grave<br/>
+Demeanor of his friend&mdash;who, to speak the truth<br/>
+Was gravity itself&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Did I not tell you?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>You did&mdash;and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,<br/>
+How much I was mistaken! I always thought<br/>
+The Earl a gloomy man.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>So, so, you see!<br/>
+Be not too positive. Whom have we here?<br/>
+It cannot be the Earl? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>The Earl! Oh no!<br/>
+Tis not the Earl&mdash;but yet it is&mdash;and leaning<br/>
+Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!<br/>
+[<i>Enter Politian and Baldazzar.</i>]<br/>
+My lord, a second welcome let me give you<br/>
+To Rome&mdash;his Grace the Duke of Broglio.<br/>
+Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl<br/>
+Of Leicester in Great Britain.<br/>
+[<i>Politian bows haughtily.</i>]<br/>
+That, his friend<br/>
+Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,<br/>
+So please you, for Your Grace. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Ha! ha! Most welcome<br/>
+To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!<br/>
+And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!<br/>
+I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.<br/>
+Castiglione! call your cousin hither,<br/>
+And let me make the noble Earl acquainted<br/>
+With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time<br/>
+Most seasonable. The wedding&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Touching those letters, sir,<br/>
+Your son made mention of&mdash;your son, is he not?&mdash;<br/>
+Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.<br/>
+If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here&mdash;<br/>
+Baldazzar! ah!&mdash;my friend Baldazzar here<br/>
+Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Retire!&mdash;so soon? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>What ho! Benito! Rupert!<br/>
+His lordship's chambers&mdash;show his lordship to them!<br/>
+His lordship is unwell. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Benito</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Benito</i></td>
+<td>This way, my lord! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit, followed by Politian.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Retire! Unwell!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>So please you, sir. I fear me<br/>
+'Tis as you say&mdash;his lordship is unwell.<br/>
+The damp air of the evening&mdash;the fatigue<br/>
+Of a long journey&mdash;the&mdash;indeed I had better<br/>
+Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.<br/>
+I will return anon. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Return anon!<br/>
+Now this is very strange! Castiglione!<br/>
+This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.<br/>
+You surely were mistaken in what you said<br/>
+Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!&mdash;which of us said<br/>
+Politian was a melancholy man? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exeunt.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section5">Poems of Youth</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section5a"></a>Introduction (1831)</h3>
+
+<p>
+<i>Letter to Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+West Point, 1831</i><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+Dear B&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+...<br/>
+<br/>
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition&mdash;that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.<br/>
+<br/>
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to <i>your</i> idea and
+<i>mine</i> of poetry, I feel to be false&mdash;the less poetical the critic,
+the less just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and
+because there are but few B&mdash;&mdash;s in the world, I would be as much
+ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud of your own. Another than
+yourself might here observe,
+
+'Shakespeare is in possession of the
+world's good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It
+appears then that the world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed
+of their favorable judgment?'
+
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation
+of the word 'judgment' or 'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly,
+but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having
+bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not
+originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks
+Shakespeare a great poet&mdash;yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But
+the fool's neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind,
+whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above
+the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his
+every-day actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means
+of which that superiority is ascertained, which <i>but</i> for them
+would never have been discovered&mdash;this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare
+is a great poet&mdash;the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his
+<i>opinion</i>. This neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been
+adopted from one above <i>him</i>, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted
+individuals who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the
+master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.<br/>
+<br/>
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire&mdash;an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel&mdash;their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either &mdash;if so&mdash;justly.<br/>
+<br/>
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history&mdash;the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings&mdash;but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;&mdash;therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.<br/>
+<br/>
+"To proceed: <i>ceteris paribus</i>, he who pleases is of more
+importance to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is
+happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is
+merely the means of obtaining.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study&mdash;not a
+passion&mdash;it becomes the metaphysician to reason&mdash;but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination&mdash;intellect
+with the passions&mdash;or age with poetry.
+
+"'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;<br/>
+He who would search for pearls must dive below,' 
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought&mdash;not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith&mdash;that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.<br/>
+<br/>
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his
+<i>Biographia Literaria</i>&mdash;professedly his literary life and opinions,
+but, in fact, a treatise <i>de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis</i>. He
+goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a
+natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly
+and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a
+ray&mdash;while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for
+which the star is useful to us below&mdash;its brilliancy and its beauty.<br/>
+<br/>
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe&mdash;for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings&mdash;(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom&mdash;his <i>El
+Dorado</i>)&mdash;but they have the appearance of a better day recollected;
+and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we
+know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of
+the glacier.<br/>
+<br/>
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,&mdash;but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober&mdash;sober that they might not be deficient in formality&mdash;drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)&mdash;'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'&mdash;indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is <i>un</i>worthy to be done, or what
+<i>has</i> been done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking
+of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial,
+and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought
+hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. <i>Tantæne animis?</i> Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this&mdash;this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality&mdash;this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has <i>selected</i> for his contempt. We shall
+see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+"'And now she's at the pony's tail,<br/>
+And now she's at the pony's head,<br/>
+On that side now, and now on this;<br/>
+And, almost stifled with her bliss,<br/>
+A few sad tears does Betty shed....<br/>
+She pats the pony, where or when<br/>
+She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!<br/>
+Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!' 
+
+"Secondly:
+
+"'The dew was falling fast, the&mdash;stars began to blink;<br/>
+I heard a voice: it said,&mdash;"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"<br/>
+And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied<br/>
+A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.<br/>
+No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,<br/>
+And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.' 
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we <i>will</i> believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B&mdash;&mdash;, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+"'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion
+(<i>impossible!</i>) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of
+awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha!
+ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy
+these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha!
+ha! ha! 
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+'<i>J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+nient</i>;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own
+conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is
+lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics,
+and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In
+reading that man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano,
+conscious from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire
+and the light that are weltering below.<br/>
+<br/>
+"What is Poetry?&mdash;Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'<i>Très-volontiers;</i>' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a
+Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B&mdash;&mdash;, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then&mdash;and then think
+of the 'Tempest'&mdash;the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'&mdash; Prospero&mdash;Oberon&mdash;and
+Titania!<br/>
+<br/>
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its <i>immediate</i> object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having,
+for its object, an <i>indefinite</i> instead of a <i>definite</i>
+pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance
+presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with
+<i>in</i>definite sensations, to which end music is an <i>essential</i>,
+since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite
+conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry;
+music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music,
+is prose, from its very definitiveness.<br/>
+<br/>
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?<br/>
+<br/>
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B&mdash;&mdash;, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+"'No Indian prince has to his palace<br/>
+More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5b"></a>Sonnet &mdash; to Science</h3>
+
+<p>
+<b>Science</b>! true daughter of Old Time thou art!<br/>
+Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.<br/>
+Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,<br/>
+Vulture, whose wings are dull realities<br/>
+How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,<br/>
+Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering<br/>
+To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,<br/>
+Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!<br/>
+Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?<br/>
+And driven the Hamadryad from the wood<br/>
+To seek a shelter in some happier star?<br/>
+Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,<br/>
+The Elfin from the green grass, and from me<br/>
+The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#section5x">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><a name="section5c"></a>
+Private reasons&mdash;some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems<a href="#f2"><sup>1</sup></a>&mdash;have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed <i>verbatim</i>&mdash;without alteration
+from the original edition&mdash;the date of which is too remote to be
+judiciously acknowledged.&mdash;E. A. P. (1845).<br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f2"></a>Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe that
+he was a copyist of Tennyson.&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#section5c">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="fr11"></a>Al Aaraf<a href="#f11"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<table summary="Al Aaraf" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td>O! nothing earthly save the ray<br/>
+(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,<br/>
+As in those gardens where the day<br/>
+Springs from the gems of Circassy&mdash;<br/>
+O! nothing earthly save the thrill<br/>
+Of melody in woodland rill&mdash;<br/>
+Or (music of the passion-hearted)<br/>
+Joy's voice so peacefully departed<br/>
+That like the murmur in the shell,<br/>
+Its echo dwelleth and will dwell&mdash;<br/>
+O! nothing of the dross of ours&mdash;<br/>
+Yet all the beauty&mdash;all the flowers<br/>
+That list our Love, and deck our bowers&mdash;<br/>
+Adorn yon world afar, afar&mdash;<br/>
+The wandering star.<br/><br/>
+
+'Twas a sweet time for Nesace&mdash;for there<br/>
+Her world lay lolling on the golden air,<br/>
+Near four bright suns&mdash;a temporary rest&mdash;<br/>
+An oasis in desert of the blest.<br/>
+Away away&mdash;'mid seas of rays that roll<br/>
+Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul&mdash;<br/>
+The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)<br/>
+Can struggle to its destin'd eminence&mdash;<br/>
+To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,<br/>
+And late to ours, the favour'd one of God&mdash;<br/>
+But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,<br/>
+She throws aside the sceptre&mdash;leaves the helm,<br/>
+And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,<br/>
+Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.<br/><br/>
+
+Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,<br/>
+Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,<br/>
+(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,<br/>
+Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,<br/>
+It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),<br/>
+She look'd into Infinity&mdash;and knelt.<br/>
+Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled&mdash;<br/>
+Fit emblems of the model of her world&mdash;<br/>
+Seen but in beauty&mdash;not impeding sight&mdash;<br/>
+Of other beauty glittering thro' the light&mdash;<br/>
+A wreath that twined each starry form around,<br/>
+And all the opal'd air in color bound.<br/><br/>
+
+All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed<br/>
+Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head<br/>
+<a name="fr12">On</a> the fair Capo Deucato<a href="#f12"><sup>2</sup></a>, and sprang<br/>
+So eagerly around about to hang<br/>
+Upon the flying footsteps of&mdash;deep pride&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr13">Of</a> her who lov'd a mortal&mdash;and so died<a href="#f13"><sup>3</sup></a>.<br/>
+The Sephalica, budding with young bees,<br/>
+Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:<br/>
+<a name="fr14">And</a> gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd<a href="#f14"><sup>4</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd<br/>
+All other loveliness: its honied dew<br/>
+(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)<br/>
+Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,<br/>
+And fell on gardens of the unforgiven<br/>
+In Trebizond&mdash;and on a sunny flower<br/>
+So like its own above that, to this hour,<br/>
+It still remaineth, torturing the bee<br/>
+With madness, and unwonted reverie:<br/>
+In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf<br/>
+And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief<br/>
+Disconsolate linger&mdash;grief that hangs her head,<br/>
+Repenting follies that full long have fled,<br/>
+Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,<br/>
+Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:<br/>
+Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light<br/>
+She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:<br/>
+<a name="fr15">And</a> Clytia<a href="#f15"><sup>5</sup></a> pondering between many a sun,<br/>
+While pettish tears adown her petals run:<br/>
+<a name="fr16">And</a> that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth<a href="#f16"><sup>6</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,<br/>
+Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing<br/>
+Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:<br/>
+<a name="fr17">And</a> Valisnerian lotus thither flown<a href="#f17"><sup>7</sup></a><br/>
+From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:<br/>
+<a name="fr18">And</a> thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante<a href="#f18"><sup>8</sup></a>! <br/>
+Isola d'oro!&mdash;Fior di Levante!<br/>
+<a name="fr19">And</a> the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever<a href="#f19"><sup>9</sup></a><br/>
+With Indian Cupid down the holy river&mdash;<br/>
+Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given<br/>
+To <a name="fr20">bear</a> the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:<a href="#f20"><sup>10</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+"Spirit! that dwellest where,<br/>
+In the deep sky,<br/>
+The terrible and fair,<br/>
+In beauty vie!<br/>
+Beyond the line of blue&mdash;<br/>
+The boundary of the star<br/>
+Which turneth at the view<br/>
+Of thy barrier and thy bar&mdash;<br/>
+Of the barrier overgone<br/>
+By the comets who were cast<br/>
+From their pride, and from their throne<br/>
+To be drudges till the last&mdash;<br/>
+To be carriers of fire<br/>
+(The red fire of their heart)<br/>
+With speed that may not tire<br/>
+And with pain that shall not part&mdash;<br/>
+Who livest&mdash;<i>that</i> we know&mdash;<br/>
+In Eternity&mdash;we feel&mdash;<br/>
+But the shadow of whose brow<br/>
+What spirit shall reveal?<br/>
+Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,<br/>
+Thy messenger hath known<br/>
+Have dream'd for thy Infinity<br/>
+A <a name="fr21">model</a> of their own<a href="#f21"><sup>11</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+Thy will is done, O God!<br/>
+The star hath ridden high<br/>
+Thro' many a tempest, but she rode<br/>
+Beneath thy burning eye;<br/>
+And here, in thought, to thee&mdash;<br/>
+In thought that can alone<br/>
+Ascend thy empire and so be<br/>
+A partner of thy throne&mdash;<br/>
+By <a name="fr22">winged</a> Fantasy<a href="#f22"><sup>12</sup></a>,<br/>
+My embassy is given,<br/>
+Till secrecy shall knowledge be<br/>
+In the environs of Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+She ceas'd&mdash;and buried then her burning cheek<br/>
+Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek<br/>
+A shelter from the fervor of His eye;<br/>
+For the stars trembled at the Deity.<br/>
+She stirr'd not&mdash;breath'd not&mdash;for a voice was there<br/>
+How solemnly pervading the calm air!<br/>
+A sound of silence on the startled ear<br/>
+Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."<br/>
+Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call<br/>
+"Silence"&mdash;which is the merest word of all.<br/>
+<br/>
+All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things<br/>
+Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings&mdash;<br/>
+But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high<br/>
+The eternal voice of God is passing by,<br/>
+And the red winds are withering in the sky!<br/>
+"<a name="fr23">What</a> tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run<a href="#f23"><sup>13</sup></a>,<br/>
+Link'd to a little system, and one sun&mdash;<br/>
+Where all my love is folly, and the crowd<br/>
+Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,<br/>
+The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath<br/>
+(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)<br/>
+What tho' in worlds which own a single sun<br/>
+The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,<br/>
+Yet thine is my resplendency, so given<br/>
+To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.<br/>
+Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,<br/>
+With all thy train, athwart the moony sky&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr24">Apart</a>&mdash;like fire-flies in Sicilian night<a href="#f24"><sup>14</sup></a>,<br/>
+And wing to other worlds another light!<br/>
+Divulge the secrets of thy embassy<br/>
+To the proud orbs that twinkle&mdash;and so be<br/>
+To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban<br/>
+Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"<br/><br/>
+
+Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,<br/>
+The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight<br/>
+Our faith to one love&mdash;and one moon adore&mdash;<br/>
+The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.<br/>
+As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,<br/>
+Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,<br/>
+And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain<br/>
+Her <a name="fr25">way</a>&mdash;but left not yet her Therasæan reign<a href="#f25"><sup>15</sup></a>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td>High on a mountain of enamell'd head&mdash;<br/>
+Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed<br/>
+Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,<br/>
+Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees<br/>
+With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"<br/>
+What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven&mdash;<br/>
+Of rosy head, that towering far away<br/>
+Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray<br/>
+Of sunken suns at eve&mdash;at noon of night,<br/>
+While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light&mdash;<br/>
+Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile<br/>
+Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,<br/>
+Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile<br/>
+Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,<br/>
+And nursled the young mountain in its lair.<br/>
+Of <a name="fr26">molten</a> stars their pavement, such as fall<a href="#f26"><sup>16</sup></a><br/>
+Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall<br/>
+Of their own dissolution, while they die&mdash;<br/>
+Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.<br/>
+A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,<br/>
+Sat gently on these columns as a crown&mdash;<br/>
+A window of one circular diamond, there,<br/>
+Look'd out above into the purple air<br/>
+And rays from God shot down that meteor chain<br/>
+And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,<br/>
+Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,<br/>
+Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.<br/>
+But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen<br/>
+The dimness of this world: that grayish green<br/>
+That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave <br/>
+Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave&mdash;<br/>
+And every sculptured cherub thereabout<br/>
+That from his marble dwelling peered out,<br/>
+Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche&mdash;<br/>
+Achaian statues in a world so rich?<br/>
+<a name="fr27">Friezes</a> from Tadmor and Persepolis<a href="#f27"><sup>17</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss<br/>
+Of <a name="fr28">beautiful</a> Gomorrah! Oh, the wave<a href="#f28"><sup>18</sup></a><br/>
+Is now upon thee&mdash;but too late to save!<br/>
+Sound loves to revel in a summer night:<br/>
+Witness the murmur of the gray twilight<br/>
+<a name="fr29">That</a> stole upon the ear, in Eyraco<a href="#f29"><sup>19</sup></a>,<br/>
+Of many a wild star-gazer long ago&mdash;<br/>
+That stealeth ever on the ear of him<br/>
+Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,<br/>
+And sees the darkness coming as a cloud&mdash;<br/>
+Is <a name="fr30">not</a> its form&mdash;its voice&mdash;most palpable and loud?<a href="#f30"><sup>20</sup></a><br/>
+But what is this?&mdash;it cometh&mdash;and it brings<br/>
+A music with it&mdash;'tis the rush of wings&mdash;<br/>
+A pause&mdash;and then a sweeping, falling strain,<br/>
+And Nesace is in her halls again.<br/>
+From the wild energy of wanton haste<br/>
+Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;<br/>
+The zone that clung around her gentle waist<br/>
+Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.<br/>
+Within the centre of that hall to breathe<br/>
+She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,<br/>
+The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair<br/>
+And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!<br/><br/>
+
+<a name="fr31">Young</a> flowers were whispering in melody<a href="#f31"><sup>21</sup></a><br/>
+To happy flowers that night&mdash;and tree to tree;<br/>
+Fountains were gushing music as they fell<br/>
+In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;<br/>
+Yet silence came upon material things&mdash;<br/>
+Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings&mdash;<br/>
+And sound alone that from the spirit sprang<br/>
+Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:<br/><br/>
+
+"Neath blue-bell or streamer&mdash;<br/>
+Or tufted wild spray<br/>
+That keeps, from the dreamer,<br/>
+<a name="fr32">The</a> moonbeam away&mdash;<a href="#f32"><sup>22</sup></a><br/>
+Bright beings! that ponder,<br/>
+With half-closing eyes,<br/>
+On the stars which your wonder<br/>
+Hath drawn from the skies,<br/>
+Till they glance thro' the shade, and<br/>
+Come down to your brow<br/>
+Like&mdash;eyes of the maiden<br/>
+Who calls on you now&mdash;<br/>
+Arise! from your dreaming<br/>
+In violet bowers,<br/>
+To duty beseeming<br/>
+These star-litten hours&mdash;<br/>
+And shake from your tresses<br/>
+Encumber'd with dew<br/>
+<br/>
+The breath of those kisses<br/>
+That cumber them too&mdash;<br/>
+(O! how, without you, Love!<br/>
+Could angels be blest?)<br/>
+Those kisses of true love<br/>
+That lull'd ye to rest!<br/>
+Up! shake from your wing<br/>
+Each hindering thing:<br/>
+The dew of the night&mdash;<br/>
+It would weigh down your flight;<br/>
+And true love caresses&mdash;<br/>
+O! leave them apart!<br/>
+They are light on the tresses,<br/>
+But lead on the heart.<br/>
+<br/>
+Ligeia! Ligeia!<br/>
+My beautiful one!<br/>
+Whose harshest idea<br/>
+Will to melody run,<br/>
+O! is it thy will<br/>
+On the breezes to toss?<br/>
+Or, capriciously still,<br/>
+<a name="fr33">Like</a> the lone Albatross,<a href="#f33"><sup>23</sup></a><br/>
+Incumbent on night<br/>
+(As she on the air)<br/>
+To keep watch with delight<br/>
+On the harmony there?<br/>
+<br/>
+Ligeia! wherever<br/>
+Thy image may be,<br/>
+No magic shall sever<br/>
+Thy music from thee.<br/>
+Thou hast bound many eyes<br/>
+In a dreamy sleep&mdash;<br/>
+But the strains still arise<br/>
+Which <i>thy</i> vigilance keep&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+The sound of the rain<br/>
+Which leaps down to the flower,<br/>
+And dances again<br/>
+In the rhythm of the shower&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr34">The</a> murmur that springs<a href="#f34"><sup>24</sup></a><br/>
+From the growing of grass<br/>
+Are the music of things&mdash;<br/>
+But are modell'd, alas!<br/>
+Away, then, my dearest,<br/>
+O! hie thee away<br/>
+To springs that lie clearest<br/>
+Beneath the moon-ray&mdash;<br/>
+To lone lake that smiles,<br/>
+In its dream of deep rest,<br/>
+At the many star-isles<br/>
+That enjewel its breast&mdash;<br/>
+Where wild flowers, creeping,<br/>
+Have mingled their shade,<br/>
+On its margin is sleeping<br/>
+Full many a maid&mdash;<br/>
+Some have left the cool glade, and<br/>
+<a name="fr35">Have</a> slept with the bee&mdash;<a href="#f35"><sup>25</sup></a><br/>
+Arouse them, my maiden,<br/>
+On moorland and lea&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+Go! breathe on their slumber,<br/>
+All softly in ear,<br/>
+The musical number<br/>
+They slumber'd to hear&mdash;<br/>
+For what can awaken<br/>
+An angel so soon<br/>
+Whose sleep hath been taken<br/>
+Beneath the cold moon,<br/>
+As the spell which no slumber<br/>
+Of witchery may test,<br/>
+The rhythmical number<br/>
+Which lull'd him to rest?"<br/>
+<br/>
+Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,<br/>
+A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',<br/>
+Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight&mdash;<br/>
+Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light<br/>
+That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,<br/>
+O death! from eye of God upon that star;<br/>
+Sweet was that error&mdash;sweeter still that death&mdash;<br/>
+Sweet was that error&mdash;ev'n with <i>us</i> the breath<br/>
+Of Science dims the mirror of our joy&mdash;<br/>
+To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy&mdash;<br/>
+For what (to them) availeth it to know<br/>
+That Truth is Falsehood&mdash;or that Bliss is Woe?<br/>
+Sweet was their death&mdash;with them to die was rife<br/>
+With the last ecstasy of satiate life&mdash;<br/>
+Beyond that death no immortality&mdash;<br/>
+But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"&mdash;<br/>
+And there&mdash;oh! may my weary spirit dwell&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr36">Apart</a> from Heaven's Eternity&mdash;and yet how far from Hell!<a href="#f36"><sup>26</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim<br/>
+Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?<br/>
+But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts<br/>
+To those who hear not for their beating hearts.<br/>
+A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover&mdash;<br/>
+O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)<br/>
+Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?<br/>
+<a name="fr37">Unguided</a> Love hath fallen&mdash;'mid "tears of perfect moan."<a href="#f37"><sup>27</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+He was a goodly spirit&mdash;he who fell:<br/>
+A wanderer by mossy-mantled well&mdash;<br/>
+A gazer on the lights that shine above&mdash;<br/>
+A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:<br/>
+What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,<br/>
+And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair&mdash;<br/>
+And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy<br/>
+To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.<br/>
+The night had found (to him a night of wo)<br/>
+Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo&mdash;<br/>
+Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,<br/>
+And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.<br/>
+Here sate he with his love&mdash;his dark eye bent<br/>
+With eagle gaze along the firmament:<br/>
+Now turn'd it upon her&mdash;but ever then<br/>
+It trembled to the orb of <b>Earth</b> again.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!<br/>
+How lovely 'tis to look so far away!<br/>
+She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve<br/>
+I left her gorgeous halls&mdash;nor mourned to leave,<br/>
+That eve&mdash;that eve&mdash;I should remember well&mdash;<br/>
+The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell<br/>
+On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall<br/>
+Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall&mdash;<br/>
+And on my eyelids&mdash;O, the heavy light!<br/>
+How drowsily it weighed them into night!<br/>
+On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran<br/>
+With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:<br/>
+But O, that light!&mdash;I slumbered&mdash;Death, the while,<br/>
+Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle<br/>
+So softly that no single silken hair<br/>
+Awoke that slept&mdash;or knew that he was there.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon<br/>
+<a name="fr38">Was</a> a proud temple called the Parthenon;<a href="#f38"><sup>28</sup></a><br/>
+More beauty clung around her columned wall<br/>
+<a name="fr39">Then</a> even thy glowing bosom beats withal,<a href="#f39"><sup>29</sup></a><br/>
+And when old Time my wing did disenthral<br/>
+Thence sprang I&mdash;as the eagle from his tower,<br/>
+And years I left behind me in an hour.<br/>
+What time upon her airy bounds I hung,<br/>
+One half the garden of her globe was flung<br/>
+Unrolling as a chart unto my view&mdash;<br/>
+Tenantless cities of the desert too!<br/>
+Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,<br/>
+And half I wished to be again of men."<br/><br/>
+
+"My Angelo! and why of them to be?<br/>
+A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee&mdash;<br/>
+And greener fields than in yon world above,<br/>
+And woman's loveliness&mdash;and passionate love."<br/>
+"But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft<br/>
+<a name="fr40">Failed</a>, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft,<a href="#f40"><sup>30</sup></a><br/>
+Perhaps my brain grew dizzy&mdash;but the world<br/>
+I left so late was into chaos hurled,<br/>
+Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,<br/>
+And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.<br/>
+Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,<br/>
+And fell&mdash;not swiftly as I rose before,<br/>
+But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'<br/>
+Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!<br/>
+Nor long the measure of my falling hours,<br/>
+For nearest of all stars was thine to ours&mdash;<br/>
+Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,<br/>
+A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."<br/><br/>
+
+"We came&mdash;and to thy Earth&mdash;but not to us<br/>
+Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:<br/>
+We came, my love; around, above, below,<br/>
+Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,<br/>
+Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod<br/>
+<i>She</i> grants to us as granted by her God&mdash;<br/>
+But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled<br/>
+Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!<br/>
+Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes<br/>
+Alone could see the phantom in the skies,<br/>
+When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be<br/>
+Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea&mdash;<br/>
+But when its glory swelled upon the sky,<br/>
+As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,<br/>
+We paused before the heritage of men,<br/>
+And thy star trembled&mdash;as doth Beauty then!"<br/><br/>
+
+Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away<br/>
+The night that waned and waned and brought no day.<br/>
+They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts<br/>
+Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1839
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f11"></a>Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens&mdash;attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter&mdash;then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.<br/>
+<a href="#fr11">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f12"></a>Footnote 2: On Santa Maura&mdash;olim Deucadia.<br/>
+<a href="#fr12">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f13"></a>Footnote 3: Sappho.<br/>
+<a href="#fr13">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f14"></a>Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.<br/>
+<a href="#fr14">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f15"></a>Footnote 5: Clytia&mdash;the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol&mdash;which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.&mdash;<i>B. de St. Pierre.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr15">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f16"></a>Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July&mdash;you then perceive it gradually open its petals&mdash;expand
+them&mdash;fade and die.&mdash;<i>St. Pierre</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr16">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f17"></a>Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet&mdash;thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.<br/>
+<a href="#fr17">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f18"></a>Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.<br/>
+<a href="#fr18">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f19"></a>Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.<br/>
+<a href="#fr19">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f20"></a>Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.&mdash;<i>Rev. St. John.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr20">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f21"></a>Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.&mdash;<i>Vide Clarke's Sermons</i>, vol. I, page
+26, fol. edit.<br/>
+<br/>
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.&mdash;<i>Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.&mdash;<i>Vide du
+Pin</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+Dicite sacrorum præesides nemorum Dese, etc.,<br/>
+Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine<br/>
+Natura solers finxit humanum genus?<br/>
+Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,<br/>
+Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+&mdash;And afterwards,
+
+Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit<br/>
+Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.
+<a href="#fr21">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f22"></a>Footnote 12:
+
+Seltsamen Tochter Jovis <br/>
+Seinem Schosskinde<br/>
+Der Phantasie.
+
+<i>Goethe</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr22">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f23"></a>Footnote 13: Sightless&mdash;too small to be seen.&mdash;<i>Legge</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr23">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f24"></a>Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.<br/>
+<a href="#fr24">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f25"></a>Footnote 15: Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.<br/>
+<a href="#fr25">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f26"></a>>Footnote 16:
+
+Some star which, from the ruin'd roof<br/>
+Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr26">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f27"></a>Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+"Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines&mdash;mais un palais
+érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles&mdash;peut-il être un chef
+d'oeuvre des arts!"
+<a href="#fr27">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f28"></a>Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"&mdash;Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five&mdash;Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+&mdash;but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At <i>any</i> season, such remains may be
+discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such
+distance as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space
+now usurped by the "Asphaltites."<br/>
+<a href="#fr28">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f29"></a>Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.<br/>
+<a href="#fr29">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f30"></a>Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.<br/>
+<a href="#fr30">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f31"></a>Footnote 21:
+
+Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+<i>Merry Wives of Windsor</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr31">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f32"></a>Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." 
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.<br/>
+<a href="#fr32">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f33"></a>Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.<br/>
+<a href="#fr33">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f34"></a>Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+"The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+do make when they growe."
+<a href="#fr34">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f35"></a>Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro&mdash;in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+O! were there an island,<br/>
+Tho' ever so wild,<br/>
+Where woman might smile, and<br/>
+No man be beguil'd, etc.
+<a href="#fr35">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f36"></a>Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+Un no rompido sueno&mdash;<br/>
+Un dia puro&mdash;allegre&mdash;libre<br/>
+Quiera&mdash;<br/>
+Libre de amor&mdash;de zelo&mdash;<br/>
+De odio&mdash;de esperanza&mdash;de rezelo.
+
+<i>Luis Ponce de Leon.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.<br/>
+<br/>
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures&mdash;the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.<br/>
+<a href="#fr36">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f37"></a>Footnote 27:
+
+There be tears of perfect moan<br/>
+Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr37">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f38"></a>Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687&mdash;the most elevated spot in Athens.<br/>
+<a href="#fr38">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f39"></a>Footnote 29:
+
+Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows<br/>
+Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+<i>Marlowe.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr39">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f40"></a>Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.&mdash;<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr40">return</a><br/>
+<a href="#note5c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5d"></a>Tamerlane</h3>
+
+<p>
+Kind solace in a dying hour!<br/>
+Such, father, is not (now) my theme&mdash;<br/>
+I will not madly deem that power<br/>
+Of Earth may shrive me of the sin<br/>
+Unearthly pride hath revelled in&mdash;<br/>
+I have no time to dote or dream:<br/>
+You call it hope&mdash;that fire of fire!<br/>
+It is but agony of desire:<br/>
+If I <i>can</i> hope&mdash;O God! I can&mdash;<br/>
+Its fount is holier&mdash;more divine&mdash;<br/>
+I would not call thee fool, old man,<br/>
+But such is not a gift of thine.<br/><br/>
+
+Know thou the secret of a spirit<br/>
+Bowed from its wild pride into shame<br/>
+O yearning heart! I did inherit<br/>
+Thy withering portion with the fame,<br/>
+The searing glory which hath shone<br/>
+Amid the Jewels of my throne,<br/>
+Halo of Hell! and with a pain<br/>
+Not Hell shall make me fear again&mdash;<br/>
+O craving heart, for the lost flowers<br/>
+And sunshine of my summer hours!<br/>
+The undying voice of that dead time,<br/>
+With its interminable chime,<br/>
+Rings, in the spirit of a spell,<br/>
+Upon thy emptiness&mdash;a knell.<br/><br/>
+
+I have not always been as now:<br/>
+The fevered diadem on my brow<br/>
+I claimed and won usurpingly&mdash;<br/>
+Hath not the same fierce heirdom given<br/>
+Rome to the Cæsar&mdash;this to me?<br/>
+The heritage of a kingly mind,<br/>
+And a proud spirit which hath striven<br/>
+Triumphantly with human kind.<br/>
+On mountain soil I first drew life:<br/>
+The mists of the Taglay have shed<br/>
+Nightly their dews upon my head,<br/>
+And, I believe, the winged strife<br/>
+And tumult of the headlong air<br/>
+Have nestled in my very hair.<br/><br/>
+
+So late from Heaven&mdash;that dew&mdash;it fell<br/>
+('Mid dreams of an unholy night)<br/>
+Upon me with the touch of Hell,<br/>
+While the red flashing of the light<br/>
+From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,<br/>
+Appeared to my half-closing eye<br/>
+The pageantry of monarchy;<br/>
+And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar<br/>
+Came hurriedly upon me, telling<br/>
+Of human battle, where my voice,<br/>
+My own voice, silly child!&mdash;was swelling<br/>
+(O! how my spirit would rejoice,<br/>
+And leap within me at the cry)<br/>
+The battle-cry of Victory!<br/><br/>
+
+The rain came down upon my head<br/>
+Unsheltered&mdash;and the heavy wind<br/>
+Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.<br/>
+It was but man, I thought, who shed<br/>
+Laurels upon me: and the rush&mdash;<br/>
+The torrent of the chilly air<br/>
+Gurgled within my ear the crush<br/>
+Of empires&mdash;with the captive's prayer&mdash;<br/>
+The hum of suitors&mdash;and the tone<br/>
+Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.<br/><br/>
+
+My passions, from that hapless hour,<br/>
+Usurped a tyranny which men<br/>
+Have deemed since I have reached to power,<br/>
+My innate nature&mdash;be it so:<br/>
+But, father, there lived one who, then,<br/>
+Then&mdash;in my boyhood&mdash;when their fire<br/>
+Burned with a still intenser glow<br/>
+(For passion must, with youth, expire)<br/>
+E'en <i>then</i> who knew this iron heart<br/>
+In woman's weakness had a part.<br/><br/>
+
+I have no words&mdash;alas!&mdash;to tell<br/>
+The loveliness of loving well!<br/>
+Nor would I now attempt to trace<br/>
+The more than beauty of a face<br/>
+Whose lineaments, upon my mind,<br/>
+Are&mdash;shadows on th' unstable wind:<br/>
+Thus I remember having dwelt<br/>
+Some page of early lore upon,<br/>
+With loitering eye, till I have felt<br/>
+The letters&mdash;with their meaning&mdash;melt<br/>
+To fantasies&mdash;with none.<br/><br/>
+
+O, she was worthy of all love!<br/>
+Love as in infancy was mine&mdash;<br/>
+'Twas such as angel minds above<br/>
+Might envy; her young heart the shrine<br/>
+On which my every hope and thought<br/>
+Were incense&mdash;then a goodly gift,<br/>
+For they were childish and upright&mdash;<br/>
+Pure&mdash;as her young example taught:<br/>
+Why did I leave it, and, adrift,<br/>
+Trust to the fire within, for light?<br/><br/>
+
+We grew in age&mdash;and love&mdash;together&mdash;<br/>
+Roaming the forest, and the wild;<br/>
+My breast her shield in wintry weather&mdash;<br/>
+And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.<br/>
+And she would mark the opening skies,<br/>
+<i>I</i> saw no Heaven&mdash;but in her eyes.<br/>
+Young Love's first lesson is&mdash;&mdash;the heart:<br/>
+For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,<br/>
+When, from our little cares apart,<br/>
+And laughing at her girlish wiles,<br/>
+I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,<br/>
+And pour my spirit out in tears&mdash;<br/>
+There was no need to speak the rest&mdash;<br/>
+No need to quiet any fears<br/>
+Of her&mdash;who asked no reason why,<br/>
+But turned on me her quiet eye!<br/><br/>
+
+Yet <i>more</i> than worthy of the love<br/>
+My spirit struggled with, and strove<br/>
+When, on the mountain peak, alone,<br/>
+Ambition lent it a new tone&mdash;<br/>
+I had no being&mdash;but in thee:<br/>
+The world, and all it did contain<br/>
+In the earth&mdash;the air&mdash;the sea&mdash;<br/>
+Its joy&mdash;its little lot of pain<br/>
+That was new pleasure&mdash;the ideal,<br/>
+Dim, vanities of dreams by night&mdash;<br/>
+And dimmer nothings which were real&mdash;<br/>
+(Shadows&mdash;and a more shadowy light!)<br/>
+Parted upon their misty wings,<br/>
+And, so, confusedly, became<br/>
+Thine image and&mdash;a name&mdash;a name!<br/>
+Two separate&mdash;yet most intimate things.<br/><br/>
+
+I was ambitious&mdash;have you known<br/>
+The passion, father? You have not:<br/>
+A cottager, I marked a throne<br/>
+Of half the world as all my own,<br/>
+And murmured at such lowly lot&mdash;<br/>
+But, just like any other dream,<br/>
+Upon the vapor of the dew<br/>
+My own had past, did not the beam<br/>
+Of beauty which did while it thro'<br/>
+The minute&mdash;the hour&mdash;the day&mdash;oppress<br/>
+My mind with double loveliness.<br/><br/>
+
+We walked together on the crown<br/>
+Of a high mountain which looked down<br/>
+Afar from its proud natural towers<br/>
+Of rock and forest, on the hills&mdash;<br/>
+The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers<br/>
+And shouting with a thousand rills.<br/><br/>
+
+I spoke to her of power and pride,<br/>
+But mystically&mdash;in such guise<br/>
+That she might deem it nought beside<br/>
+The moment's converse; in her eyes<br/>
+I read, perhaps too carelessly&mdash;<br/>
+A mingled feeling with my own&mdash;<br/>
+The flush on her bright cheek, to me<br/>
+Seemed to become a queenly throne<br/>
+Too well that I should let it be<br/>
+Light in the wilderness alone.<br/><br/>
+
+I wrapped myself in grandeur then,<br/>
+And donned a visionary crown&mdash;<br/>
+Yet it was not that Fantasy<br/>
+Had thrown her mantle over me&mdash;<br/>
+But that, among the rabble&mdash;men,<br/>
+Lion ambition is chained down&mdash;<br/>
+And crouches to a keeper's hand&mdash;<br/>
+Not so in deserts where the grand&mdash;<br/>
+The wild&mdash;the terrible conspire<br/>
+With their own breath to fan his fire.<br/><br/>
+
+Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!&mdash;<br/>
+Is she not queen of Earth? her pride<br/>
+Above all cities? in her hand<br/>
+Their destinies? in all beside<br/>
+Of glory which the world hath known<br/>
+Stands she not nobly and alone?<br/>
+Falling&mdash;her veriest stepping-stone<br/>
+Shall form the pedestal of a throne&mdash;<br/>
+And who her sovereign? Timour&mdash;he<br/>
+Whom the astonished people saw<br/>
+Striding o'er empires haughtily<br/>
+A diademed outlaw!<br/><br/>
+
+O, human love! thou spirit given,<br/>
+On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!<br/>
+Which fall'st into the soul like rain<br/>
+Upon the Siroc-withered plain,<br/>
+And, failing in thy power to bless,<br/>
+But leav'st the heart a wilderness!<br/>
+Idea! which bindest life around<br/>
+With music of so strange a sound<br/>
+And beauty of so wild a birth&mdash;<br/>
+Farewell! for I have won the Earth.<br/><br/>
+
+When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see<br/>
+No cliff beyond him in the sky,<br/>
+His pinions were bent droopingly&mdash;<br/>
+And homeward turned his softened eye.<br/>
+'Twas sunset: When the sun will part<br/>
+There comes a sullenness of heart<br/>
+To him who still would look upon<br/>
+The glory of the summer sun.<br/>
+That soul will hate the ev'ning mist<br/>
+So often lovely, and will list<br/>
+To the sound of the coming darkness (known<br/>
+To those whose spirits hearken) as one<br/>
+Who, in a dream of night, <i>would</i> fly,<br/>
+But <i>cannot</i>, from a danger nigh.<br/><br/>
+
+What tho' the moon&mdash;tho' the white moon<br/>
+Shed all the splendor of her noon,<br/>
+<i>Her</i> smile is chilly&mdash;and <i>her</i> beam,<br/>
+In that time of dreariness, will seem<br/>
+(So like you gather in your breath)<br/>
+A portrait taken after death.<br/>
+And boyhood is a summer sun<br/>
+Whose waning is the dreariest one&mdash;<br/>
+For all we live to know is known,<br/>
+And all we seek to keep hath flown&mdash;<br/>
+Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall<br/>
+With the noon-day beauty&mdash;which is all.<br/>
+I reached my home&mdash;my home no more&mdash;<br/>
+For all had flown who made it so.<br/>
+I passed from out its mossy door,<br/>
+And, tho' my tread was soft and low,<br/>
+A voice came from the threshold stone<br/>
+Of one whom I had earlier known&mdash;<br/>
+O, I defy thee, Hell, to show<br/>
+On beds of fire that burn below,<br/>
+An humbler heart&mdash;a deeper woe.<br/><br/>
+
+Father, I firmly do believe&mdash;<br/>
+I <i>know</i>&mdash;for Death who comes for me<br/>
+From regions of the blest afar,<br/>
+Where there is nothing to deceive,<br/>
+Hath left his iron gate ajar.<br/>
+And rays of truth you cannot see<br/>
+Are flashing thro' Eternity&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+I do believe that Eblis hath<br/>
+A snare in every human path&mdash;<br/>
+Else how, when in the holy grove<br/>
+I wandered of the idol, Love,&mdash;<br/>
+Who daily scents his snowy wings<br/>
+With incense of burnt-offerings<br/>
+From the most unpolluted things,<br/>
+Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven<br/>
+Above with trellised rays from Heaven<br/>
+No mote may shun&mdash;no tiniest fly&mdash;<br/>
+The light'ning of his eagle eye&mdash;<br/>
+How was it that Ambition crept,<br/>
+Unseen, amid the revels there,<br/>
+Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt<br/>
+In the tangles of Love's very hair!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829.<br/>
+<br/>
+
+<a href="#note5d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5e"></a>To Helen</h3>
+
+<p>
+Helen, thy beauty is to me<br/>
+Like those Nicean barks of yore,<br/>
+That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,<br/>
+The weary, wayworn wanderer bore<br/>
+To his own native shore.<br/><br/>
+
+On desperate seas long wont to roam,<br/>
+Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,<br/>
+Thy Naiad airs have brought me home<br/>
+To the glory that was Greece,<br/>
+To the grandeur that was Rome.<br/><br/>
+
+Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,<br/>
+How statue-like I see thee stand,<br/>
+The agate lamp within thy hand!<br/>
+Ah, Psyche, from the regions which<br/>
+Are Holy Land!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831<br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5f"></a>The Valley of Unrest</h3>
+
+<p>
+<i>Once</i> it smiled a silent dell<br/>
+Where the people did not dwell;<br/>
+They had gone unto the wars,<br/>
+Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,<br/>
+Nightly, from their azure towers,<br/>
+To keep watch above the flowers,<br/>
+In the midst of which all day<br/>
+The red sun-light lazily lay,<br/>
+<i>Now</i> each visitor shall confess<br/>
+The sad valley's restlessness.<br/>
+Nothing there is motionless&mdash;<br/>
+Nothing save the airs that brood<br/>
+Over the magic solitude.<br/>
+Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees<br/>
+That palpitate like the chill seas<br/>
+Around the misty Hebrides!<br/>
+Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven<br/>
+That rustle through the unquiet Heaven<br/>
+Unceasingly, from morn till even,<br/>
+Over the violets there that lie<br/>
+In myriad types of the human eye&mdash;<br/>
+Over the lilies that wave<br/>
+And weep above a nameless grave!<br/>
+They wave:&mdash;from out their fragrant tops<br/>
+Eternal dews come down in drops.<br/>
+They weep:&mdash;from off their delicate stems<br/>
+Perennial tears descend in gems.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831<br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5g"></a>Israfel<a href="#f41"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<p>
+In Heaven a spirit doth dwell<br/>
+"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"<br/>
+None sing so wildly well<br/>
+As the angel Israfel,<br/>
+And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),<br/>
+Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell<br/>
+Of his voice, all mute.<br/><br/>
+
+Tottering above<br/>
+In her highest noon,<br/>
+The enamoured Moon<br/>
+Blushes with love,<br/>
+While, to listen, the red levin<br/>
+(With the rapid Pleiads, even,<br/>
+Which were seven),<br/>
+Pauses in Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+And they say (the starry choir<br/>
+And the other listening things)<br/>
+That Israfeli's fire<br/>
+Is owing to that lyre<br/>
+By which he sits and sings&mdash;<br/>
+The trembling living wire<br/>
+Of those unusual strings.<br/><br/>
+
+But the skies that angel trod,<br/>
+Where deep thoughts are a duty&mdash;<br/>
+Where Love's a grow-up God&mdash;<br/>
+Where the Houri glances are<br/>
+Imbued with all the beauty<br/>
+Which we worship in a star.<br/><br/>
+
+Therefore, thou art not wrong,<br/>
+Israfeli, who despisest<br/>
+An unimpassioned song;<br/>
+To thee the laurels belong,<br/>
+Best bard, because the wisest!<br/>
+Merrily live and long!<br/><br/>
+
+The ecstasies above<br/>
+With thy burning measures suit&mdash;<br/>
+Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,<br/>
+With the fervor of thy lute&mdash;<br/>
+Well may the stars be mute!<br/><br/>
+
+Yes, Heaven is thine; but this<br/>
+Is a world of sweets and sours;<br/>
+Our flowers are merely&mdash;flowers,<br/>
+And the shadow of thy perfect bliss<br/>
+Is the sunshine of ours.<br/><br/>
+
+If I could dwell<br/>
+Where Israfel<br/>
+Hath dwelt, and he where I,<br/>
+He might not sing so wildly well<br/>
+A mortal melody,<br/>
+While a bolder note than this might swell<br/>
+From my lyre within the sky.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1836
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f41"></a>Footnote 1:
+
+And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+<i>Koran</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#section5g">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5h"></a>To &mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+I heed not that my earthly lot<br/>
+Hath&mdash;little of Earth in it&mdash;<br/>
+That years of love have been forgot<br/>
+In the hatred of a minute:&mdash;<br/>
+I mourn not that the desolate<br/>
+Are happier, sweet, than I,<br/>
+But that <i>you</i> sorrow for <i>my</i> fate<br/>
+Who am a passer-by.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5i"></a>To &mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see<br/>
+The wantonest singing birds,<br/><br/>
+
+Are lips&mdash;and all thy melody<br/>
+Of lip-begotten words&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined<br/>
+Then desolately fall,<br/>
+O God! on my funereal mind<br/>
+Like starlight on a pall&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Thy heart&mdash;<i>thy</i> heart!&mdash;I wake and sigh,<br/>
+And sleep to dream till day<br/><br/>
+
+Of the truth that gold can never buy&mdash;<br/>
+Of the baubles that it may.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5j"></a>To the River</h3>
+
+<p>
+Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow<br/>
+Of crystal, wandering water,<br/>
+Thou art an emblem of the glow<br/>
+Of beauty&mdash;the unhidden heart&mdash;<br/>
+The playful maziness of art<br/>
+In old Alberto's daughter;<br/><br/>
+
+But when within thy wave she looks&mdash;<br/>
+Which glistens then, and trembles&mdash;<br/>
+Why, then, the prettiest of brooks<br/>
+Her worshipper resembles;<br/>
+For in his heart, as in thy stream,<br/>
+Her image deeply lies&mdash;<br/>
+His heart which trembles at the beam<br/>
+Of her soul-searching eyes.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5k"></a>Song</h3>
+
+<p>
+I saw thee on thy bridal day&mdash;<br/>
+When a burning blush came o'er thee,<br/>
+Though happiness around thee lay,<br/>
+The world all love before thee:<br/><br/>
+
+And in thine eye a kindling light<br/>
+(Whatever it might be)<br/>
+Was all on Earth my aching sight<br/>
+Of Loveliness could see.<br/><br/>
+
+That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame&mdash;<br/>
+As such it well may pass&mdash;<br/>
+Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame<br/>
+In the breast of him, alas!<br/><br/>
+
+Who saw thee on that bridal day,<br/>
+When that deep blush <i>would</i> come o'er thee,<br/>
+Though happiness around thee lay,<br/>
+The world all love before thee.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5l"></a>Spirits of the Dead</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thy soul shall find itself alone<br/>
+'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone<br/>
+Not one, of all the crowd, to pry<br/>
+Into thine hour of secrecy.<br/>
+Be silent in that solitude<br/>
+Which is not loneliness&mdash;for then<br/>
+The spirits of the dead who stood<br/>
+In life before thee are again<br/>
+In death around thee&mdash;and their will<br/>
+Shall overshadow thee: be still.<br/>
+The night&mdash;tho' clear&mdash;shall frown&mdash;<br/>
+And the stars shall not look down<br/>
+From their high thrones in the Heaven,<br/>
+With light like Hope to mortals given&mdash;<br/>
+But their red orbs, without beam,<br/>
+To thy weariness shall seem<br/>
+As a burning and a fever<br/>
+Which would cling to thee forever.<br/>
+Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish&mdash;<br/>
+Now are visions ne'er to vanish&mdash;<br/>
+From thy spirit shall they pass<br/>
+No more&mdash;like dew-drops from the grass.<br/>
+The breeze&mdash;the breath of God&mdash;is still&mdash;<br/>
+And the mist upon the hill<br/>
+Shadowy&mdash;shadowy&mdash;yet unbroken,<br/>
+Is a symbol and a token&mdash;<br/>
+How it hangs upon the trees,<br/>
+A mystery of mysteries!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1837
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5m"></a>A Dream</h3>
+
+<p>
+In visions of the dark night<br/>
+I have dreamed of joy departed&mdash;<br/>
+But a waking dream of life and light<br/>
+Hath left me broken-hearted.<br/>
+Ah! what is not a dream by day<br/>
+To him whose eyes are cast<br/>
+On things around him with a ray<br/>
+Turned back upon the past?<br/>
+That holy dream&mdash;that holy dream,<br/>
+While all the world were chiding,<br/>
+Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,<br/>
+A lonely spirit guiding.<br/>
+What though that light, thro' storm and night,<br/>
+So trembled from afar&mdash;<br/>
+What could there be more purely bright<br/>
+In Truth's day star?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1837
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5n"></a>Romance</h3>
+
+<p>
+Romance, who loves to nod and sing,<br/>
+With drowsy head and folded wing,<br/>
+Among the green leaves as they shake<br/>
+Far down within some shadowy lake,<br/>
+To me a painted paroquet<br/>
+Hath been&mdash;a most familiar bird&mdash;<br/>
+Taught me my alphabet to say&mdash;<br/>
+To lisp my very earliest word<br/>
+While in the wild wood I did lie,<br/>
+A child&mdash;with a most knowing eye.<br/><br/>
+
+Of late, eternal Condor years<br/>
+So shake the very Heaven on high<br/>
+With tumult as they thunder by,<br/>
+I have no time for idle cares<br/>
+Though gazing on the unquiet sky.<br/>
+And when an hour with calmer wings<br/>
+Its down upon my spirit flings&mdash;<br/>
+That little time with lyre and rhyme<br/>
+To while away&mdash;forbidden things!<br/>
+My heart would feel to be a crime<br/>
+Unless it trembled with the strings.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829<br/>
+<a href="#note5n">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5o"></a>Fairyland</h3>
+
+<p>
+Dim vales&mdash;and shadowy floods&mdash;<br/>
+And cloudy-looking woods,<br/>
+Whose forms we can't discover<br/>
+For the tears that drip all over<br/>
+Huge moons there wax and wane&mdash;<br/>
+Again&mdash;again&mdash;again&mdash;<br/>
+Every moment of the night&mdash;<br/>
+Forever changing places&mdash;<br/>
+And they put out the star-light<br/>
+With the breath from their pale faces.<br/>
+About twelve by the moon-dial<br/>
+One more filmy than the rest<br/>
+(A kind which, upon trial,<br/>
+They have found to be the best)<br/>
+Comes down&mdash;still down&mdash;and down<br/>
+With its centre on the crown<br/>
+Of a mountain's eminence,<br/>
+While its wide circumference<br/>
+In easy drapery falls<br/>
+Over hamlets, over halls,<br/>
+Wherever they may be&mdash;<br/>
+O'er the strange woods&mdash;o'er the sea&mdash;<br/>
+Over spirits on the wing&mdash;<br/>
+Over every drowsy thing&mdash;<br/>
+And buries them up quite<br/>
+In a labyrinth of light&mdash;<br/>
+And then, how deep!&mdash;O, deep!<br/>
+Is the passion of their sleep.<br/>
+In the morning they arise,<br/>
+And their moony covering<br/>
+Is soaring in the skies,<br/>
+With the tempests as they toss,<br/>
+Like&mdash;almost any thing&mdash;<br/>
+Or a yellow Albatross.<br/>
+They use that moon no more<br/>
+For the same end as before&mdash;<br/>
+Videlicet a tent&mdash;<br/>
+Which I think extravagant:<br/>
+Its atomies, however,<br/>
+Into a shower dissever,<br/>
+Of which those butterflies,<br/>
+Of Earth, who seek the skies,<br/>
+And so come down again<br/>
+(Never-contented thing!)<br/>
+Have brought a specimen<br/>
+Upon their quivering wings.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5p"></a>The Lake</h3>
+
+<p>
+In spring of youth it was my lot<br/>
+To haunt of the wide world a spot<br/>
+The which I could not love the less&mdash;<br/>
+So lovely was the loneliness<br/>
+Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,<br/>
+And the tall pines that towered around.<br/><br/>
+
+But when the Night had thrown her pall<br/>
+Upon the spot, as upon all,<br/>
+And the mystic wind went by<br/>
+Murmuring in melody&mdash;<br/>
+Then&mdash;ah, then, I would awake<br/>
+To the terror of the lone lake.<br/><br/>
+
+Yet that terror was not fright,<br/>
+But a tremulous delight&mdash;<br/>
+A feeling not the jewelled mine<br/>
+Could teach or bribe me to define&mdash;<br/>
+Nor Love&mdash;although the Love were thine.<br/><br/>
+
+Death was in that poisonous wave,<br/>
+And in its gulf a fitting grave<br/>
+For him who thence could solace bring<br/>
+To his lone imagining&mdash;<br/>
+Whose solitary soul could make<br/>
+An Eden of that dim lake.<br/>
+
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5q"></a>Evening Star</h3>
+
+<p>
+'Twas noontide of summer,<br/>
+And midtime of night,<br/>
+And stars, in their orbits,<br/>
+Shone pale, through the light<br/>
+Of the brighter, cold moon.<br/>
+'Mid planets her slaves,<br/>
+Herself in the Heavens,<br/>
+Her beam on the waves.<br/><br/>
+
+I gazed awhile<br/>
+On her cold smile;<br/>
+Too cold&mdash;too cold for me&mdash;<br/>
+There passed, as a shroud,<br/>
+A fleecy cloud,<br/>
+And I turned away to thee,<br/>
+Proud Evening Star,<br/>
+In thy glory afar<br/>
+And dearer thy beam shall be;<br/>
+For joy to my heart<br/>
+Is the proud part<br/>
+Thou bearest in Heaven at night,<br/>
+And more I admire<br/>
+Thy distant fire,<br/>
+Than that colder, lowly light.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5r"></a>Imitation</h3>
+
+<p>
+A dark unfathomed tide<br/>
+Of interminable pride&mdash;<br/>
+A mystery, and a dream,<br/>
+Should my early life seem;<br/>
+I say that dream was fraught<br/>
+With a wild and waking thought<br/>
+Of beings that have been,<br/>
+Which my spirit hath not seen,<br/>
+Had I let them pass me by,<br/>
+With a dreaming eye!<br/>
+Let none of earth inherit<br/>
+That vision on my spirit;<br/>
+Those thoughts I would control,<br/>
+As a spell upon his soul:<br/>
+For that bright hope at last<br/>
+And that light time have past,<br/>
+And my wordly rest hath gone<br/>
+With a sigh as it passed on:<br/>
+I care not though it perish<br/>
+With a thought I then did cherish.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5s"></a>"The Happiest Day"</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Happiest Day" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">The happiest day&mdash;the happiest hour<br/>
+My seared and blighted heart hath known,<br/>
+The highest hope of pride and power,<br/>
+I feel hath flown. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween<br/>
+But they have vanished long, alas!<br/>
+The visions of my youth have been&mdash;<br/>
+But let them pass. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">And pride, what have I now with thee?<br/>
+Another brow may ev'n inherit<br/>
+The venom thou hast poured on me&mdash;<br/>
+Be still my spirit! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">The happiest day&mdash;the happiest hour<br/>
+Mine eyes shall see&mdash;have ever seen<br/>
+The brightest glance of pride and power<br/>
+I feel have been: </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">But were that hope of pride and power<br/>
+Now offered with the pain<br/>
+Ev'n <i>then</i> I felt&mdash;that brightest hour<br/>
+I would not live again: </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VI</span></td>
+<td align="center">For on its wing was dark alloy<br/>
+And as it fluttered&mdash;fell<br/>
+An essence&mdash;powerful to destroy<br/>
+A soul that knew it well.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5t"></a>Hymn <i>(translation from the Greek</i></h3>
+
+<h4><i>Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius</i></h4>
+
+<table summary="From the Greek" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,<br/>
+Like those champions devoted and brave,<br/>
+When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,<br/>
+And to Athens deliverance gave. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam<br/>
+In the joy breathing isles of the blest;<br/>
+Where the mighty of old have their home&mdash;<br/>
+Where Achilles and Diomed rest. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,<br/>
+Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,<br/>
+When he made at the tutelar shrine<br/>
+A libation of Tyranny's blood. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!<br/>
+Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!<br/>
+Endless ages shall cherish your fame,<br/>
+Embalmed in their echoing songs!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5u"></a>Dreams</h3>
+
+<p>
+Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!<br/>
+My spirit not awakening, till the beam<br/>
+Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.<br/>
+Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,<br/>
+'Twere better than the cold reality<br/>
+Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,<br/>
+And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,<br/>
+A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.<br/>
+But should it be&mdash;that dream eternally<br/>
+Continuing&mdash;as dreams have been to me<br/>
+In my young boyhood&mdash;should it thus be given,<br/>
+'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.<br/>
+For I have revelled when the sun was bright<br/>
+I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light<br/>
+And loveliness,&mdash;have left my very heart<br/>
+<a name="fr51">Inclines</a> of my imaginary apart<a href="#f51"><sup>1</sup></a><br/>
+From mine own home, with beings that have been<br/>
+Of mine own thought&mdash;what more could I have seen?<br/>
+'Twas once&mdash;and only once&mdash;and the wild hour<br/>
+From my remembrance shall not pass&mdash;some power<br/>
+Or spell had bound me&mdash;'twas the chilly wind<br/>
+Came o'er me in the night, and left behind<br/>
+Its image on my spirit&mdash;or the moon<br/>
+Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon<br/>
+Too coldly&mdash;or the stars&mdash;howe'er it was<br/>
+That dream was that that night-wind&mdash;let it pass.<br/>
+<i>I have been</i> happy, though in a dream.<br/>
+I have been happy&mdash;and I love the theme:<br/>
+Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life<br/>
+As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife<br/>
+Of semblance with reality which brings<br/>
+To the delirious eye, more lovely things<br/>
+Of Paradise and Love&mdash;and all my own!&mdash;<br/>
+Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f51"></a>Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr51">return</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5v"></a>"In Youth I have Known One"</h3>
+
+<table summary="In Youth I have Known One" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td align="center"><i>How often we forget all time, when lone<br/>
+Admiring Nature's universal throne;<br/>
+Her woods&mdash;her wilds&mdash;her mountains&mdash;the intense<br/>
+Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">In youth I have known one with whom the Earth<br/>
+In secret communing held&mdash;as he with it,<br/>
+In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:<br/>
+Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit<br/>
+From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth<br/>
+A passionate light such for his spirit was fit&mdash;<br/>
+And yet that spirit knew&mdash;not in the hour<br/>
+Of its own fervor&mdash;what had o'er it power.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought<br/>
+<a name="fr61">To</a> a ferver<a href="#f61"><sup>1</sup></a> by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,<br/>
+But I will half believe that wild light fraught<br/>
+With more of sovereignty than ancient lore<br/>
+Hath ever told&mdash;or is it of a thought<br/>
+The unembodied essence, and no more<br/>
+That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass<br/>
+As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye<br/>
+To the loved object&mdash;so the tear to the lid<br/>
+Will start, which lately slept in apathy?<br/>
+And yet it need not be&mdash;(that object) hid<br/>
+From us in life&mdash;but common&mdash;which doth lie<br/>
+Each hour before us&mdash;but then only bid<br/>
+With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken<br/>
+T' awake us&mdash;'Tis a symbol and a token&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of what in other worlds shall be&mdash;and given<br/>
+In beauty by our God, to those alone<br/>
+Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven<br/>
+Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,<br/>
+That high tone of the spirit which hath striven<br/>
+Though not with Faith&mdash;with godliness&mdash;whose throne<br/>
+With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;<br/>
+Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f61"></a>Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr61">return</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5w"></a>A Pæan</h3>
+
+<table summary="A Pæan" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">How shall the burial rite be read?<br/>
+The solemn song be sung?<br/>
+The requiem for the loveliest dead,<br/>
+That ever died so young?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Her friends are gazing on her,<br/>
+And on her gaudy bier,<br/>
+And weep!&mdash;oh! to dishonor<br/>
+Dead beauty with a tear! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">They loved her for her wealth&mdash;<br/>
+And they hated her for her pride&mdash;<br/>
+But she grew in feeble health,<br/>
+And they <i>love</i> her&mdash;that she died. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">They tell me (while they speak<br/>
+Of her "costly broider'd pall")<br/>
+That my voice is growing weak&mdash;<br/>
+That I should not sing at all&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">Or that my tone should be<br/>
+Tun'd to such solemn song<br/>
+So mournfully&mdash;so mournfully,<br/>
+That the dead may feel no wrong.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VI</span></td>
+<td align="center">But she is gone above,<br/>
+With young Hope at her side,<br/>
+And I am drunk with love<br/>
+Of the dead, who is my bride.&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VII</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of the dead&mdash;dead who lies<br/>
+All perfum'd there,<br/>
+With the death upon her eyes.<br/>
+And the life upon her hair. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VIII</span></td>
+<td align="center">Thus on the coffin loud and long<br/>
+I strike&mdash;the murmur sent<br/>
+Through the gray chambers to my song,<br/>
+Shall be the accompaniment. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IX</span></td>
+<td align="center">Thou diedst in thy life's June&mdash;<br/>
+But thou didst not die too fair:<br/>
+Thou didst not die too soon,<br/>
+Nor with too calm an air. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">X</span></td>
+<td align="center">From more than friends on earth,<br/>
+Thy life and love are riven,<br/>
+To join the untainted mirth<br/>
+Of more than thrones in heaven.&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">XI</span></td>
+<td align="center">Therefore, to thee this night<br/>
+I will no requiem raise,<br/>
+But waft thee on thy flight,<br/>
+With a Pæan of old days.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section5x">Notes</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+</p>
+
+<h3><a name="note5c"></a>Note on <i>Al Aaraaf</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+Mysterious star!<br/>
+Thou wert my dream<br/>
+All a long summer night&mdash;<br/>
+Be now my theme!<br/>
+By this clear stream,<br/>
+Of thee will I write;<br/>
+Meantime from afar<br/>
+Bathe me in light!<br/><br/>
+
+Thy world has not the dross of ours,<br/>
+Yet all the beauty&mdash;all the flowers<br/>
+That list our love or deck our bowers<br/>
+In dreamy gardens, where do lie<br/>
+Dreamy maidens all the day;<br/>
+While the silver winds of Circassy<br/>
+On violet couches faint away.<br/>
+Little&mdash;oh! little dwells in thee<br/>
+Like unto what on earth we see:<br/>
+Beauty's eye is here the bluest<br/>
+In the falsest and untruest&mdash;<br/>
+On the sweetest air doth float<br/>
+The most sad and solemn note&mdash;<br/>
+If with thee be broken hearts,<br/>
+Joy so peacefully departs,<br/>
+That its echo still doth dwell,<br/>
+Like the murmur in the shell.<br/>
+Thou! thy truest type of grief<br/>
+Is the gently falling leaf&mdash;<br/>
+Thou! thy framing is so holy<br/>
+Sorrow is not melancholy. 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5d"></a>Note on <i>Tamerlane</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5e"></a>Note on <i>To Helen, The Valley of Unrest, Israfel etc.</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5n"></a>Note on <i>Romance</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+Succeeding years, too wild for song,<br/>
+Then rolled like tropic storms along,<br/>
+Where, though the garish lights that fly<br/>
+Dying along the troubled sky,<br/>
+Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,<br/>
+The blackness of the general Heaven,<br/>
+That very blackness yet doth fling<br/>
+Light on the lightning's silver wing.<br/><br/>
+
+For being an idle boy lang syne,<br/>
+Who read Anacreon and drank wine,<br/>
+I early found Anacreon rhymes<br/>
+Were almost passionate sometimes&mdash;<br/>
+And by strange alchemy of brain<br/>
+His pleasures always turned to pain&mdash;<br/>
+His naïveté to wild desire&mdash;<br/>
+His wit to love&mdash;his wine to fire&mdash;<br/>
+And so, being young and dipt in folly,<br/>
+I fell in love with melancholy.<br/><br/>
+
+And used to throw my earthly rest<br/>
+And quiet all away in jest&mdash;<br/>
+I could not love except where Death<br/>
+Was mingling his with Beauty's breath&mdash;<br/>
+Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,<br/>
+Were stalking between her and me.<br/><br/>
+
+...<br/><br/>
+
+But <i>now</i> my soul hath too much room&mdash;<br/>
+Gone are the glory and the gloom&mdash;<br/>
+The black hath mellow'd into gray,<br/>
+And all the fires are fading away.<br/><br/>
+
+My draught of passion hath been deep&mdash;<br/>
+I revell'd, and I now would sleep&mdash;<br/>
+And after drunkenness of soul<br/>
+Succeeds the glories of the bowl&mdash;<br/>
+An idle longing night and day<br/>
+To dream my very life away.<br/><br/>
+
+But dreams&mdash;of those who dream as I,<br/>
+Aspiringly, are damned, and die:<br/>
+Yet should I swear I mean alone,<br/>
+By notes so very shrilly blown,<br/>
+To break upon Time's monotone,<br/>
+While yet my vapid joy and grief<br/>
+Are tintless of the yellow leaf&mdash;<br/>
+Why not an imp the greybeard hath,<br/>
+Will shake his shadow in my path&mdash;<br/>
+And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook<br/>
+Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section6">Doubtful Poems</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section6a"></a>Alone</h3>
+
+<p>
+From childhood's hour I have not been<br/>
+As others were&mdash;I have not seen<br/>
+As others saw&mdash;I could not bring<br/>
+My passions from a common spring&mdash;<br/>
+From the same source I have not taken<br/>
+My sorrow&mdash;I could not awaken<br/>
+My heart to joy at the same tone&mdash;<br/>
+And all I loved&mdash;<i>I</i> loved alone&mdash;<br/>
+<i>Thou</i>&mdash;in my childhood&mdash;in the dawn<br/>
+Of a most stormy life&mdash;was drawn<br/>
+From every depth of good and ill<br/>
+The mystery which binds me still&mdash;<br/>
+From the torrent, or the fountain&mdash;<br/>
+From the red cliff of the mountain&mdash;<br/>
+From the sun that round me roll'd<br/>
+In its autumn tint of gold&mdash;<br/>
+From the lightning in the sky<br/>
+As it passed me flying by&mdash;<br/>
+From the thunder and the storm&mdash;<br/>
+And the cloud that took the form<br/>
+(When the rest of Heaven was blue)<br/>
+Of a demon in my view.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+March 17, 1829<br/>
+<a href="#note6a">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6b"></a>To Isadore</h3>
+
+<table summary="From the Greek" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Beneath the vine-clad eaves,<br/>
+Whose shadows fall before<br/>
+Thy lowly cottage door&mdash;<br/>
+Under the lilac's tremulous leaves&mdash;<br/>
+Within thy snowy clasped hand<br/>
+The purple flowers it bore.<br/>
+Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,<br/>
+Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land&mdash;<br/>
+Enchantress of the flowery wand,<br/>
+Most beauteous Isadore!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">And when I bade the dream<br/>
+Upon thy spirit flee,<br/>
+Thy violet eyes to me<br/>
+Upturned, did overflowing seem<br/>
+With the deep, untold delight<br/>
+Of Love's serenity;<br/>
+Thy classic brow, like lilies white<br/>
+And pale as the Imperial Night<br/>
+Upon her throne, with stars bedight,<br/>
+Enthralled my soul to thee!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Ah! ever I behold<br/>
+Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,<br/>
+Blue as the languid skies<br/>
+Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;<br/>
+Now strangely clear thine image grows,<br/>
+And olden memories<br/>
+Are startled from their long repose<br/>
+Like shadows on the silent snows<br/>
+When suddenly the night-wind blows<br/>
+Where quiet moonlight lies. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Like music heard in dreams,<br/>
+Like strains of harps unknown,<br/>
+Of birds for ever flown,&mdash;<br/>
+Audible as the voice of streams<br/>
+That murmur in some leafy dell,<br/>
+I hear thy gentlest tone,<br/>
+And Silence cometh with her spell<br/>
+Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,<br/>
+When tremulous in dreams I tell<br/>
+My love to thee alone! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">In every valley heard,<br/>
+Floating from tree to tree,<br/>
+Less beautiful to me,<br/>
+The music of the radiant bird,<br/>
+Than artless accents such as thine<br/>
+Whose echoes never flee!<br/>
+Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:&mdash;<br/>
+For uttered in thy tones benign<br/>
+(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine<br/>
+Doth seem a melody! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6c"></a>The Village Street</h3>
+
+<p>
+In these rapid, restless shadows,<br/>
+Once I walked at eventide,<br/>
+When a gentle, silent maiden,<br/>
+Walked in beauty at my side.<br/>
+She alone there walked beside me<br/>
+All in beauty, like a bride.<br/><br/>
+
+Pallidly the moon was shining<br/>
+On the dewy meadows nigh;<br/>
+On the silvery, silent rivers,<br/>
+On the mountains far and high,&mdash;<br/>
+On the ocean's star-lit waters,<br/>
+Where the winds a-weary die.<br/><br/>
+
+Slowly, silently we wandered<br/>
+From the open cottage door,<br/>
+Underneath the elm's long branches<br/>
+To the pavement bending o'er;<br/>
+Underneath the mossy willow<br/>
+And the dying sycamore.<br/><br/>
+
+With the myriad stars in beauty<br/>
+All bedight, the heavens were seen,<br/>
+Radiant hopes were bright around me,<br/>
+Like the light of stars serene;<br/>
+Like the mellow midnight splendor<br/>
+Of the Night's irradiate queen.<br/><br/>
+
+Audibly the elm-leaves whispered<br/>
+Peaceful, pleasant melodies,<br/>
+Like the distant murmured music<br/>
+Of unquiet, lovely seas;<br/>
+While the winds were hushed in slumber<br/>
+In the fragrant flowers and trees.<br/><br/>
+
+Wondrous and unwonted beauty<br/>
+Still adorning all did seem,<br/>
+While I told my love in fables<br/>
+'Neath the willows by the stream;<br/>
+Would the heart have kept unspoken<br/>
+Love that was its rarest dream!<br/><br/>
+
+Instantly away we wandered<br/>
+In the shadowy twilight tide,<br/>
+She, the silent, scornful maiden,<br/>
+Walking calmly at my side,<br/>
+With a step serene and stately,<br/>
+All in beauty, all in pride.<br/><br/>
+
+Vacantly I walked beside her.<br/>
+On the earth mine eyes were cast;<br/>
+Swift and keen there came unto me<br/>
+Bitter memories of the past&mdash;<br/>
+On me, like the rain in Autumn<br/>
+On the dead leaves, cold and fast.<br/><br/>
+
+Underneath the elms we parted,<br/>
+By the lowly cottage door;<br/>
+One brief word alone was uttered&mdash;<br/>
+Never on our lips before;<br/>
+And away I walked forlornly,<br/>
+Broken-hearted evermore.<br/><br/>
+
+Slowly, silently I loitered,<br/>
+Homeward, in the night, alone;<br/>
+Sudden anguish bound my spirit,<br/>
+That my youth had never known;<br/>
+Wild unrest, like that which cometh<br/>
+When the Night's first dream hath flown.<br/><br/>
+
+Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper<br/>
+Mad, discordant melodies,<br/>
+And keen melodies like shadows<br/>
+Haunt the moaning willow trees,<br/>
+And the sycamores with laughter<br/>
+Mock me in the nightly breeze.<br/><br/>
+
+Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight<br/>
+Through the sighing foliage streams;<br/>
+And each morning, midnight shadow,<br/>
+Shadow of my sorrow seems;<br/>
+Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!<br/>
+And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6d"></a>The Forest Reverie</h3>
+
+<p>
+'Tis said that when<br/>
+The hands of men<br/>
+Tamed this primeval wood,<br/>
+And hoary trees with groans of wo,<br/>
+Like warriors by an unknown foe,<br/>
+Were in their strength subdued,<br/>
+The virgin Earth<br/>
+Gave instant birth<br/>
+To springs that ne'er did flow&mdash;<br/>
+That in the sun<br/>
+Did rivulets run,<br/>
+And all around rare flowers did blow&mdash;<br/>
+The wild rose pale<br/>
+Perfumed the gale,<br/>
+And the queenly lily adown the dale<br/>
+(Whom the sun and the dew<br/>
+And the winds did woo),<br/>
+With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.<br/><br/>
+
+So when in tears<br/>
+The love of years<br/>
+Is wasted like the snow,<br/>
+And the fine fibrils of its life<br/>
+By the rude wrong of instant strife<br/>
+Are broken at a blow&mdash;<br/>
+Within the heart<br/>
+Do springs upstart<br/>
+Of which it doth now know,<br/>
+And strange, sweet dreams,<br/>
+Like silent streams<br/>
+That from new fountains overflow,<br/>
+With the earlier tide<br/>
+Of rivers glide<br/>
+Deep in the heart whose hope has died&mdash;<br/>
+Quenching the fires its ashes hide,&mdash;<br/>
+Its ashes, whence will spring and grow<br/>
+Sweet flowers, ere long,&mdash;<br/>
+The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section6e">Notes</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note6a"></a>Note on <i>Alone</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. <i>Fac-simile</i> copies of this
+piece had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to
+its publication in <i>Scribner's Magazine</i> for September 1875; but as
+proofs of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he
+refrained from publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not
+yet been adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal
+evidence to guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in
+the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829,
+and the <i>fac-simile</i> given in <i>Scribner's</i> is alleged to be of
+his handwriting. If the calligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all
+essential respects from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly
+resembles that of the writer of the heading and dating of the
+manuscript, both of which the contributor of the poem acknowledges to
+have been recently added. The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the
+most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made public, and,
+in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the
+whole of the parentage claimed for them."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note6b"></a>Note on <i>To Isadore</i> etc.</h3>
+
+<p>
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the <i>Broadway Journal</i>, some lines
+"To Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces,
+bore no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to
+satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared,
+saying they were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in
+the <i>Broadway Journal</i> over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and
+whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In
+order, doubtless, to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing
+some of his known works in his journal over <i>noms de plume</i>, and as
+no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name
+of "A. M. Ide," it is not impossible that the poems now republished in
+this collection may be by the author of "The Raven." Having been
+published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to
+hide his hasty work under an assumed name. The three pieces are included
+in the present collection, so the reader can judge for himself what
+pretensions they possess to be by the author of "The Raven."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section7">Prose Poems</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section7a"></a>The Island of the Fay</h3>
+
+<p>
+"Nullus enim locus sine genio est."<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Servius</i>.
+
+"<i>La musique</i>," <a name="fr71">says</a> Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"<a href="#f71"><sup>1</sup></a> which
+in all our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as
+if in mockery of their spirit&mdash;"<i>la musique est le seul des talens qui
+jouisse de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins</i>." He here
+confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for
+creating them. No more than any other <i>talent</i>, is that for music
+susceptible of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to
+appreciate its exercise; and it is only in common with other talents
+that it produces <i>effects</i> which may be fully enjoyed in solitude.
+The idea which the <i>raconteur</i> has either failed to entertain
+clearly, or has sacrificed in its expression to his national love of
+<i>point</i>, is doubtless the very tenable one that the higher order of
+music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone.
+The proposition in this form will be admitted at once by those who love
+the lyre for its own sake and for its spiritual uses. But there is one
+pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality, and perhaps only
+one, which owes even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of
+seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of
+natural scenery. In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of
+God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory. To me at least the
+presence, not of human life only, but of life, in any other form than
+that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless, is
+a stain upon the landscape, is at war with the genius of the scene. I
+love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the gray rocks, and the
+waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy
+slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all,&mdash;I
+love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vast
+animate and sentient whole&mdash;a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is
+the most perfect and most inclusive of all; whose path is among
+associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the moon; whose mediate
+sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose thought is that of a
+god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in
+immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance
+of the <i>animalculæ</i> which infest the brain, a being which we in
+consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the same
+manner as these <i>animalculæ</i> must thus regard us.<br/>
+<br/>
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle&mdash;indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the <i>leading</i> principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In <a name="fr72">short</a>, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation<a href="#f72"><sup>2</sup></a>.<br/>
+<br/>
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed <i>alone.</i> <a name="fr73">What</a> flippant Frenchman<a href="#f73"><sup>3</sup></a> was it who
+said, in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that <i>"la
+solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que
+la solitude est une belle chose"</i>? The epigram cannot be gainsaid;
+but the necessity is a thing that does not exist.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.<br/>
+<br/>
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.<br/>
+<br/>
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+So blended bank and shadow there,<br/>
+That each seemed pendulous in air&mdash;
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There <a name="fr74">seemed</a> a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings<a href="#f74"><sup>4</sup></a>.<br/>
+<br/>
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and
+attitude&mdash;wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes,
+that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore
+the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung
+droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly
+hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of
+graves, but were not, although over and all about them the rue and the
+rosemary clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water,
+and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the
+element with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended
+lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it
+birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows
+issued momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors
+thus entombed.<br/>
+<br/>
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?&mdash;or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"<br/>
+<br/>
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."<br/>
+<br/>
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at
+each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f71"></a>Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from <i>moeurs</i>, and its meaning
+is "<i>fashionable</i>," or, more strictly, "of manners."<br/>
+<a href="#fr71">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f72"></a>Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+<i>De Sitû Orbis,</i> says,
+
+"Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.
+<a href="#fr72">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f73"></a>Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.<br/>
+<a href="#fr73">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f74"></a>Footnote 4:
+
+"Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera."
+
+<i>P. Commire</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr74">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7b"></a>The Power of Words</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Power of Words" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with immortality! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of the
+angels freely, that it may be given! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+all, were the curse of a fiend.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But does not The Most High know all? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td><i>That</i> (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the <i>one</i>
+thing unknown even to <b>Him</b>. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not <i>at last</i> all
+things be known? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Look down into the abysmal distances! &mdash;attempt to force the gaze down
+the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+thus&mdash;and thus&mdash;and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?&mdash;the
+walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+appeared to blend into unity?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>There are no dreams in Aidenn&mdash;but it is here whispered that, of this
+infinity of matter, the <i>sole</i> purpose is to afford infinite
+springs at which the soul may allay the thirst <i>to know</i> which is
+forever unquenchable within it&mdash;since to quench it would be to
+extinguish the soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and
+without fear. Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the
+Pleiades, and swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows
+beyond Orion, where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are
+the beds of the triplicate and triple-tinted suns. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!&mdash;speak to me in the
+earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+not God? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>I mean to say that the Deity does not create. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Explain</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+immediate results of the Divine creative power. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+extreme. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>I can comprehend you thus far&mdash;that certain operations of what we term
+Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+to that which has all the <i>appearance</i> of creation. Shortly
+before the final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember,
+many very successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak
+enough to denominate the creation of animalculæ. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+creation, and of the <i>only</i> species of creation which has ever
+been since the first word spoke into existence the first law. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+hourly forth into the heavens&mdash;are not these stars, Agathos, the
+immediate handiwork of the King? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+earth's air, which thenceforward, <i>and forever</i>, was actuated by
+the one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our
+globe well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the
+fluid by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation&mdash;so that
+it became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+of any given impulse were absolutely endless&mdash;and who saw that a
+portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+of algebraic analysis&mdash;who saw, too, the facility of the
+retrogradation&mdash;these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+progress&mdash;that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+understanding&mdash;one to whom the <i>perfection</i> of the algebraic
+analysis lay unfolded&mdash;there could be no difficulty in tracing every
+impulse given the air&mdash;and the ether through the air&mdash;to the remotest
+consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+demonstrable that every such impulse <i>given the air</i>, must <i>in
+the end</i> impress every individual thing that exists <i>within the
+universe;</i>&mdash; and the being of infinite understanding&mdash;the being
+whom we have imagined&mdash;might trace the remote undulations of the
+impulse&mdash;trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+particles of all matter&mdash;upward and onward forever in their
+modifications of old forms&mdash;or, in other words, <i>in their creation
+of new</i>&mdash;until he found them reflected&mdash;unimpressive <i>at
+last</i>&mdash;back from the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such
+a being do this, but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded
+him&mdash;should one of these numberless comets, for example, be presented
+to his inspection&mdash;he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection&mdash;this
+faculty of referring at <i>all</i> epochs, <i>all</i> effects to
+<i>all</i> causes&mdash;is of course the prerogative of the Deity
+alone&mdash;but in every variety of degree, short of the absolute
+perfection, is the power itself exercised by the whole host of the
+Angelic Intelligences.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But you speak merely of impulses upon the air. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether&mdash;which, since it
+pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+<i>creation</i>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+motion is thought &mdash;and the source of all thought is&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>God.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+lately perished&mdash;of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>You did. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+the <i>physical power of words</i>? Is not every word an impulse on
+the air? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But why, Agathos, do you weep&mdash;and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+we hover above this fair star&mdash;which is the greenest and yet most
+terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+flowers look like a fairy dream &mdash;but its fierce volcanoes like the
+passions of a turbulent heart.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>They <i>are</i>!&mdash;they <i>are</i>!&mdash;This wild star &mdash;it is now three
+centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the
+feet of my beloved &mdash;I spoke it&mdash;with a few passionate sentences&mdash;into
+birth. Its brilliant flowers <i>are</i> the dearest of all unfulfilled
+dreams, and its raging volcanoes <i>are</i> the passions of the most
+turbulent and unhallowed of hearts!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7c"></a>The Colloquy of Monos and Una</h3>
+
+<p>
+<img src="images/PG1.gif" width="149" height="30" alt="Greek: Mellonta sauta'" /><br/>
+<br/>
+These things are in the future.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Sophocles</i>&mdash;<i>Antig</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Colloquy" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>"Born again?" </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+secret. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Death! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>How strangely, sweet <i>Una,</i> you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+upon all pleasures! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una &mdash;mine, mine forever now! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+begin? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>At what point?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>You have said. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+the moment of life's cessation&mdash;but commence with that sad, sad
+instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+forefathers&mdash;wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem&mdash;had
+ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+&mdash;principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+Occasionally the poetic intellect&mdash;that intellect which we now feel to
+have been the most exalted of all&mdash;since those truths which to us were
+of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+<i>analogy</i> which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
+and to the unaided reason bears no weight&mdash;occasionally did this
+poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague
+idea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of
+the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a
+distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant
+condition of his soul. And these men &mdash;the poets&mdash;living and perishing
+amid the scorn of the "utilitarians"&mdash;of rough pedants, who arrogated
+to themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to
+the scorned&mdash;these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not
+unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple
+than our enjoyments were keen&mdash;days when <i>mirth</i> was a word
+unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness&mdash;holy, august, and
+blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into
+far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these
+noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it
+by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+days. The great "movement" &mdash;that was the cant term&mdash;went on: a
+diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art&mdash;the Arts&mdash; arose supreme,
+and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+in the face of analogy and of God&mdash;in despite of the loud warning
+voice of the laws of <i>gradation</i> so visibly pervading all things
+in Earth and Heaven&mdash;wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+destruction in the perversion of our <i>taste</i>, or rather in the
+blind neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at
+this crisis that taste alone&mdash;that faculty which, holding a middle
+position between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never
+safely have been disregarded&mdash;it was now that taste alone could have
+led us gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the
+pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for
+the <img src="images/PG2.gif" width="87" height="30" alt="Greek: mousichae" />  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+education for the soul! <a name="fr81">Alas</a> for him and for it!&mdash;since both were most
+desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised<a href="#f81"><sup>1</sup></a>. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+truly!&mdash;"<i>Que tout notre raisonnement se réduit à céder au
+sentiment;</i>" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+that he must be "<i>born again.</i>"<br/>
+<br/>
+And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+length a fit dwelling-place for man:&mdash;for man the Death-purged&mdash;for
+man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+no more &mdash;for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+but still for the <i>material</i>, man.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you&mdash;after some
+days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+torpor; and this was termed <i>Death</i> by those who stood around me.<br/>
+<br/>
+Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+being awakened by external disturbances.<br/>
+<br/>
+I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+unusually active, although eccentrically so&mdash;assuming often each
+other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers&mdash;fantastic flowers,
+far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+the balls could not roll in their sockets&mdash;but all objects within the
+range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+<i>sound</i>&mdash; sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+themselves at my side were light or dark in shade &mdash;curved or angular
+in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+was not irregular in action&mdash;estimating real sounds with an
+extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. <i>All</i> my perceptions
+were purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+alone. And this was in truth the <i>Death</i> of which these
+bystanders spoke reverently, in low whispers&mdash;you, sweet Una,
+gaspingly, with loud cries.<br/>
+<br/>
+They attired me for the coffin&mdash;three or four dark figures which
+flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+vision they affected me as <i>forms;</i> but upon passing to my side
+their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.<br/>
+<br/>
+The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+vague uneasiness&mdash;an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+sounds fall continuously within his ear&mdash;low distant bell-tones,
+solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+sentiment itself&mdash; a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+purely sensual pleasure as before.<br/>
+<br/>
+And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+exercise I found a wild delight&mdash;yet a delight still physical,
+inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+<i>that</i> of which no words could convey to the merely human
+intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental
+pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract
+idea of <i>Time</i>. By the absolute equalization of this movement&mdash;or
+of such as this&mdash;had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves
+been adjusted. By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock
+upon the mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings
+came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true
+proportion&mdash;and these deviations were omniprevalent&mdash;affected me just
+as violations of abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral
+sense. Although no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the
+individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in
+holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective momentary
+errors of each. And this&mdash;this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment
+of <i>duration</i>&mdash;this sentiment existing (as man could not possibly
+have conceived it to exist) independently of any succession of
+events&mdash;this idea &mdash;this sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of
+the rest, was the first obvious and certain step of the intemporal
+soul upon the threshold of the temporal eternity.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+the deadly <i>Decay</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.<br/>
+<br/>
+And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+flight&mdash;without effort and without object.<br/>
+<br/>
+A year passed. The consciousness of <i>being</i> had grown hourly more
+indistinct, and that of mere <i>locality</i> had in great measure
+usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that
+of <i>place</i>. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had
+been the body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as
+often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is
+<i>Death</i> imaged) &mdash;at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to
+the deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into
+awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams&mdash;so to me, in the
+strict embrace of the <i>Shadow</i>, came <i>that</i> light which
+alone might have had power to startle&mdash;the light of enduring
+<i>Love</i>. Men toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They
+upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the
+coffin of Una. And now again all was void. That nebulous light had
+been extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into
+quiescence. Many <i>lustra</i> had supervened. Dust had returned to
+dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length
+utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead&mdash; instead of all
+things, dominant and perpetual&mdash;the autocrats <i>Place</i> and
+<i>Time.</i> For <i>that</i> which <i>was not</i>&mdash;for that which had
+no form&mdash;for that which had no thought&mdash;for that which had no
+sentience&mdash;for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+portion&mdash;for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f81"></a>Footnote 1:
+
+"It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+<i>music</i> for the soul."
+
+<i>Repub</i>. lib. 2.
+
+"For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with <i>beauty</i> and
+making the man <i>beautiful-minded</i>. ... He will praise and admire
+<i>the beautiful</i>, will receive it with joy into his soul, will
+feed upon it, and <i>assimilate his own condition with it</i>."
+
+<i>Ibid</i>. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of <i>music</i> was with
+them, in fact, the general cultivation of the taste&mdash;of that which
+recognizes the beautiful&mdash;in contradistinction from reason, which deals
+only with the true.<br/>
+<a href="#fr81">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7d"></a>The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion</h3>
+
+<p>
+I will bring fire to thee.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Euripides</i>.&mdash;<i>Androm</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Conversation" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td> Why do you call me Eiros? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too,
+<i>my</i> earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>This is indeed no dream!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Dreams are with us no more;&mdash;but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>True&mdash;I feel no stupor&mdash;none at all. The wild sickness and the
+terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+of <i>the new</i>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>A few days will remove all this;&mdash; but I fully understand you, and
+feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+undergo&mdash;yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>In Aidenn? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>In Aidenn.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>O God!&mdash;pity me, Charmion!&mdash;I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+things&mdash;of the unknown now known&mdash;of the speculative Future merged in
+the august and certain Present. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward&mdash;but back. I am
+burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+fearfully perished. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>Most fearfully, fearfully!&mdash;this is indeed no dream. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>Mourned, Charmion?&mdash;oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>And that last hour&mdash;speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave&mdash;at that period, if I
+remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+philosophy of the day. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+accurately known. That among <i>them</i> we should look for the agency
+of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered
+an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late
+days strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a
+few of the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the
+announcement by astronomers of a <i>new</i> comet, yet this
+announcement was generally received with I know not what of agitation
+and mistrust.<br/>
+<br/>
+The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned
+<i>now</i> gave their intellect&mdash;their soul&mdash;to no such points as the
+allaying of fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They
+sought&mdash;they panted for right views. They groaned for perfected
+knowledge. <i>Truth</i> arose in the purity of her strength and
+exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed down and adored.<br/>
+<br/>
+That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+density of the comet's <i>nucleus</i> was far less than that of our
+rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+regard to pestilences and wars&mdash;errors which were wont to prevail upon
+every appearance of a comet&mdash;were now altogether unknown, as if by
+some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+excessive interest.<br/>
+<br/>
+What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.<br/>
+<br/>
+There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+orb any <i>accustomed</i> thoughts. Its <i>historical</i> attributes
+had disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous <i>novelty</i> of
+emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens,
+but as an incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had
+taken, with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle
+of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+vegetable thing.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet another day&mdash;and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+over all men; and the first sense of <i>pain</i> was the wild signal
+for general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.<br/>
+<br/>
+It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a <i>total
+extraction of the nitrogen</i>? A combustion irresistible,
+all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;&mdash; the entire fulfilment, in
+all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
+horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.<br/>
+<br/>
+Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+Meantime a day again passed&mdash;bearing away with it the last shadow of
+Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+of the destroyer was now upon us;&mdash;even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+I speak. Let me be brief&mdash;brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+all things. Then&mdash;let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+majesty of the great God!&mdash;then, there came a shouting and pervading
+sound, as if from the mouth itself of <b>Him</b>; while the whole incumbent
+mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+Thus ended all.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7e"></a>Shadow &mdash; a Parable</h3>
+
+<p>
+Yea! though I walk through the valley of the <i>Shadow</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Psalm of David</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.<br/>
+<br/>
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.<br/>
+<br/>
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets&mdash;but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account&mdash; things material and
+spiritual&mdash;heaviness in the atmosphere&mdash; a sense of
+suffocation&mdash;anxiety&mdash;and, above all, that terrible state of existence
+which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and
+awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight
+hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs&mdash;upon the household furniture&mdash;upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and
+borne down thereby&mdash;all things save only the flames of the seven iron
+lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender
+lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless;
+and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of
+ebony at which we sat each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of
+his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
+companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way&mdash;which was
+hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon&mdash;which are madness; and drank
+deeply&mdash;although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet
+another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at
+full length he lay, enshrouded;&mdash;the genius and the demon of the scene.
+Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance,
+distorted with the plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half
+extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest
+in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those
+who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the
+departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the
+bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths
+of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of
+the son of Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes,
+rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak,
+and undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow&mdash;a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God&mdash;neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am <b>Shadow</b>, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7f"></a>Silence &mdash; a Fable</h3>
+
+<p>
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves <i>are
+silent</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"<b>Listen</b> to <i>me</i>," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my
+head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the
+borders of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.<br/>
+<br/>
+"But there is a boundary to their realm&mdash;the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.<br/>
+<br/>
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head&mdash;and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,&mdash;and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;&mdash;and the characters were <b>Desolation</b>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct&mdash;but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest&mdash;and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man&mdash;and the floods of the river came
+down&mdash;and the river was tormented into foam&mdash;and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds&mdash;and the forest crumbled before the wind&mdash;and
+the thunder rolled &mdash;and the lightning fell&mdash;and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and <i>were still.</i> And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven&mdash;and the thunder died away &mdash;and the lightning did not flash&mdash;and
+the clouds hung motionless&mdash;and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained&mdash;and the trees ceased to rock&mdash;and the water-lilies sighed no
+more&mdash;and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;&mdash;and the characters were
+<b>Silence</b>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were <b>Silence</b>. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."<br/>
+<br/>
+...<br/>
+<br/>
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi&mdash;in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea&mdash;and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona&mdash;but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section8">Essays</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section8a"></a>The Poetic Principle</h3>
+
+<p>
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.<br/>
+<br/>
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags&mdash;fails&mdash;a revulsion ensues&mdash;and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.<br/>
+<br/>
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity&mdash;its totality of effect or impression&mdash;we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book&mdash;that is to say,
+commencing with the second&mdash;we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned&mdash;that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity&mdash;and this is precisely the fact.<br/>
+<br/>
+In regard to the <i>Iliad</i>, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+<i>were</i> popular in reality&mdash;which I doubt&mdash;it is at least clear that
+no very long poem will ever be popular again.<br/>
+<br/>
+That the extent of a poetical work is <i>ceteris paribus</i>, the
+measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a
+proposition sufficiently absurd&mdash;yet we are indebted for it to the
+Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere <i>size</i>,
+abstractly considered&mdash;there can be nothing in mere <i>bulk</i>, so far
+as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration
+from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere
+sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, <i>does</i> impress us
+with a sense of the sublime&mdash;but no man is impressed after <i>this</i>
+fashion by the material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the
+Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. <i>As
+yet</i>, they have not <i>insisted</i> on our estimating Lamartine by
+the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound&mdash;but what else are we to
+<i>infer</i> from their continual prating about "sustained effort"? If,
+by "sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplished an epic,
+let us frankly commend him for the effort&mdash;if this indeed be a thing
+commendable&mdash; but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's
+account. It is to be hoped thai common sense, in the time to come, will
+prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes&mdash;
+by the effect it produces&mdash;than by the time it took to impress the
+effect, or by the amount of "sustained effort" which had been found
+necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is
+one thing and genius quite another&mdash;nor can all the Quarterlies in
+Christendom confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which
+I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the
+meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be
+essentially damaged as truths.<br/>
+<br/>
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A <i>very</i> short
+poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces
+a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.<br/>
+<br/>
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+I arise from dreams of thee<br/>
+In the first sweet sleep of night<br/>
+When the winds are breathing low,<br/>
+And the stars are shining bright.<br/>
+I arise from dreams of thee,<br/>
+And a spirit in my feet<br/>
+Has led me&mdash;who knows how?&mdash;<br/>
+To thy chamber-window, sweet!<br/><br/>
+
+The wandering airs they faint<br/>
+On the dark the silent stream&mdash;<br/>
+The champak odors fail<br/>
+Like sweet thoughts in a dream;<br/>
+The nightingale's complaint,<br/>
+It dies upon her heart,<br/>
+As I must die on thine,<br/>
+O, beloved as thou art!<br/><br/>
+
+O, lift me from the grass!<br/>
+I die, I faint, I fail!<br/>
+Let thy love in kisses rain<br/>
+On my lips and eyelids pale.<br/>
+My cheek is cold and white, alas!<br/>
+My heart beats loud and fast:<br/>
+O, press it close to thine again,<br/>
+Where it will break at last!
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.<br/>
+<br/>
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+The shadows lay along Broadway,<br/>
+'Twas near the twilight-tide&mdash;<br/>
+And slowly there a lady fair<br/>
+Was walking in her pride.<br/>
+Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly<br/>
+Walk'd spirits at her side.<br/><br/>
+
+Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,<br/>
+And honor charm'd the air;<br/>
+And all astir looked kind on her,<br/>
+And called her good as fair&mdash;<br/>
+For all God ever gave to her<br/>
+She kept with chary care.<br/><br/>
+
+She kept with care her beauties rare<br/>
+From lovers warm and true&mdash;<br/>
+For heart was cold to all but gold,<br/>
+And the rich came not to woo&mdash;<br/>
+But honor'd well her charms to sell,<br/>
+If priests the selling do.<br/><br/>
+
+Now walking there was one more fair&mdash;<br/>
+A slight girl, lily-pale;<br/>
+And she had unseen company<br/>
+To make the spirit quail&mdash;<br/>
+Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,<br/>
+And nothing could avail.<br/><br/>
+
+No mercy now can clear her brow<br/>
+From this world's peace to pray,<br/>
+For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,<br/>
+Her woman's heart gave way!&mdash;<br/>
+But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,<br/>
+By man is cursed alway!
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.<br/>
+<br/>
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of <i>The
+Didactic</i>. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and
+indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem,
+it is said, should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical
+merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have
+patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians very especially have
+developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads that to write a
+poem simply for the poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been
+our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true
+poetic dignity and force:&mdash;but the simple fact is that would we but
+permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately there
+discover that under the sun there neither exists nor <i>can</i> exist
+any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very
+poem, this poem <i>per se</i>, this poem which is a poem and nothing
+more, this poem written solely for the poem's sake.<br/>
+<br/>
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All <i>that</i> which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all
+<i>that</i> with which <i>she</i> has nothing whatever to do. It is but
+making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In
+enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of
+language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm,
+unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as
+possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. <i>He</i> must be blind
+indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between
+the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be
+theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall
+still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters
+of Poetry and Truth.<br/>
+<br/>
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the <i>offices</i> of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.<br/>
+<br/>
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind&mdash;he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp <i>now</i>, wholly, here on earth, at once and
+forever, those divine and rapturous joys of which <i>through</i> the
+poem, or <i>through</i> the music, we attain to but brief and
+indeterminate glimpses.<br/>
+<br/>
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness&mdash;this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted&mdash;has given to the world all
+<i>that</i> which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to
+understand and <i>to feel</i> as poetic.<br/>
+<br/>
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes&mdash;in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance&mdash;very especially
+in Music&mdash;and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected&mdash;is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles&mdash;the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It <i>may</i> be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in <i>fact.</i> We are often made to feel, with a shivering
+delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which
+<i>cannot</i> have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be
+little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular
+sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The
+old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess&mdash;and
+Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner,
+perfecting them as poems.<br/>
+<br/>
+To recapitulate then:&mdash;I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+<i>The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty.</i> Its sole arbiter is Taste.
+With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral
+relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with
+Duty or with Truth.<br/>
+<br/>
+A few words, however, in explanation. <i>That</i> pleasure which is at
+once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is
+derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the
+contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that
+pleasurable elevation, or excitement <i>of the soul</i>, which we
+recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished
+from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion,
+which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore&mdash;using
+the word as inclusive of the sublime&mdash;I make Beauty the province of the
+poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be
+made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:&mdash;no one as yet
+having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question
+is at least <i>most readily</i> attainable in the poem. It by no means
+follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of
+Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem,
+and with advantage; for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways,
+the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always
+contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is
+the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+The day is done, and the darkness<br/>
+Falls from the wings of Night,<br/>
+As a feather is wafted downward<br/>
+From an eagle in his flight.<br/><br/>
+
+I see the lights of the village<br/>
+Gleam through the rain and the mist,<br/>
+And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,<br/>
+That my soul cannot resist;<br/><br/>
+
+A feeling of sadness and longing,<br/>
+That is not akin to pain,<br/>
+And resembles sorrow only<br/>
+As the mist resembles the rain.<br/><br/>
+
+Come, read to me some poem,<br/>
+Some simple and heartfelt lay,<br/>
+That shall soothe this restless feeling,<br/>
+And banish the thoughts of day.<br/><br/>
+
+Not from the grand old masters,<br/>
+Not from the bards sublime,<br/>
+Whose distant footsteps echo<br/>
+Through the corridors of Time.<br/><br/>
+
+For, like strains of martial music,<br/>
+Their mighty thoughts suggest<br/>
+Life's endless toil and endeavor;<br/>
+And to-night I long for rest.<br/><br/>
+
+Read from some humbler poet,<br/>
+Whose songs gushed from his heart,<br/>
+As showers from the clouds of summer,<br/>
+Or tears from the eyelids start;<br/><br/>
+
+Who through long days of labor,<br/>
+And nights devoid of ease,<br/>
+Still heard in his soul the music<br/>
+Of wonderful melodies.<br/><br/>
+
+Such songs have power to quiet<br/>
+The restless pulse of care,<br/>
+And come like the benediction<br/>
+That follows after prayer.<br/><br/>
+
+Then read from the treasured volume<br/>
+The poem of thy choice,<br/>
+And lend to the rhyme of the poet<br/>
+The beauty of thy voice.<br/><br/>
+
+And the night shall be filled with music,<br/>
+And the cares that infest the day,<br/>
+Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,<br/>
+And as silently steal away.
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+&mdash;the bards sublime,<br/>
+Whose distant footsteps echo<br/>
+Down the corridors of Time. 
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful
+<i>insouciance</i> of its metre, so well in accordance with the
+character of the sentiments, and especially for the <i>ease</i> of the
+general manner. This "ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has
+long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone&mdash;as a point
+of really difficult attainment. But not so:&mdash;a natural manner is
+difficult only to him who should never meddle with it&mdash;to the unnatural.
+It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the
+instinct, that <i>the tone</i>, in composition, should always be that
+which the mass of mankind would adopt&mdash;and must perpetually vary, of
+course, with the occasion. The author who, after the fashion of <i>The
+North American Review</i>, should be upon <i>all</i> occasions merely
+"quiet," must necessarily upon <i>many</i> occasions be simply silly, or
+stupid; and has no more right to be considered "easy" or "natural" than
+a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+There, through the long, long summer hours,<br/>
+The golden light should lie,<br/>
+And thick young herbs and groups of flowers<br/>
+Stand in their beauty by.<br/>
+The oriole should build and tell<br/>
+His love-tale, close beside my cell;<br/>
+The idle butterfly<br/>
+Should rest him there, and there be heard<br/>
+The housewife-bee and humming bird.<br/><br/>
+
+And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,<br/>
+Come, from the village sent,<br/>
+Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,<br/>
+With fairy laughter blent?<br/>
+And what if, in the evening light,<br/>
+Betrothed lovers walk in sight<br/>
+Of my low monument?<br/>
+I would the lovely scene around<br/>
+Might know no sadder sight nor sound.<br/><br/>
+
+I know, I know I should not see<br/>
+The season's glorious show,<br/>
+Nor would its brightness shine for me;<br/>
+Nor its wild music flow;<br/><br/>
+
+But if, around my place of sleep,<br/>
+The friends I love should come to weep,<br/>
+They might not haste to go.<br/>
+Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,<br/>
+Should keep them lingering by my tomb.<br/><br/>
+
+These to their soften'd hearts should bear<br/>
+The thought of what has been,<br/>
+And speak of one who cannot share<br/>
+The gladness of the scene;<br/>
+Whose part in all the pomp that fills<br/>
+The circuit of the summer hills,<br/>
+Is&mdash;that his grave is green;<br/>
+And deeply would their hearts rejoice<br/>
+To hear again his living voice. 
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous&mdash;nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul&mdash;while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+A feeling of sadness and longing<br/>
+That is not akin to pain,<br/>
+And resembles sorrow only<br/>
+As the mist resembles the rain. 
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+I fill this cup to one made up<br/>
+Of loveliness alone,<br/>
+A woman, of her gentle sex<br/>
+The seeming paragon;<br/>
+To whom the better elements<br/>
+And kindly stars have given<br/>
+A form so fair, that like the air,<br/>
+'Tis less of earth than heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+Her every tone is music's own,<br/>
+Like those of morning birds,<br/>
+And something more than melody<br/>
+Dwells ever in her words;<br/>
+The coinage of her heart are they,<br/>
+And from her lips each flows<br/>
+As one may see the burden'd bee<br/>
+Forth issue from the rose.<br/><br/>
+
+Affections are as thoughts to her,<br/>
+The measures of her hours;<br/>
+Her feelings have the fragrancy,<br/>
+The freshness of young flowers;<br/>
+And lovely passions, changing oft,<br/>
+So fill her, she appears<br/>
+The image of themselves by turns,&mdash;<br/>
+The idol of past years!<br/><br/>
+
+Of her bright face one glance will trace<br/>
+A picture on the brain,<br/>
+And of her voice in echoing hearts<br/>
+A sound must long remain;<br/>
+But memory, such as mine of her,<br/>
+So very much endears,<br/>
+When death is nigh my latest sigh<br/>
+Will not be life's, but hers.<br/><br/>
+
+I fill'd this cup to one made up<br/>
+Of loveliness alone,<br/>
+A woman, of her gentle sex<br/>
+The seeming paragon&mdash;<br/>
+Her health! and would on earth there stood,<br/>
+Some more of such a frame,<br/>
+That life might be all poetry,<br/>
+And weariness a name.
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called <i>The North American Review.</i> The poem just cited
+is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we
+must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon
+his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the
+<i>merits</i> of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak
+for themselves. Boccalina, in his <i>Advertisements from Parnassus</i>,
+tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon
+a very admirable book:&mdash;whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of
+the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On
+hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him
+pick out <i>all the chaff</i> for his reward.<br/>
+<br/>
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics&mdash;but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly <i>put</i>, to become self-evident.
+It is <i>not</i> excellence if it require to be demonstrated its
+such:&mdash;and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of
+Art, is to admit that they are <i>not</i> merits altogether.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning&mdash;"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the <i>all in all</i> of the divine passion of Love&mdash;a
+sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more
+passionate, human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied
+in words:
+
+Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,<br/>
+Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;<br/>
+Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,<br/>
+And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.<br/><br/>
+
+Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same<br/>
+Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?<br/>
+I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,<br/>
+I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.<br/><br/>
+
+Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,<br/>
+And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,&mdash;<br/>
+Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,<br/>
+And shield thee, and save thee,&mdash;or perish there too!
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy&mdash;a distinction originating with Coleridge&mdash;than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful <i>only.</i> But never was there
+a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true
+poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem
+more profoundly&mdash;more weirdly <i>imaginative,</i> in the best sense,
+than the lines commencing&mdash; "I would I were by that dim lake"&mdash; which
+are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
+remember them.<br/>
+<br/>
+One of the noblest&mdash;and, speaking of Fancy&mdash;one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+O saw ye not fair Ines?<br/>
+She's gone into the West,<br/>
+To dazzle when the sun is down<br/>
+And rob the world of rest<br/>
+She took our daylight with her,<br/>
+The smiles that we love best,<br/>
+With morning blushes on her cheek,<br/>
+And pearls upon her breast.<br/><br/>
+
+O turn again, fair Ines,<br/>
+Before the fall of night,<br/>
+For fear the moon should shine alone,<br/>
+And stars unrivall'd bright;<br/>
+And blessed will the lover be<br/>
+That walks beneath their light,<br/>
+And breathes the love against thy cheek<br/>
+I dare not even write!<br/><br/>
+
+Would I had been, fair Ines,<br/>
+That gallant cavalier,<br/>
+Who rode so gaily by thy side,<br/>
+And whisper'd thee so near!<br/>
+Were there no bonny dames at home,<br/>
+Or no true lovers here,<br/>
+That he should cross the seas to win<br/>
+The dearest of the dear?<br/><br/>
+
+I saw thee, lovely Ines,<br/>
+Descend along the shore,<br/>
+With bands of noble gentlemen,<br/>
+And banners-waved before;<br/>
+And gentle youth and maidens gay,<br/>
+And snowy plumes they wore;<br/>
+It would have been a beauteous dream,<br/>
+If it had been no more!<br/><br/>
+
+Alas, alas, fair Ines,<br/>
+She went away with song,<br/>
+With Music waiting on her steps,<br/>
+And shoutings of the throng;<br/>
+But some were sad and felt no mirth,<br/>
+But only Music's wrong,<br/>
+In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,<br/>
+To her you've loved so long.<br/><br/>
+
+Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,<br/>
+That vessel never bore<br/>
+So fair a lady on its deck,<br/>
+Nor danced so light before,&mdash;<br/>
+Alas for pleasure on the sea,<br/>
+And sorrow on the shore!<br/>
+The smile that blest one lover's heart<br/>
+Has broken many more! 
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,&mdash;one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal&mdash;imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+One more Unfortunate,<br/>
+Weary of breath,<br/>
+Rashly importunate<br/>
+Gone to her death!<br/><br/>
+
+Take her up tenderly,<br/>
+Lift her with care;&mdash;<br/>
+Fashion'd so slenderly,<br/>
+Young and so fair!<br/><br/>
+
+Look at her garments<br/>
+Clinging like cerements;<br/>
+Whilst the wave constantly<br/>
+Drips from her clothing;<br/>
+Take her up instantly,<br/>
+Loving, not loathing.<br/><br/>
+
+Touch her not scornfully<br/>
+Think of her mournfully,<br/>
+Gently and humanly;<br/>
+Not of the stains of her,<br/>
+All that remains of her<br/>
+Now is pure womanly.<br/><br/>
+
+Make no deep scrutiny<br/>
+Into her mutiny<br/>
+Rash and undutiful;<br/>
+Past all dishonor,<br/>
+Death has left on her<br/>
+Only the beautiful.<br/><br/>
+
+Where the lamps quiver<br/>
+So far in the river,<br/>
+With many a light<br/>
+From window and casement,<br/>
+From garret to basement,<br/>
+She stood, with amazement,<br/>
+Houseless by night.<br/><br/>
+
+The bleak wind of March<br/>
+Made her tremble and shiver;<br/>
+But not the dark arch,<br/>
+Or the black flowing river:<br/>
+Mad from life's history,<br/>
+Glad to death's mystery,<br/>
+Swift to be hurl'd&mdash;<br/>
+Anywhere, anywhere<br/>
+Out of the world!<br/><br/>
+
+In she plunged boldly,<br/>
+No matter how coldly<br/>
+The rough river ran,&mdash;<br/>
+Over the brink of it,<br/>
+Picture it,&mdash;think of it,<br/>
+Dissolute Man!<br/>
+Lave in it, drink of it<br/>
+Then, if you can!<br/>
+<br/>
+Still, for all slips of hers,<br/>
+One of Eve's family&mdash;<br/>
+Wipe those poor lips of hers<br/>
+Oozing so clammily,<br/>
+Loop up her tresses<br/>
+Escaped from the comb,<br/>
+Her fair auburn tresses;<br/>
+Whilst wonderment guesses<br/>
+Where was her home?<br/>
+<br/>
+Who was her father?<br/>
+Who was her mother!<br/>
+Had she a sister?<br/>
+Had she a brother?<br/>
+Or was there a dearer one<br/>
+Still, and a nearer one<br/>
+Yet, than all other?<br/>
+<br/>
+Alas! for the rarity<br/>
+Of Christian charity<br/>
+Under the sun!<br/>
+Oh! it was pitiful!<br/>
+Near a whole city full,<br/>
+Home she had none.<br/>
+<br/>
+Sisterly, brotherly,<br/>
+Fatherly, motherly,<br/>
+Feelings had changed:<br/>
+Love, by harsh evidence,<br/>
+Thrown from its eminence;<br/>
+Even God's providence<br/>
+Seeming estranged.<br/>
+<br/>
+Take her up tenderly;<br/>
+Lift her with care;<br/>
+Fashion'd so slenderly,<br/>
+Young, and so fair!<br/>
+Ere her limbs frigidly<br/>
+Stiffen too rigidly,<br/>
+Decently,&mdash;kindly,&mdash;<br/>
+Smooth and compose them;<br/>
+And her eyes, close them,<br/>
+Staring so blindly!<br/>
+<br/>
+Dreadfully staring<br/>
+Through muddy impurity,<br/>
+As when with the daring<br/>
+Last look of despairing<br/>
+Fixed on futurity.<br/>
+<br/>
+Perishing gloomily,<br/>
+Spurred by contumely,<br/>
+Cold inhumanity,<br/>
+Burning insanity,<br/>
+Into her rest,&mdash;<br/>
+Cross her hands humbly,<br/>
+As if praying dumbly,<br/>
+Over her breast!<br/>
+Owning her weakness,<br/>
+Her evil behavior,<br/>
+And leaving, with meekness,<br/>
+Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+Though the day of my destiny's over,<br/>
+And the star of my fate hath declined,<br/>
+Thy soft heart refused to discover<br/>
+The faults which so many could find;<br/>
+Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,<br/>
+It shrunk not to share it with me,<br/>
+And the love which my spirit hath painted<br/>
+It never hath found but in <i>thee.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Then when nature around me is smiling,<br/>
+The last smile which answers to mine,<br/>
+I do not believe it beguiling,<br/>
+Because it reminds me of thine;<br/>
+And when winds are at war with the ocean,<br/>
+As the breasts I believed in with me,<br/>
+If their billows excite an emotion,<br/>
+It is that they bear me from <i>thee.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,<br/>
+And its fragments are sunk in the wave,<br/>
+Though I feel that my soul is delivered<br/>
+To pain&mdash;it shall not be its slave.<br/>
+There is many a pang to pursue me:<br/>
+They may crush, but they shall not contemn&mdash;<br/>
+They may torture, but shall not subdue me&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis of <i>thee</i> that I think&mdash;not of them.<br/>
+<br/>
+Though human, thou didst not deceive me,<br/>
+Though woman, thou didst not forsake,<br/>
+Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,<br/>
+Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,&mdash;<br/>
+Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,<br/>
+Though parted, it was not to fly,<br/>
+Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,<br/>
+Nor mute, that the world might belie.<br/><br/>
+
+Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,<br/>
+Nor the war of the many with one&mdash;<br/>
+If my soul was not fitted to prize it,<br/>
+'Twas folly not sooner to shun:<br/>
+And if dearly that error hath cost me,<br/>
+And more than I once could foresee,<br/>
+I have found that whatever it lost me,<br/>
+It could not deprive me of <i>thee</i>.<br/><br/>
+
+From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,<br/>
+Thus much I at least may recall,<br/>
+It hath taught me that which I most cherished<br/>
+Deserved to be dearest of all:<br/>
+In the desert a fountain is springing,<br/>
+In the wide waste there still is a tree,<br/>
+And a bird in the solitude singing,<br/>
+Which speaks to my spirit of <i>thee</i>.
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.<br/>
+<br/>
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and <i>think</i> him the noblest of
+poets, <i>not</i> because the impressions he produces are at <i>all</i>
+times the most profound&mdash;<i>not</i> because the poetical excitement
+which he induces is at <i>all</i> times the most intense&mdash;but because it
+is at all times the most ethereal&mdash;in other words, the most elevating
+and most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am
+about to read is from his last long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,<br/>
+Tears from the depth of some divine despair<br/>
+Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,<br/>
+In looking on the happy Autumn fields,<br/>
+And thinking of the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,<br/>
+That brings our friends up from the underworld,<br/>
+Sad as the last which reddens over one<br/>
+That sinks with all we love below the verge;<br/>
+So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns<br/>
+The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds<br/>
+To dying ears, when unto dying eyes<br/>
+The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;<br/>
+So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Dear as remember'd kisses after death,<br/>
+And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd<br/>
+On lips that are for others; deep as love,<br/>
+Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;<br/>
+O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in <i>an elevating excitement of the
+soul</i>, quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of
+the Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For
+in regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary&mdash;Love &mdash;the true, the divine
+Eros&mdash;the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus&mdash;is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her <i>love.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!<br/>
+A sword of metal keene!<br/>
+Al else to noble heartes is drosse&mdash;<br/>
+Al else on earth is meane.<br/>
+The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.<br/>
+The rowleing of the drum,<br/>
+The clangor of the trumpet lowde&mdash;<br/>
+Be soundes from heaven that come.<br/>
+And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,<br/>
+When as their war-cryes welle,<br/>
+May tole from heaven an angel bright,<br/>
+And rowse a fiend from hell,<br/>
+
+Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,<br/>
+And don your helmes amaine,<br/>
+Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call<br/>
+Us to the field againe.<br/>
+No shrewish teares shall fill your eye<br/>
+When the sword-hilt's in our hand,&mdash;<br/>
+Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe<br/>
+For the fayrest of the land;<br/>
+Let piping swaine, and craven wight,<br/>
+Thus weepe and puling crye,<br/>
+Our business is like men to fight,<br/>
+And hero-like to die!
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section8b"></a>The Philosophy of Composition</h3>
+
+<p>
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of <i>Barnaby Rudge</i>,
+says&mdash;"By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his <i>Caleb
+Williams</i> backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of
+difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for the first, cast
+about him for some mode of accounting for what had been done."<br/>
+<br/>
+I cannot think this the <i>precise</i> mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin&mdash;and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea&mdash;but the author of <i>Caleb
+Williams</i> was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage
+derivable from at least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more
+clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its
+<i>dénouement</i> before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only
+with the <i>dénouement</i> constantly in view that we can give a plot
+its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the
+incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the
+development of the intention.<br/>
+<br/>
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis&mdash;or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day&mdash;or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative&mdash;-designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.<br/>
+<br/>
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an <i>effect.</i> Keeping
+originality <i>always</i> in view&mdash;for he is false to himself who
+ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source
+of interest&mdash;I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone&mdash;whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone&mdash;afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would&mdash;that is to say, who could&mdash;detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say&mdash;but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers&mdash;poets in especial&mdash;prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy&mdash;an ecstatic intuition&mdash;and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought&mdash;at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment&mdash;at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view&mdash;at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable&mdash;at the cautious selections
+and rejections&mdash;at the painful erasures and interpolations,&mdash;in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary <i>histrio.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.<br/>
+<br/>
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+<i>desideratum</i>, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest
+in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on
+my part to show the <i>modus operandi</i> by which some one of my own
+works was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It
+is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition
+is referrible either to accident or intuition&mdash; that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, <i>per se</i>, the
+circumstance&mdash;or say the necessity&mdash;which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing <i>a</i> poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.<br/>
+<br/>
+We commence, then, with this intention.<br/>
+<br/>
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression&mdash;for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, <i>ceteris
+paribus</i>, no poet can afford to dispense with <i>anything</i> that
+may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones&mdash;that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose&mdash;a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, <i>inevitably</i>, with corresponding
+depressions&mdash;the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art&mdash;the limit of a single sitting&mdash;and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> (demanding no unity), this limit may be
+advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a
+poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear
+mathematical relation to its merit&mdash;in other words, to the excitement or
+elevation&mdash;again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical
+effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity
+must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect&mdash;this,
+with one proviso&mdash;that a certain degree of duration is absolutely
+requisite for the production of any effect at all.<br/>
+<br/>
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper
+<i>length</i> for my intended poem&mdash;a length of about one hundred lines.
+It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.<br/>
+<br/>
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+<i>universally</i> appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration&mdash;the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect&mdash;they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of <i>soul</i>
+&mdash;<i>not</i> of intellect, or of heart&mdash;upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes&mdash; that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment&mdash;no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is <i>most readily</i> attained in the
+poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and
+the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although
+attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in
+prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a
+<i>homeliness</i> (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are
+absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the
+excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means
+follows from anything here said that passion, or even truth, may not be
+introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem&mdash;for they may
+serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in
+music, by contrast&mdash;but the true artist will always contrive, first, to
+tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly,
+to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the
+atmosphere and the essence of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+<i>tone</i> of its highest manifestation&mdash;and all experience has shown
+that this tone is one of <i>sadness</i>. Beauty of whatever kind, in its
+supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
+Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.<br/>
+<br/>
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem&mdash;some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects&mdash;or more properly
+<i>points</i>, in the theatrical sense&mdash;I did not fail to perceive
+immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the
+<i>refrain</i>. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me
+of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to
+analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the <i>refrain</i>, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse,
+but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone&mdash;both in sound
+and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of
+identity&mdash;of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the
+effect, by adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I
+continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to
+produce continuously novel effects, by the variation <i>of the
+application</i> of the <i>refrain</i>&mdash;the <i>refrain</i> itself
+remaining, for the most part, unvaried.<br/>
+<br/>
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the <i>nature</i> of
+my <i>refrain</i>. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it
+was clear that the <i>refrain</i> itself must be brief, for there would
+have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of
+application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of
+the sentence would of course be the facility of the variation. This led
+me at once to a single word as the best <i>refrain</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+The question now arose as to the <i>character</i> of the word. Having
+made up my mind to a <i>refrain</i>, the division of the poem into
+stanzas was of course a corollary, the <i>refrain</i> forming the close
+to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and
+susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these
+considerations inevitably led me to the long <i>o</i> as the most
+sonorous vowel in connection with <i>r</i> as the most producible
+consonant.<br/>
+<br/>
+The sound of the <i>refrain</i> being thus determined, it became
+necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in
+the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had
+predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have
+been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it
+was the very first which presented itself.<br/>
+<br/>
+The next <i>desideratum</i> was a pretext for the continuous use of the
+one word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found
+in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous
+repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely
+from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or
+monotonously spoken by a <i>human</i> being&mdash;I did not fail to perceive,
+in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony
+with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the
+word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a <i>non</i>-reasoning
+creature capable of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first
+instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as
+equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the
+intended <i>tone</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+<i>supremeness</i> or perfection at all points, I asked myself&mdash;"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the <i>universal</i> understanding
+of mankind, is the <i>most</i> melancholy?" Death, was the obvious
+reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most
+poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer
+here also is obvious&mdash;"When it most closely allies itself to
+<i>Beauty</i>; the death, then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably
+the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt
+that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."<br/>
+<br/>
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+<i>application</i> of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode
+of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the <i>variation of application</i>. I saw
+that I could make the first query propounded by the lover&mdash;the first
+query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"&mdash;that I could make
+this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still
+less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+<i>nonchalance</i> by the melancholy character of the word itself, by
+its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous
+reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to
+superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different
+character&mdash;queries whose solution he has passionately at
+heart&mdash;propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of
+despair which delights in self-torture&mdash;propounds them not altogether
+because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird
+(which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote),
+but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his
+questions as to receive from the <i>expected</i> "Nevermore" the most
+delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the
+opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in
+the progress of the construction, I first established in mind the climax
+or concluding query&mdash;that query to which "Nevermore" should be in the
+last place an answer&mdash;that query in reply to which this word "Nevermore"
+should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.<br/>
+<br/>
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!<br/>
+By that heaven that bends above us&mdash;by that God we both adore,<br/>
+Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,<br/>
+It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+<i>rhythm</i>, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre
+and stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for <i>centuries, no man,
+in verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing</i>. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.<br/>
+<br/>
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic&mdash;the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+<i>refrain</i> of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their <i>combinations into stanzas;</i> nothing
+even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.<br/>
+<br/>
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven&mdash;and the first branch of this consideration was the
+<i>locale</i>. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields&mdash;but it has always appeared to me that a close
+<i>circumscription of space</i> is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident&mdash;it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.<br/>
+<br/>
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber &mdash;in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished&mdash;this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.<br/>
+<br/>
+The <i>locale</i> being thus determined, I had now to introduce the
+bird&mdash;and the thought of introducing him through the window was
+inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance,
+that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a
+"tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging,
+the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect
+arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and
+thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress
+that knocked.<br/>
+<br/>
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.<br/>
+<br/>
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage&mdash;it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely <i>suggested</i> by the bird&mdash;the bust of
+<i>Pallas</i> being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the
+scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the
+word, Pallas, itself.<br/>
+<br/>
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic&mdash;approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible&mdash;is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+Not the <i>least obeisance made he</i>&mdash;not a moment stopped or stayed he,<br/>
+<i>But with mien of lord or lady</i>, perched above my chamber door.
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+Then this ebony bird beguiling my <i>sad fancy</i> into smiling<br/>
+By the <i>grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore</i>,<br/>
+"Though thy <i>crest be shorn and shaven</i>, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,<br/>
+Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore? "<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/><br/>
+
+Much I marvelled <i>this ungainly fowl</i> to hear discourse so plainly,<br/>
+Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;<br/>
+For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br/>
+<i>Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door</i>,<br/>
+With such name as "Nevermore." 
+
+The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness&mdash;this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc. 
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests&mdash;no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader&mdash;to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the <i>dénouement</i>&mdash;which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+<i>directly</i> as possible.<br/>
+<br/>
+With the <i>dénouement</i> proper&mdash;with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore,"
+to the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world&mdash;the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable&mdash;of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams&mdash;the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"&mdash;a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.<br/>
+<br/>
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required&mdash;first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that <i>richness</i> (to borrow from colloquy a forcible
+term) which we are too fond of confounding with <i>the ideal</i>.
+It is the <i>excess</i> of the suggested meaning&mdash;it is the rendering
+this the upper instead of the under current of theme&mdash;which turns into
+prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the
+so-called transcendentalists.<br/>
+<br/>
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem&mdash;their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical&mdash;but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of <i>Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance</i> is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting<br/>
+On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;<br/>
+And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br/>
+And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br/>
+And my soul <i>from out that shadow</i> that lies floating on the floor<br/>
+Shall be lifted&mdash;nevermore! 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section8c"></a>Old English Poetry<a href="#f91"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<p>
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry&mdash;we mean to the simple
+love of the antique&mdash;and that, again, a third of even the proper
+<i>poetic sentiment</i> inspired by their writings, should be ascribed
+to a fact which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the
+abstract, and with the old British poems themselves, should not be
+looked upon as a merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost
+every devout admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their
+productions, would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense
+of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable
+delight; on being required to point out the source of this so shadowy
+pleasure, he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in
+general handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct
+to ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+<i>now</i>&mdash;we mean it only as against the poets <i>then</i>. There is a
+growing desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank,
+guileless, sincere and although very learned, still learned without art.
+No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the
+error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein
+Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the
+end&mdash;with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished,
+by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral
+truth&mdash;the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment
+through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete
+failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a
+path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph
+which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of
+the multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley
+is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And
+he was in this but a type of his <i>school</i>&mdash;for we may as well
+designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound
+up in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul&mdash;and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this <i>abandon</i>&mdash;to elevate immeasurably all the energies of
+mind&mdash;but, again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force,
+delicacy, and all good things, with the lowest possible bathos,
+baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a matter of doubt that the
+average results of mind in such a school will be found inferior to those
+results in one (<i>ceteris paribus</i>) more artificial.<br/>
+<br/>
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the <i>school</i>&mdash;but if the intention had been
+merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have been
+considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now
+before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond
+that of their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not
+particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not
+to be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses
+on the Queen of Bohemia"&mdash;that "there are few finer things in our
+language," is untenable and absurd.<br/>
+<br/>
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.<br/>
+<br/>
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers&mdash;a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of <i>Il Penseroso</i>. Speaking of Poesy,
+the author says:
+
+"By the murmur of a spring,<br/>
+Or the least boughs rustleling,<br/>
+By a daisy whose leaves spread,<br/>
+Shut when Titan goes to bed,<br/>
+Or a shady bush or tree,<br/>
+She could more infuse in me<br/>
+Than all Nature's beauties con<br/>
+In some other wiser man.<br/>
+By her help I also now<br/>
+Make this churlish place allow<br/>
+Something that may sweeten gladness<br/>
+In the very gall of sadness&mdash;<br/>
+The dull loneness, the black shade,<br/>
+That these hanging vaults have made<br/>
+The strange music of the waves<br/>
+Beating on these hollow caves,<br/>
+This black den which rocks emboss,<br/>
+Overgrown with eldest moss,<br/>
+The rude portals that give light<br/>
+More to terror than delight,<br/>
+This my chamber of neglect<br/>
+Walled about with disrespect;<br/>
+From all these and this dull air<br/>
+A fit object for despair,<br/>
+She hath taught me by her might<br/>
+To draw comfort and delight."
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer&mdash;not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness&mdash;to anything
+of its species:
+
+"It is a wondrous thing how fleet<br/>
+'Twas on those little silver feet,<br/>
+With what a pretty skipping grace<br/>
+It oft would challenge me the race,<br/>
+And when't had left me far away<br/>
+'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;<br/>
+For it was nimbler much than hinds,<br/>
+And trod as if on the four winds.<br/>
+I have a garden of my own,<br/>
+But so with roses overgrown,<br/>
+And lilies, that you would it guess<br/>
+To be a little wilderness;<br/>
+And all the spring-time of the year<br/>
+It only loved to be there.<br/>
+Among the beds of lilies I<br/>
+Have sought it oft where it should lie,<br/>
+Yet could not, till itself would rise,<br/>
+Find it, although before mine eyes.<br/>
+For in the flaxen lilies shade<br/>
+It like a bank of lilies laid;<br/>
+Upon the roses it would feed<br/>
+Until its lips even seemed to bleed,<br/>
+And then to me 'twould boldly trip,<br/>
+And print those roses on my lip,<br/>
+But all its chief delight was still<br/>
+With roses thus itself to fill,<br/>
+And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br/>
+In whitest sheets of lilies cold,<br/>
+Had it lived long, it would have been<br/>
+Lilies without, roses within."
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words&mdash;over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself&mdash;even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite&mdash;like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and <i>appropriateness</i> of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted&mdash;the <i>wonder</i> of the little maiden at
+the fleetness of her favorite&mdash;the "little silver feet"&mdash;the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again&mdash;can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+"And trod as if on the four winds!" 
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"&mdash;the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"&mdash;the maiden seeking it "where it <i>should</i> lie"&mdash;and
+not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"&mdash;the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"&mdash;the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+"And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br/>
+In whitest sheets of lilies cold," 
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights&mdash;and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+"Had it lived long, it would have been<br/>
+Lilies without, roses within."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f91"></a>Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.<br/>
+<a href="#section8c">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10031 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #10031 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10031)
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe
+
+Author: Edgar Allan Poe
+
+Release Date: November 10, 2003 [eBook #10031]
+[Most recently updated: March 13, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Clytie Siddall, Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS ***
+
+
+
+
+                        The Complete Poetical Works
+                            of Edgar Allan Poe
+
+
+                               edited by
+
+                            John H. Ingram
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
+published at New York in 1850.
+
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+MEMOIR
+
+POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
+  Dedication
+  Preface
+  The Raven
+  The Bells
+  Ulalume
+  To Helen
+  Annabel Lee
+  A Valentine
+  An Enigma
+  To my Mother
+  For Annie
+  To F----
+  To Frances S. Osgood
+  Eldorado
+  Eulalie
+  A Dream within a Dream
+  To Marie Louise (Shew)
+  To the Same
+  The City in the Sea
+  The Sleeper,
+  Bridal Ballad
+Notes
+
+POEMS OF MANHOOD:
+  Lenore
+  To one in Paradise
+  The Coliseum
+  The Haunted Palace
+  The Conqueror Worm
+  Silence
+  Dreamland
+  To Zante
+  Hymn
+Notes
+
+SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
+Note
+
+POEMS OF YOUTH:
+  Introduction (1831)
+  To Science
+  Al Aaraaf
+  Tamerlane
+  To Helen
+  The Valley of Unrest
+  Israfel
+  To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
+  To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
+  To the River----
+  Song
+  Spirits of the Dead
+  A Dream
+  Romance
+  Fairyland
+  The Lake
+  Evening Star
+  Imitation
+  "The Happiest Day,"
+  Hymn. Translation from the Greek
+  Dreams
+  "In Youth I have known one"
+  A Pæan
+Notes
+
+DOUBTFUL POEMS:
+  Alone
+  To Isadore
+  The Village Street
+  The Forest Reverie
+Notes
+
+PROSE POEMS:
+  The Island of the Fay
+  The Power of Words
+  The Colloquy of Monos and Una
+  The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
+  Shadow--A Parable
+  Silence--A Fable
+
+ESSAYS:
+  The Poetic Principle
+  The Philosophy of Composition
+  Old English Poetry
+
+
+
+
+
+MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
+
+
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
+through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
+author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
+schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
+irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
+destruction a few years ago.
+
+The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says,
+
+  "The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
+  to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
+  bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
+  perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
+  intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
+  involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
+  universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
+  spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle de fer!'"_
+
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+
+  "In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+  not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
+
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+
+  "a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+  with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+  school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+  secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+  lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+  exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+  but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+  to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+  proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+
+  "A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+  between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+  champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+  Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+  occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+  Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+  fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+  golden apples."
+
+  "In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+  among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+  fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+  as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+  profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+  more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+  in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+  time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+  level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+
+  "Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+  repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+  of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+  the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+  complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+  have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+  recitation:
+
+    _'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
+    Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
+
+  And
+
+    _'Non ebur neque aureum
+    Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
+
+  "I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+  all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+  favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+  Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+  capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+  impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+  exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+  I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+  aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+  its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+  the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+  had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+  had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+  bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+  boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+  it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+
+  "While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+  to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+  the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+  his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+  so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+  of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+  He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+ --to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+  desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+  the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+  of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+  that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+  passionate youth."
+
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Pæan," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
+loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
+thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
+in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
+again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
+recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+
+  "He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
+  lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
+  of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
+  deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
+  his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
+  at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
+  time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
+  in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
+  regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
+  and have been entitled to diplomas."
+
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+
+  "I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
+  was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
+  melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
+  to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
+  sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
+  or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
+  same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
+  the others more as a task than sport."
+
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+
+
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+
+  "As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
+  at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
+  circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
+  invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
+  December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
+  some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
+  up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
+  I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
+  regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
+  had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
+  estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
+  debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
+  bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
+
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
+enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his 'protégé's' collegiate career with equal
+pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
+successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
+like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
+took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
+shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
+moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
+paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
+ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
+periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
+and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
+to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
+salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
+goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
+desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
+of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
+procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
+irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
+'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
+Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
+merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
+remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
+nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
+rapidly passed through.
+
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
+few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
+editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
+was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
+conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
+was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+
+Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
+columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
+some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
+publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
+it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une espèce de
+trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
+of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
+were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
+avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
+of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
+follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
+Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
+as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
+innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
+the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
+enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
+popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
+attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
+construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
+
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
+and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
+world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
+and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
+drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
+
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+
+  "You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
+  caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
+  than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
+  years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
+  blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
+  her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
+  partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
+  again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
+  and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
+  agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
+  her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
+  But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
+  I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
+  fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
+  how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
+  the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
+  abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
+  _death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
+  the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
+  could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
+
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
+owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
+happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
+became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
+terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
+reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
+Harris's reminiscences.
+
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+
+  "It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
+  evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
+  hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
+  the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
+  surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+  almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
+  lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+  little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+  her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+  sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+  him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
+  her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+
+  "would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
+  the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
+  way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
+  at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
+
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
+the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
+life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
+New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
+latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
+it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
+
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
+
+  "employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
+  resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
+  but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
+  evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
+  genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
+  irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
+  attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
+  difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
+  industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
+  reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
+  to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
+  taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
+  his employment with us."
+
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
+The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
+single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
+more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
+together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
+existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
+and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
+delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
+read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
+Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
+his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
+merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
+rules.
+
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+
+Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
+Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
+prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
+but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
+labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
+unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
+quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
+the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
+having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
+moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
+himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
+
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+
+  "Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
+  bore--
+  Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
+  Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                          POEMS OF LATER LIFE
+
+
+
+
+                                   TO
+
+                        THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
+                            TO THE AUTHOR OF
+                         "THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
+
+                                   TO
+
+                     MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
+
+                                OF ENGLAND,
+
+                          I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
+
+                WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
+                      WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
+
+                1845                                E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.
+
+1845. E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RAVEN.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
+          Only this and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+          Nameless here for evermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
+  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+      This it is and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
+        Darkness there and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
+    fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
+        Merely this and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
+  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
+      'Tis the wind and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
+  Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+      Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+        With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+        Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
+  Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
+      Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
+    door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+      Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
+        _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
+    sent thee
+  Respite--respite aad nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
+  Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+    upstarting--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+      Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+Published, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BELLS,
+
+
+I.
+
+  Hear the sledges with the bells--
+  Silver bells!
+  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
+  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
+  In their icy air of night!
+  While the stars, that oversprinkle
+  All the heavens, seem to twinkle
+  With a crystalline delight;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
+  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+
+II.
+
+  Hear the mellow wedding bells,
+  Golden bells!
+  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
+  Through the balmy air of night
+  How they ring out their delight!
+  From the molten golden-notes,
+  And all in tune,
+  What a liquid ditty floats
+  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
+  On the moon!
+  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
+  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
+  How it swells!
+  How it dwells
+  On the future! how it tells
+  Of the rapture that impels
+  To the swinging and the ringing
+  Of the bells, bells, bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Hear the loud alarum bells--
+  Brazen bells!
+  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
+  In the startled ear of night
+  How they scream out their affright!
+  Too much horrified to speak,
+  They can only shriek, shriek,
+  Out of tune,
+  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
+  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
+  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
+  With a desperate desire,
+  And a resolute endeavor
+  Now--now to sit or never,
+  By the side of the pale-faced moon.
+  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
+  What a tale their terror tells
+  Of Despair!
+  How they clang, and clash, and roar!
+  What a horror they outpour
+  On the bosom of the palpitating air!
+  Yet the ear it fully knows,
+  By the twanging,
+  And the clanging,
+  How the danger ebbs and flows;
+  Yet the ear distinctly tells,
+  In the jangling,
+  And the wrangling,
+  How the danger sinks and swells,
+  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
+  Of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Hear the tolling of the bells--
+  Iron bells!
+  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
+  In the silence of the night,
+  How we shiver with affright
+  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
+  For every sound that floats
+  From the rust within their throats
+     Is a groan.
+  And the people--ah, the people--
+  They that dwell up in the steeple.
+      All alone,
+  And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
+    In that muffled monotone,
+  Feel a glory in so rolling
+    On the human heart a stone--
+  They are neither man nor woman--
+  They are neither brute nor human--
+      They are Ghouls:
+  And their king it is who tolls;
+  And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
+           Rolls
+  A pæan from the bells!
+  And his merry bosom swells
+  With the pæan of the bells!
+  And he dances, and he yells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the pæan of the bells--
+      Of the bells:
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+    To the throbbing of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+    To the sobbing of the bells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+    As he knells, knells, knells,
+  In a happy Runic rhyme,
+  To the rolling of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+  To the tolling of the bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+    Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
+
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ULALUME.
+
+
+  The skies they were ashen and sober;
+    The leaves they were crisped and sere--
+    The leaves they were withering and sere;
+  It was night in the lonesome October
+    Of my most immemorial year;
+  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+    In the misty mid region of Weir--
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+    In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  Here once, through an alley Titanic.
+    Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
+    Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
+  These were days when my heart was volcanic
+    As the scoriac rivers that roll--
+    As the lavas that restlessly roll
+  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
+    In the ultimate climes of the pole--
+  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
+    In the realms of the boreal pole.
+
+  Our talk had been serious and sober,
+    But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
+    Our memories were treacherous and sere--
+  For we knew not the month was October,
+  And we marked not the night of the year--
+    (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
+  We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
+    (Though once we had journeyed down here)--
+  Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
+    Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  And now as the night was senescent
+    And star-dials pointed to morn--
+    As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
+  At the end of our path a liquescent
+    And nebulous lustre was born,
+  Out of which a miraculous crescent
+    Arose with a duplicate horn--
+  Astarte's bediamonded crescent
+    Distinct with its duplicate horn.
+
+  And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
+    She rolls through an ether of sighs--
+    She revels in a region of sighs:
+  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
+    These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
+  And has come past the stars of the Lion
+    To point us the path to the skies--
+    To the Lethean peace of the skies--
+  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
+    To shine on us with her bright eyes--
+  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
+    With love in her luminous eyes."
+
+  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
+    Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
+    Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
+  Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
+    Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
+  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
+    Wings till they trailed in the dust--
+  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
+    Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
+    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
+
+  I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
+    Let us on by this tremulous light!
+    Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
+  Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
+    With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
+    See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
+  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
+    And be sure it will lead us aright--
+  We safely may trust to a gleaming
+    That cannot but guide us aright,
+    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
+
+  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
+    And tempted her out of her gloom--
+    And conquered her scruples and gloom;
+  And we passed to the end of a vista,
+    But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
+    By the door of a legended tomb;
+  And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
+    On the door of this legended tomb?"
+    She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
+    'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
+
+  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
+    As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
+    As the leaves that were withering and sere;
+  And I cried--"It was surely October
+    On _this_ very night of last year
+    That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
+    That I brought a dread burden down here!
+    On this night of all nights in the year,
+    Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
+  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
+    This misty mid region of Weir--
+  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
+    This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
+
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
+  I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
+  It was a July midnight; and from out
+  A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
+  Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
+  There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
+  With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
+  Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
+  Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
+  Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That gave out, in return for the love-light,
+  Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
+  By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
+
+  Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
+  I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
+  And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
+
+  Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
+  Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
+  That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
+  To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
+  No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
+  Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
+  How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
+  Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
+  And in an instant all things disappeared.
+  (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
+  The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
+  The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
+  The happy flowers and the repining trees,
+  Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
+  Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
+  All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
+  Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
+  Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
+  I saw but them--they were the world to me.
+  I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
+  Saw only them until the moon went down.
+  What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
+  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
+  How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
+  How silently serene a sea of pride!
+  How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
+  How fathomless a capacity for love!
+
+  But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
+  Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
+  And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
+  Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
+  They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
+  Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
+  _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
+  They follow me--they lead me through the years.
+
+  They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
+  Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
+  My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
+  And purified in their electric fire,
+  And sanctified in their elysian fire.
+  They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
+  And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
+  In the sad, silent watches of my night;
+  While even in the meridian glare of day
+  I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
+  Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
+
+
+1846.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ANNABEL LEE.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea:
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love--
+    I and my ANNABEL LEE;
+  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went envying her and me--
+  Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
+    In this kingdom by the sea)
+  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
+    Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we--
+    Of many far wiser than we--
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea--
+    In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE.
+
+
+  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
+    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
+  Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
+    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
+  Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
+    Divine--a talisman--an amulet
+  That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
+    The words--the syllables! Do not forget
+  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
+    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
+  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
+    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
+  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
+    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
+  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
+    Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
+  Its letters, although naturally lying
+    Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
+  Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
+    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
+
+
+1846.
+
+[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AN ENIGMA.
+
+
+  "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
+      "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
+    Through all the flimsy things we see at once
+      As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
+      Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
+    Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
+    Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
+      Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
+    And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
+    The general tuckermanities are arrant
+    Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
+      But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
+    Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
+    Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
+
+
+[See note after previous poem.]
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER.
+
+
+  Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
+    The angels, whispering to one another,
+  Can find, among their burning terms of love,
+    None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
+  Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
+    You who are more than mother unto me,
+  And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
+    In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
+  My mother--my own mother, who died early,
+    Was but the mother of myself; but you
+  Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
+    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
+  By that infinity with which my wife
+    Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FOR ANNIE.
+
+
+  Thank Heaven! the crisis--
+    The danger is past,
+  And the lingering illness
+    Is over at last--
+  And the fever called "Living"
+    Is conquered at last.
+
+  Sadly, I know,
+    I am shorn of my strength,
+  And no muscle I move
+    As I lie at full length--
+  But no matter!--I feel
+    I am better at length.
+
+  And I rest so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  That any beholder
+    Might fancy me dead--
+  Might start at beholding me
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  The moaning and groaning,
+    The sighing and sobbing,
+  Are quieted now,
+    With that horrible throbbing
+  At heart:--ah, that horrible,
+    Horrible throbbing!
+
+  The sickness--the nausea--
+    The pitiless pain--
+  Have ceased, with the fever
+    That maddened my brain--
+  With the fever called "Living"
+    That burned in my brain.
+
+  And oh! of all tortures
+    _That_ torture the worst
+  Has abated--the terrible
+    Torture of thirst,
+  For the naphthaline river
+    Of Passion accurst:--
+  I have drank of a water
+    That quenches all thirst:--
+
+  Of a water that flows,
+    With a lullaby sound,
+  From a spring but a very few
+    Feet under ground--
+  From a cavern not very far
+    Down under ground.
+
+  And ah! let it never
+    Be foolishly said
+  That my room it is gloomy
+    And narrow my bed--
+  For man never slept
+    In a different bed;
+  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
+    In just such a bed.
+
+  My tantalized spirit
+    Here blandly reposes,
+  Forgetting, or never
+    Regretting its roses--
+  Its old agitations
+    Of myrtles and roses:
+
+  For now, while so quietly
+    Lying, it fancies
+  A holier odor
+    About it, of pansies--
+  A rosemary odor,
+    Commingled with pansies--
+  With rue and the beautiful
+    Puritan pansies.
+
+  And so it lies happily,
+    Bathing in many
+  A dream of the truth
+    And the beauty of Annie--
+  Drowned in a bath
+    Of the tresses of Annie.
+
+  She tenderly kissed me,
+    She fondly caressed,
+  And then I fell gently
+    To sleep on her breast--
+  Deeply to sleep
+    From the heaven of her breast.
+
+  When the light was extinguished,
+    She covered me warm,
+  And she prayed to the angels
+    To keep me from harm--
+  To the queen of the angels
+    To shield me from harm.
+
+  And I lie so composedly,
+    Now in my bed
+  (Knowing her love)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  And I rest so contentedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (With her love at my breast)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  That you shudder to look at me.
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  But my heart it is brighter
+    Than all of the many
+  Stars in the sky,
+    For it sparkles with Annie--
+  It glows with the light
+    Of the love of my Annie--
+  With the thought of the light
+    Of the eyes of my Annie.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO F--
+
+
+  Beloved! amid the earnest woes
+    That crowd around my earthly path--
+  (Drear path, alas! where grows
+  Not even one lonely rose)--
+    My soul at least a solace hath
+  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
+  An Eden of bland repose.
+
+  And thus thy memory is to me
+    Like some enchanted far-off isle
+  In some tumultuous sea--
+  Some ocean throbbing far and free
+    With storm--but where meanwhile
+  Serenest skies continually
+    Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
+
+
+  Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
+    From its present pathway part not;
+  Being everything which now thou art,
+    Be nothing which thou art not.
+  So with the world thy gentle ways,
+    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
+  Shall be an endless theme of praise.
+    And love a simple duty.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ELDORADO.
+
+
+    Gaily bedight,
+    A gallant knight,
+  In sunshine and in shadow,
+    Had journeyed long,
+    Singing a song,
+  In search of Eldorado.
+    But he grew old--
+    This knight so bold--
+  And o'er his heart a shadow
+    Fell as he found
+    No spot of ground
+  That looked like Eldorado.
+
+  And, as his strength
+    Failed him at length,
+  He met a pilgrim shadow--
+    "Shadow," said he,
+    "Where can it be--
+  This land of Eldorado?"
+
+    "Over the Mountains
+    Of the Moon,
+  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
+    Ride, boldly ride,"
+    The shade replied,
+  "If you seek for Eldorado!"
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EULALIE.
+
+
+               I dwelt alone
+               In a world of moan,
+           And my soul was a stagnant tide,
+  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
+  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
+               Ah, less--less bright
+               The stars of the night
+           Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
+               And never a flake
+               That the vapor can make
+           With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
+  Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
+  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
+    curl.
+               Now Doubt--now Pain
+               Come never again,
+           For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
+               And all day long
+               Shines, bright and strong,
+           Astarté within the sky,
+  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
+  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
+
+
+  Take this kiss upon the brow!
+  And, in parting from you now,
+  Thus much let me avow--
+  You are not wrong, who deem
+  That my days have been a dream:
+  Yet if hope has flown away
+  In a night, or in a day,
+  In a vision or in none,
+  Is it therefore the less _gone_?
+  _All_ that we see or seem
+  Is but a dream within a dream.
+
+  I stand amid the roar
+  Of a surf-tormented shore,
+  And I hold within my hand
+  Grains of the golden sand--
+  How few! yet how they creep
+  Through my fingers to the deep
+  While I weep--while I weep!
+  O God! can I not grasp
+  Them with a tighter clasp?
+  O God! can I not save
+  _One_ from the pitiless wave?
+  Is _all_ that we see or seem
+  But a dream within a dream?
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
+  Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
+  The blotting utterly from out high heaven
+  The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
+  Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
+  For the resurrection of deep buried faith
+  In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
+  Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
+  Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
+  At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
+  At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
+  In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
+  Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
+  Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
+  The truest, the most fervently devoted,
+  And think that these weak lines are written by him--
+  By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
+  His spirit is communing with an angel's.
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
+  In the mad pride of intellectuality,
+  Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
+  A thought arose within the human brain
+  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
+  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
+  Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
+  Italian tones, made only to be murmured
+  By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
+  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
+  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
+  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
+  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
+  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
+  (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
+  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
+  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
+  With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
+  I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
+  Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
+  This standing motionless upon the golden
+  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
+  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
+  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
+  Upon the left, and all the way along,
+  Amid empurpled vapors, far away
+  To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CITY IN THE SEA.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy Heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently--
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
+  Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
+  Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
+  Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine
+  Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas!
+  Along that wilderness of glass--
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea--
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene.
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven.
+  The waves have now a redder glow--
+  The hours are breathing faint and low--
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+
+1835?
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SLEEPER
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  (Her casement open to the skies)
+  Irene, with her Destinies!
+
+  Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
+  This window open to the night!
+  The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
+  Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully--so fearfully--
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
+  Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all-solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  For ever with unopened eye,
+  While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
+
+  My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep;
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold--
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And winged panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
+  Of her grand family funerals--
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood many an idle stone--
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
+  It was the dead who groaned within.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+BRIDAL BALLAD.
+
+
+  The ring is on my hand,
+    And the wreath is on my brow;
+  Satins and jewels grand
+  Are all at my command.
+    And I am happy now.
+
+  And my lord he loves me well;
+    But, when first he breathed his vow,
+  I felt my bosom swell--
+  For the words rang as a knell,
+  And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
+  In the battle down the dell,
+    And who is happy now.
+
+  But he spoke to reassure me,
+    And he kissed my pallid brow,
+  While a reverie came o'er me,
+  And to the churchyard bore me,
+  And I sighed to him before me,
+  Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
+    "Oh, I am happy now!"
+
+  And thus the words were spoken,
+    And thus the plighted vow,
+  And, though my faith be broken,
+  And, though my heart be broken,
+  Behold the golden keys
+    That _proves_ me happy now!
+
+  Would to God I could awaken
+    For I dream I know not how,
+  And my soul is sorely shaken
+  Lest an evil step be taken,--
+  Lest the dead who is forsaken
+    May not be happy now.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+1.   THE RAVEN
+
+
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
+It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
+by N. P. Willis:
+
+  "We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+  number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
+  Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+  'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+  English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+  versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+  'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+  feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
+
+In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
+as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
+suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+
+  ["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
+  strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+  ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+  intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
+  specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+  resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+  sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+  thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+  language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+  power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+  chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+  very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+  Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+  had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+  Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+  in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+  all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+  merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+  in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
+  (stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+  the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+  while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+  any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+  We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+  better understood."
+
+  ED. 'Am. Rev.']
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+2.   THE BELLS
+
+
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+
+
+
+I.
+
+      The bells!--ah the bells!
+      The little silver bells!
+  How fairy-like a melody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their merry little throats--
+          From the silver, tinkling throats
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+II.
+
+      The bells!--ah, the bells!
+      The heavy iron bells!
+  How horrible a monody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their deep-toned throats--
+          From their melancholy throats
+          How I shudder at the notes
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+
+
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
+following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+3.   ULALUME
+
+
+This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
+1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
+the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
+name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
+When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
+Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
+
+
+  Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
+      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
+      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
+  To bar up our path and to ban it
+      From the secret that lies in these wolds--
+  Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
+      From the limbo of lunary souls--
+  This sinfully scintillant planet
+      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+4.   TO HELEN
+
+
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
+desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
+coupling those two words".
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+5.   ANNABEL LEE
+
+
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
+published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
+any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+6.   A VALENTINE
+
+
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+7.   AN ENIGMA
+
+
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+8.   TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
+to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
+the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+9.   FOR ANNIE
+
+
+"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the 'Home Journal'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+10.   TO F----
+
+
+"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
+for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
+"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
+subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
+Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+11.   TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
+
+
+"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
+earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
+addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
+the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
+as "To----."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+12.   ELDORADO
+
+
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+13.   EULALIE
+
+
+"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
+1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+14.   A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
+
+
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+15   TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+16.  (2)  TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
+was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
+named posthumous collection.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+17.   THE CITY IN THE SEA
+
+
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
+whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
+Review' for April, 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+18.   THE SLEEPER
+
+
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
+and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+19.   THE BRIDAL BALLAD
+
+
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
+form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                         POEMS OF MANHOOD.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+LENORE.
+
+
+  Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
+  Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
+  And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
+  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
+  Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
+  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
+  A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
+
+  "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
+  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
+  How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
+  By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
+  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
+
+  _Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
+  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
+  The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
+  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
+  For her, the fair and _débonnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
+  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
+  The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
+
+  "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
+  But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
+  Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
+  Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
+  To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
+  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
+  From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
+
+
+1844.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ONE IN PARADISE,
+
+
+  Thou wast that all to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine--
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine,
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+  And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast!
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  "No more--no more--no more"--
+  (Such language holds the solemn sea
+    To the sands upon the shore)
+  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+    Or the stricken eagle soar!
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy dark eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams!
+
+  Alas! for that accursed time
+    They bore thee o'er the billow,
+  From love to titled age and crime,
+    And an unholy pillow!
+  From me, and from our misty clime,
+    Where weeps the silver willow!
+
+
+1835
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLISEUM.
+
+
+  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
+  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
+  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
+  At length--at length--after so many days
+  Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
+  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
+  I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
+  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
+  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
+
+  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
+  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
+  I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
+  O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
+  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
+  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
+  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
+
+  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
+  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
+  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
+  Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
+  Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
+  Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
+  Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
+  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
+  The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
+
+  But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
+  These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
+  These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
+  These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
+  These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
+  All of the famed, and the colossal left
+  By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
+
+  "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
+  Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
+  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
+  As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
+  We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
+  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
+  We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
+  Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
+  Not all the magic of our high renown--
+  Not all the wonder that encircles us--
+  Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
+  Not all the memories that hang upon
+  And cling around about us as a garment,
+  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED PALACE.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion--
+    It stood there!
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair!
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A winged odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley,
+    Through two luminous windows, saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tunëd law,
+  Bound about a throne where, sitting
+    (Porphyrogene!)
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate.
+  (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed,
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers, now, within that valley,
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms, that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody,
+    While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONQUEROR WORM.
+
+
+  Lo! 'tis a gala night
+    Within the lonesome latter years!
+  An angel throng, 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.
+
+  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
+    That shift the scenery to and fro,
+  Flapping from out their Condor wings
+    Invisible Wo!
+
+  That motley drama--oh, be sure
+    It shall not be forgot!
+  With its Phantom chased for evermore,
+    By a crowd that seize it not,
+  Through a circle that ever returneth in
+    To the self-same spot,
+  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
+    And Horror the soul of the plot.
+
+  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 the angels sob at vermin 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,
+  And the angels, all pallid and wan,
+    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
+  That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
+    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
+
+
+1838
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.
+
+
+  There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
+    That have a double life, which thus is made
+  A type of that twin entity which springs
+    From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
+  There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
+    Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
+    Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
+  Some human memories and tearful lore,
+  Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
+  He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
+    No power hath he of evil in himself;
+  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
+    Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
+  That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
+  No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
+
+
+1840
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMLAND.
+
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have reached these lands but newly
+  From an ultimate dim Thule--
+  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
+    Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
+
+  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
+  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
+  With forms that no man can discover
+  For the dews that drip all over;
+  Mountains toppling evermore
+  Into seas without a shore;
+  Seas that restlessly aspire,
+  Surging, unto skies of fire;
+  Lakes that endlessly outspread
+  Their lone waters--lone and dead,
+  Their still waters--still and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily.
+
+  By the lakes that thus outspread
+  Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
+  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily,--
+
+  By the mountains--near the river
+  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
+  By the gray woods,--by the swamp
+  Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
+  By the dismal tarns and pools
+    Where dwell the Ghouls,--
+  By each spot the most unholy--
+  In each nook most melancholy,--
+
+  There the traveller meets aghast
+  Sheeted Memories of the past--
+  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
+  As they pass the wanderer by--
+  White-robed forms of friends long given,
+  In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
+
+  For the heart whose woes are legion
+  'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
+  For the spirit that walks in shadow
+  'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
+  But the traveller, travelling through it,
+  May not--dare not openly view it;
+  Never its mysteries are exposed
+  To the weak human eye unclosed;
+  So wills its King, who hath forbid
+  The uplifting of the fringed lid;
+  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
+  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only.
+
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have wandered home but newly
+  From this ultimate dim Thule.
+
+
+1844
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ZANTE.
+
+
+  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
+    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
+  How many memories of what radiant hours
+    At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
+  How many scenes of what departed bliss!
+    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
+  How many visions of a maiden that is
+    No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
+
+  _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
+    Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
+  Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
+    Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
+  O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
+    "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
+
+
+1887.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+HYMN.
+
+
+  At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
+  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
+  In joy and wo--in good and ill--
+  Mother of God, be with me still!
+  When the Hours flew brightly by,
+  And not a cloud obscured the sky,
+  My soul, lest it should truant be,
+  Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
+  Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
+  Darkly my Present and my Past,
+  Let my future radiant shine
+  With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
+
+
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+
+20.   LENORE
+
+
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
+Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"--now first
+published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+21.   TO ONE IN PARADISE
+
+
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
+time, to the piece.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+22.   THE COLISEUM
+
+
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
+1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
+August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+23.   THE HAUNTED PALACE
+
+
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
+Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
+tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
+'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
+separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+24.   THE CONQUEROR WORM
+
+
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
+separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+25.   SILENCE
+
+
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for April, 1840.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+26.   DREAMLAND
+
+
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
+for June, 1844.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+37.   TO ZANTE
+
+
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+28.   HYMN
+
+
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
+1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
+first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                        SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
+
+                         AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
+
+
+I.
+
+ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
+
+_Alessandra_.     Thou art sad, Castiglione.
+
+_Castiglione_.    Sad!--not I.
+                  Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
+                  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
+                  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
+
+_Aless_.          Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
+                  Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
+                  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
+
+_Cas_.            Did I sigh?
+                  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
+                  A silly--a most silly fashion I have
+                  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
+
+_Aless_.          Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
+                  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
+                  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
+                  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
+                  Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
+                  The constitution as late hours and wine.
+
+_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
+                  Not even deep sorrow--
+                  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
+                  I will amend.
+
+_Aless_.          Do it! I would have thee drop
+                  Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
+                  Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
+                  And Alessandra's husband.
+
+_Cas_.            I will drop them.
+
+_Aless_.          Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
+                  To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
+                  For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
+                  Upon appearances.
+
+_Cas_.            I'll see to it.
+
+_Aless_.          Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
+                  To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
+                  In dignity.
+
+_Cas_.            Much, much, oh, much I want
+                  In proper dignity.
+
+_Aless.
+(haughtily_).     Thou mockest me, sir!
+
+_Cos.
+(abstractedly_).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!
+
+_Aless_.          Heard I aright?
+                  I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
+                  Sir Count!
+         (_places her hand on his shoulder_)
+                             what art thou dreaming?
+                  He's not well!
+                  What ails thee, sir?
+
+_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
+                  I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
+                  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
+                  This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
+
+_Enter Di Broglio_.
+
+_Di Broglio_.     My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
+                 --what's the matter?
+          (_observing Alessandra_).
+                  I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
+                  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
+                  I've news for you both. Politian is expected
+                  Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
+                  To the imperial city.
+
+_Aless_.          What! Politian
+                  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
+
+_Di Brog_.        The same, my love.
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
+                  In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
+                  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
+                  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
+                  And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
+
+_Aless_.          I have heard much of this Politian.
+                  Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
+                  And little given to thinking?
+
+_Di Brog_.        Far from it, love.
+                  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
+                  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
+                  Learned as few are learned.
+
+_Aless_.          'Tis very strange!
+                  I have known men have seen Politian
+                  And sought his company. They speak of him
+                  As of one who entered madly into life,
+                  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
+
+_Cas_.            Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
+                  And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
+                  He is a dreamer, and shut out
+                  From common passions.
+
+_Di Brog_.        Children, we disagree.
+                  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
+                  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
+                  Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
+
+                  (_Exeunt._)
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
+LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
+a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
+carelessly upon a chair.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         Jacinta! is it thou?
+
+_Jacinta
+(pertly_).        Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
+
+_Lal_.            I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
+                  Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
+                  Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
+
+_Jac. (aside_).   'Tis time.
+
+(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
+her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
+look. Lalage continues to read._)
+
+_Lal_.            "It in another climate, so he said,
+                  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
+
+           (_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
+
+                  "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
+                  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
+                  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
+                  Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
+                  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
+                  O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
+                  O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
+                  Jacinta!
+
+          (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
+
+                  Again!--a similar tale
+                  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
+                  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
+                  "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
+                  "I think not so--her infelicity
+                  Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
+                  Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
+                  Here's a far sterner story--
+                  But like--oh, very like in its despair--
+                  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
+                  A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
+                  She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
+                  Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
+                  With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
+                  Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
+
+_Jac_.
+(_pettishly_).    Madam, what is it?
+
+_Lal_.            Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
+                  As go down in the library and bring me
+                  The Holy Evangelists?
+
+_Jac_.            Pshaw!
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+_Lal_.            If there be balm
+                  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
+                  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
+                  Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
+                  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
+
+(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
+
+                  There, ma'am, 's the book.
+   (_aside_.)     Indeed she is very troublesome.
+
+_Lal_.
+(_astonished_).   What didst thou say, Jacinta?
+                  Have I done aught
+                  To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
+                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
+                  Trustworthy and respectful.
+              (_resumes her reading_.)
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
+                  She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
+
+_Lal_.            What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
+                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
+                  How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
+                  Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
+                  Thou needest, Jacinta?
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
+                  That's meant for me.  I'm sure, madam, you need not
+                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
+
+_Lal_.            Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
+                  I thought not of the jewels.
+
+_Jac_.            Oh, perhaps not!
+                  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
+                  There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
+                  For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
+                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
+                  And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
+                  Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
+short pause raises it_.)
+
+_Lal_.            Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
+                  Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
+                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
+                  (_taking up the mirror_)
+                  Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
+                  In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
+                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
+                  A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
+                  Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
+                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
+                  And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
+                  Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
+                  Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
+                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
+                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
+                  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
+                  _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
+                  Castiglione lied who said he loved----
+                  Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
+
+(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved_)
+
+_Monk_.           Refuge thou hast,
+                  Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
+                  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
+
+_Lal.
+(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
+                  The frightful sounds of merriment below;
+                  Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
+                  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
+                  Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
+                  Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
+                  With horror and awe!
+
+_Monk_.           Think of thy precious soul!
+
+_Lal_.            Think of my early days!--think of my father
+                  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
+                  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
+                  Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
+                  And think of me!--think of my trusting love
+                  And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
+                  Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
+                  Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
+                  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
+                  And vows before the throne?
+
+_Monk_.           I did.
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis well.
+                  There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
+                  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
+                  A solemn vow!
+
+_Monk_.           Daughter, this zeal is well!
+
+_Lal_.            Father, this zeal is anything but well!
+                  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
+                  A crucifix whereon to register
+                  This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
+                  Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
+                  Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
+                  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
+                  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
+                  _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
+                  The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
+                  And the deed's register should tally, father!
+         (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
+                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
+                  Is written in heaven!
+
+_Monk_.           Thy words are madness, daughter,
+                  And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
+                  Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
+                  Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
+                  Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis sworn!
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
+
+
+_Baldazzar_.      Arouse thee now, Politian!
+                  Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
+                  Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
+                  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
+                  And live, for now thou diest!
+
+_Politian_.       Not so, Baldazzar!
+                  _Surely_ I live.
+
+_Bal_.            Politian, it doth grieve me
+                  To see thee thus!
+
+_Pol_.            Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
+                  To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
+                  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
+                  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
+                  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
+                  Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
+                  And be no more Politian, but some other.
+                  Command me, sir!
+
+_Bal_.            To the field then--to the field--
+                  To the senate or the field.
+
+_Pol_.            Alas! alas!
+                  There is an imp would follow me even there!
+                  There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
+                  There is--what voice was that?
+
+_Bal_.            I heard it not.
+                  I heard not any voice except thine own,
+                  And the echo of thine own.
+
+_Pol_.            Then I but dreamed.
+
+_Bal_.            Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
+                  Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
+                  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
+                  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
+                  And phantom voices.
+
+_Pol_.            It _is_ a phantom voice!
+                  Didst thou not hear it _then_?
+
+_Bal_             I heard it not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
+                  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
+                  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
+                  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
+                  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
+                  We have been boys together--school-fellows--
+                  And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
+                  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
+                  A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
+                  A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
+                  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
+                  Unto thy friend.
+
+_Bal_.            Thou speakest a fearful riddle
+                  I _will_ not understand.
+
+_Pol_.            Yet now as Fate
+                  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
+                  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
+                  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
+                  I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
+                  So keen a relish for the beautiful
+                  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
+                  Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
+                  Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
+                  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
+                  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
+                  Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
+                  Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
+
+_Bal_.            Indeed I hear not.
+
+_Pol_.            Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
+                  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
+                  A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
+                  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
+                  Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
+                  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
+                  Surely I never heard--yet it were well
+                  Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
+                  In earlier days!
+
+_Bal_.            I myself hear it now.
+                  Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
+                  Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
+                  Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
+                  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
+                  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
+                  The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
+                  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
+                  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
+                  His son and heir.
+
+_Pol_.            Be still!--it comes again!
+
+_Voice_
+(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+
+_Bal_.            The song is English, and I oft have heard it
+                  In merry England--never so plaintively--
+                  Hist! hist! it comes again!
+
+_Voice
+(more loudly_).   "Is it so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            'Tis hushed and all is still!
+
+_Pol_.            All _is not_ still.
+
+_Bal_.            Let us go down.
+
+_Pol_.            Go down, Baldazzar, go!
+
+_Bal_.            The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
+                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
+                  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
+
+_Voice_
+(_distinctly_).   "Who have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among,
+                  And is thy heart so strong?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
+                  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
+                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
+                  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
+
+_Pol_.            Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
+               (_going_).
+                  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
+                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
+                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
+                  "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
+                  Once more that silent tongue."
+
+_Bal_.            Let me beg you, sir,
+                  Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
+                  Let us go down, I pray you.
+
+_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
+                     the voice
+                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
+             (_Approaching the window_)
+                  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
+                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
+                  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
+                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
+                  I go not down to-night.
+
+_Bal_.            Your lordship's pleasure
+                  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
+
+_Pol_.            Good-night, my friend, good-night.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         And dost thou speak of love
+                  To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
+                  To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
+                  This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
+
+_Politian_.       Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
+                  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
+                  Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
+                  And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
+                  And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
+                  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
+                  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
+                  Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
+                  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
+                  Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
+                  Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
+                  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
+                  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
+                  Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
+                  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
+                  Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
+               (_arising_.)
+                  Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
+                  Thy beauty and thy woes.
+
+_Lal_.            Alas, proud Earl,
+                  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
+                  How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
+                  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
+                  Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
+                  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
+                  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
+                  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
+                  And with thy glory?
+
+_Pol_.            Speak not to me of glory!
+                  I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
+                  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
+                  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
+                  Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
+                  What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
+                  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
+                  By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
+                  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
+                  There is no deed I would more glory in,
+                  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
+                  And trample it under foot. What matters it--
+                  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
+                  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
+                  Into the dust--so we descend together?
+                  Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And then perchance
+                  _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
+                  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
+                  And still--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And still _together_--_together_.
+
+_Lal_.            Now, Earl of Leicester!
+                  Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
+                  I feel thou lovest me truly.
+
+_Pol_.            O Lalage!
+               (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
+                  And lovest thou _me_?
+
+_Lal_.            Hist! hush! within the gloom
+                  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
+                  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
+                  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
+               (_walks across and returns_.)
+                  I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
+                  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
+
+_Pol_.            My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
+                  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
+                  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
+                  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
+                  Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
+                  Throw over all things a gloom.
+
+_Lal_.            Politian!
+                  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
+                  With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
+                  Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
+                  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
+                  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
+                  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
+                  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
+                  Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
+                  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
+                  In days that are to come?
+
+_Pol_.            Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
+                  Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
+                  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
+                  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
+                  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
+                  For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
+                  No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
+                  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
+                  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
+                  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
+                  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
+                  My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
+                  Fly thither with me?
+
+_Lal_.            A deed is to be done--
+                  Castiglione lives!
+
+_Pol_.            And he shall die!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Lal_.
+(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
+                  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
+                  Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
+                  Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
+                  I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
+                  Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
+                  With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
+                  And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
+                  To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
+                  To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
+                  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
+                  Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
+                  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
+                  Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
+                  And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
+                  Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
+                  So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
+                  'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
+
+
+_Politian_.       This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
+                  And much I fear me ill--it will not do
+                  To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
+                  O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
+                  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
+                  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
+                  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
+                  Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
+                  'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
+                  Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
+
+              _Enter Baldazzar_.
+
+_Baldazzar_.      That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
+                  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
+                  He doth decline your cartel.
+
+_Pol_.            _What_ didst thou say?
+                  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
+                  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
+                  Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
+                  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
+                  No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
+
+_Bal_.            That he, Castiglione, not being aware
+                  Of any feud existing, or any cause
+                  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
+                  Cannot accept the challenge.
+
+_Pol_.            It is most true--
+                  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
+                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
+                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
+                  A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
+                  From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
+
+_Bal_.            No more, my lord, than I have told you:
+                  The Count Castiglione will not fight.
+                  Having no cause for quarrel.
+
+_Pol_.            Now this is true--
+                  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
+                  And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
+                  A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
+                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
+                  Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
+                  Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
+                  He should have cause for quarrel.
+
+_Bal_.            My lord!--my friend!--
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
+       (_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
+                  I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
+                  Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
+                  Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
+                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
+                  I would adjust.
+
+_Bal_.            I go--to-morrow we meet,
+                  Do we not?--at the Vatican.
+
+_Pol_.            At the Vatican.
+
+                  (_Exit Bal_.)
+
+                  _Enter Castiglione_.
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl of Leicester here!
+
+_Pol_.            I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
+                  Dost thou not, that I am here?
+
+_Cas_.            My lord, some strange,
+                  Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
+                  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
+                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
+                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
+                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
+                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
+                  Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
+                  'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
+                  Do err at times.
+
+_Pol_.            Draw, villain, and prate no more!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
+                  Proud Earl!
+               (_Draws._)
+
+_Pol_.
+(_drawing_.)      Thus to the expiatory tomb,
+                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
+                  In the name of Lalage!
+
+_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
+         stage_.)
+                  Of Lalage!
+                  Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
+                  Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
+                  Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
+                  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
+
+_Cas_.            I dare not--dare not--
+                  Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
+                  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
+                  I cannot--dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Now, by my halidom,
+                  I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
+(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
+the Earl._)
+                  Alas! my lord,
+                  It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
+                  I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
+
+_Pol.
+(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
+
+_Cas_.            And Lalage--
+
+_Pol_.            _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
+
+_Cas_.            It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
+                  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
+                  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
+                  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
+                  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
+               (_baring his bosom_.)
+                  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
+                  Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
+
+_Pol_.            Now's Death and Hell!
+                  Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
+                  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
+                  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
+                  For public insult in the streets--before
+                  The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
+                  Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
+                  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
+                  Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
+                    thee,
+                  Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
+                  Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Cas_.            Now this indeed is just!
+                  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTE ON POLITIAN
+
+20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.
+
+
+
+_Duke_.           Why do you laugh?
+
+_Castiglione_.    Indeed.
+                  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
+                  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
+                  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
+                  Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
+                  We were walking in the garden.
+
+_Duke_.           Perfectly.
+                  I do remember it--what of it--what then?
+
+_Cas_.            O nothing--nothing at all.
+
+_Duke_.           Nothing at all!
+                  It is most singular that you should laugh
+                  At nothing at all!
+
+_Cas_.            Most singular--singular!
+
+_Duke_.           Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
+                  As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
+                  What are you talking of?
+
+_Cas_.            Was it not so?
+                  We differed in opinion touching him.
+
+_Duke_.           Him!--Whom?
+
+_Cas_.            Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
+
+_Duke_.           The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
+                  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
+                  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
+                  Was neither learned nor mirthful.
+
+_Cas_.            Ha! ha!--now did I?
+
+_Duke_.           That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
+                  You were wrong, it being not the character
+                  Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
+                  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
+                  Too positive again.
+
+_Cas_.            'Tis singular!
+                  Most singular! I could not think it possible
+                  So little time could so much alter one!
+                  To say the truth about an hour ago,
+                  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
+                  All arm in arm, we met this very man
+                  The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
+                  Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
+                  Such an account he gave me of his journey!
+                  'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
+                    told
+                  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
+                  Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
+                  Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
+                  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
+                  Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
+                  Was gravity itself--
+
+_Duke_.           Did I not tell you?
+
+_Cas_.            You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
+                  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
+                  The Earl a gloomy man.
+
+_Duke_.           So, so, you see!
+                  Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
+                  It cannot be the Earl?
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl! Oh no!
+                  Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
+                  Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
+                  (_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
+                  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
+                  To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
+                  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
+                  Of Leicester in Great Britain.
+                  [_Politian bows haughtily_.]
+                  That, his friend
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
+                  So please you, for Your Grace.
+
+_Duke_.           Ha! ha! Most welcome
+                  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
+                  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
+                  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
+                  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
+                  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
+                  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
+                  Most seasonable. The wedding--
+
+_Politian_.       Touching those letters, sir,
+                  Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
+                  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
+                  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
+                  Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
+                  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
+
+_Duke_.           Retire!--so soon?
+
+_Cas_.            What ho! Benito! Rupert!
+                  His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
+                  His lordship is unwell.
+
+             (_Enter Benito_.)
+
+_Ben_.            This way, my lord!
+
+             (_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
+
+_Duke_.           Retire! Unwell!
+
+_Bal_.            So please you, sir. I fear me
+                  'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
+                  The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
+                  Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
+                  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
+                  I will return anon.
+
+_Duke_.           Return anon!
+                  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
+                  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
+                  You surely were mistaken in what you said
+                  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
+                  Politian was a melancholy man?
+
+                 (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                           POEMS OF YOUTH
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
+
+
+LETTER TO MR. B--.
+
+"WEST POINT, 1831
+
+"DEAR B--
+
+...
+
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
+
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
+poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
+the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
+but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
+good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
+observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
+yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
+judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
+'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
+theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
+write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
+it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
+the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
+step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
+more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
+understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
+sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
+superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
+discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
+fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
+own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
+so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
+summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
+pinnacle.
+
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.
+
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.
+
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
+
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.
+
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.
+
+"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
+his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
+pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
+means of obtaining.
+
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.
+
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
+passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
+with the passions--or age with poetry.
+
+  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
+  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.
+
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
+Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
+treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
+of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
+contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
+it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
+surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
+useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
+
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
+Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
+glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
+that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
+glacier.
+
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.
+
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
+done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
+unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
+the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
+comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
+
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. 'Tantæne animis?' Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see
+what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,
+  And now she's at the pony's head,
+  On that side now, and now on this;
+  And, almost stifled with her bliss,
+  A few sad tears does Betty shed....
+  She pats the pony, where or when
+  She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
+  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
+
+"Secondly:
+
+  "'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
+  I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
+  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
+  A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
+  No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
+  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+  if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
+  will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
+  ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
+  be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
+  been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
+
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+  '_J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+  bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+  nient_;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
+the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
+think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
+Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
+man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
+from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
+light that are weltering below.
+
+"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
+Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
+of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
+Titania!
+
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
+its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
+poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
+perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
+to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
+sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
+pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
+the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
+
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?
+
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+  "'No Indian prince has to his palace
+  More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
+
+
+  SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
+    Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
+  Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
+    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
+  How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
+    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
+  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
+    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
+  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
+    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
+  To seek a shelter in some happier star?
+    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
+  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
+  The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
+the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
+acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
+that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AL AARAAF. [1]
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+  O! nothing earthly save the ray
+  (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
+  As in those gardens where the day
+  Springs from the gems of Circassy--
+  O! nothing earthly save the thrill
+  Of melody in woodland rill--
+  Or (music of the passion-hearted)
+  Joy's voice so peacefully departed
+  That like the murmur in the shell,
+  Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
+  O! nothing of the dross of ours--
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
+  Adorn yon world afar, afar--
+  The wandering star.
+
+  'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
+  Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
+  Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
+  An oasis in desert of the blest.
+  Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
+  Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
+  The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
+  Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
+  To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
+  And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
+  But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
+  She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
+  And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
+  Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
+
+  Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
+  Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
+  (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
+  Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
+  It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
+  She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
+  Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
+  Fit emblems of the model of her world--
+  Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
+  Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
+  A wreath that twined each starry form around,
+  And all the opal'd air in color bound.
+
+  All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
+  Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
+  On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
+  So eagerly around about to hang
+  Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
+  Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
+  The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
+  Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
+  And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
+  Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
+  All other loveliness: its honied dew
+  (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
+  Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
+  And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
+  In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
+  So like its own above that, to this hour,
+  It still remaineth, torturing the bee
+  With madness, and unwonted reverie:
+  In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
+  And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
+  Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
+  Repenting follies that full long have fled,
+  Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
+  Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
+  Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
+  She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
+  And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
+  While pettish tears adown her petals run:
+  And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
+  And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
+  Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
+  Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
+  And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
+  From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
+  And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
+  Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
+  And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
+  With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
+  Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
+  To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
+
+    "Spirit! that dwellest where,
+      In the deep sky,
+    The terrible and fair,
+      In beauty vie!
+    Beyond the line of blue--
+      The boundary of the star
+    Which turneth at the view
+      Of thy barrier and thy bar--
+    Of the barrier overgone
+      By the comets who were cast
+    From their pride, and from their throne
+      To be drudges till the last--
+    To be carriers of fire
+      (The red fire of their heart)
+    With speed that may not tire
+      And with pain that shall not part--
+    Who livest--_that_ we know--
+      In Eternity--we feel--
+    But the shadow of whose brow
+      What spirit shall reveal?
+    Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
+      Thy messenger hath known
+    Have dream'd for thy Infinity
+      A model of their own [11]--
+    Thy will is done, O God!
+      The star hath ridden high
+    Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
+      Beneath thy burning eye;
+    And here, in thought, to thee--
+      In thought that can alone
+    Ascend thy empire and so be
+      A partner of thy throne--
+    By winged Fantasy [12],
+       My embassy is given,
+    Till secrecy shall knowledge be
+      In the environs of Heaven."
+
+  She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
+  Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
+  A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
+  For the stars trembled at the Deity.
+  She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
+  How solemnly pervading the calm air!
+  A sound of silence on the startled ear
+  Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
+  Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
+  "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
+
+  All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
+  Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
+  But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
+  The eternal voice of God is passing by,
+  And the red winds are withering in the sky!
+  "What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
+  Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
+  Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
+  Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
+  The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
+  (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
+  What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
+  The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
+  Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
+  To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
+  Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
+  With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
+  Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
+  And wing to other worlds another light!
+  Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
+  To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
+  To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
+  Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
+
+   Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
+  The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
+  Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
+  The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
+  As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
+  Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
+  And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
+  Her way--but left not yet her Therasæan reign [15].
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+  High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
+  Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
+  Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
+  Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
+  With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
+  What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
+  Of rosy head, that towering far away
+  Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
+  Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
+  While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
+  Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
+  Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
+  Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
+  Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
+  And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
+  Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
+  Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
+  Of their own dissolution, while they die--
+  Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
+  A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
+  Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
+  A window of one circular diamond, there,
+  Look'd out above into the purple air
+  And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
+  And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
+  Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
+  Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
+  But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
+  The dimness of this world: that grayish green
+  That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
+  Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
+  And every sculptured cherub thereabout
+  That from his marble dwelling peered out,
+  Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
+  Achaian statues in a world so rich?
+  Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
+  From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
+  Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
+  Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
+  Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
+  Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
+  That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
+  Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
+  That stealeth ever on the ear of him
+  Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
+  And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
+  Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?  [20]
+   But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
+  A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
+  A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
+  And Nesace is in her halls again.
+  From the wild energy of wanton haste
+  Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
+  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
+  Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
+  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
+  She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
+  The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
+  And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
+
+  Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
+  To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
+  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
+  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
+  Yet silence came upon material things--
+  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
+  And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
+  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
+
+    "Neath blue-bell or streamer--
+      Or tufted wild spray
+    That keeps, from the dreamer,
+      The moonbeam away--[22]
+    Bright beings! that ponder,
+      With half-closing eyes,
+    On the stars which your wonder
+      Hath drawn from the skies,
+    Till they glance thro' the shade, and
+      Come down to your brow
+    Like--eyes of the maiden
+      Who calls on you now--
+    Arise! from your dreaming
+      In violet bowers,
+    To duty beseeming
+      These star-litten hours--
+    And shake from your tresses
+      Encumber'd with dew
+
+    The breath of those kisses
+      That cumber them too--
+    (O! how, without you, Love!
+      Could angels be blest?)
+    Those kisses of true love
+      That lull'd ye to rest!
+    Up! shake from your wing
+      Each hindering thing:
+    The dew of the night--
+      It would weigh down your flight;
+    And true love caresses--
+      O! leave them apart!
+    They are light on the tresses,
+      But lead on the heart.
+
+    Ligeia! Ligeia!
+      My beautiful one!
+    Whose harshest idea
+      Will to melody run,
+    O! is it thy will
+      On the breezes to toss?
+    Or, capriciously still,
+      Like the lone Albatross, [23]
+    Incumbent on night
+      (As she on the air)
+    To keep watch with delight
+      On the harmony there?
+
+    Ligeia! wherever
+      Thy image may be,
+    No magic shall sever
+      Thy music from thee.
+    Thou hast bound many eyes
+      In a dreamy sleep--
+    But the strains still arise
+      Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
+
+    The sound of the rain
+      Which leaps down to the flower,
+    And dances again
+      In the rhythm of the shower--
+    The murmur that springs [24]
+      From the growing of grass
+    Are the music of things--
+      But are modell'd, alas!
+    Away, then, my dearest,
+      O! hie thee away
+    To springs that lie clearest
+      Beneath the moon-ray--
+    To lone lake that smiles,
+      In its dream of deep rest,
+    At the many star-isles
+    That enjewel its breast--
+    Where wild flowers, creeping,
+      Have mingled their shade,
+    On its margin is sleeping
+      Full many a maid--
+    Some have left the cool glade, and
+      Have slept with the bee--[25]
+    Arouse them, my maiden,
+      On moorland and lea--
+
+    Go! breathe on their slumber,
+      All softly in ear,
+    The musical number
+      They slumber'd to hear--
+    For what can awaken
+      An angel so soon
+    Whose sleep hath been taken
+      Beneath the cold moon,
+    As the spell which no slumber
+      Of witchery may test,
+    The rhythmical number
+      Which lull'd him to rest?"
+
+  Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
+  A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
+  Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
+  Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
+  That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
+  O death! from eye of God upon that star;
+  Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
+  Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
+  Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
+  To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
+  For what (to them) availeth it to know
+  That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
+  Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
+  With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
+  Beyond that death no immortality--
+  But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
+  And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
+  Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
+
+  What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
+  Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
+  But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
+  To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
+  A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
+  O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
+  Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
+  Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
+
+  He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
+  A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
+  A gazer on the lights that shine above--
+  A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
+  What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
+  And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
+  And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
+  To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
+  The night had found (to him a night of wo)
+  Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
+  Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
+  And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
+  Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
+  With eagle gaze along the firmament:
+  Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
+  It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
+
+  "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
+  How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
+  She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
+  I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
+  That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
+  The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
+  On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
+  Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
+  And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
+  How drowsily it weighed them into night!
+  On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
+  With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
+  But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
+  Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
+  So softly that no single silken hair
+  Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
+
+  "The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
+  Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
+  More beauty clung around her columned wall
+  Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
+  And when old Time my wing did disenthral
+  Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
+  And years I left behind me in an hour.
+  What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
+  One half the garden of her globe was flung
+  Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
+  Tenantless cities of the desert too!
+  Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
+  And half I wished to be again of men."
+
+  "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
+  A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
+  And greener fields than in yon world above,
+  And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
+  "But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
+  Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
+  Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
+  I left so late was into chaos hurled,
+  Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
+  And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
+  Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
+  And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
+  But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
+  Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
+  Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
+  For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
+  Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
+  A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
+
+  "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
+  Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
+  We came, my love; around, above, below,
+  Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
+  Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
+  _She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
+  But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
+  Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
+  Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
+  Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
+  When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
+  Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
+  But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
+  As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
+  We paused before the heritage of men,
+  And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
+
+  Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
+  The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
+  They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
+  Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
+
+
+1839.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
+
+
+[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
+
+
+[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
+them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.]
+
+
+[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
+
+
+[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.]
+
+
+[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
+
+
+[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
+fol. edit.
+
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
+
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
+
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+
+  Dicite sacrorum præesides nemorum Dese, etc.,
+  Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
+  Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
+  Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
+  Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+--And afterwards,
+
+  Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
+  Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 12:
+
+  Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
+  Seinem Schosskinde
+  Der Phantasie.
+
+'Goethe'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.]
+
+
+[Footnote 15: Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.]
+
+
+[Footnote 16:
+
+  Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
+  Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+  "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
+  érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles--peut-il être un chef
+  d'oeuvre des arts!"]
+
+
+[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
+by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
+argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
+"Asphaltites."]
+
+
+[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
+
+
+[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
+
+
+[Footnote 21:
+
+  Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+  "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.]
+
+
+[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
+
+
+[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+  "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+  musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+  do make when they growe."]
+
+
+[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+  O! were there an island,
+    Tho' ever so wild,
+  Where woman might smile, and
+    No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
+
+
+[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+  Un no rompido sueno--
+  Un dia puro--allegre--libre
+  Quiera--
+  Libre de amor--de zelo--
+  De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
+
+'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
+
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.
+
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.]
+
+
+[Footnote 27:
+
+  There be tears of perfect moan
+  Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
+
+
+[Footnote 29:
+
+  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
+  Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+'Marlowe.']
+
+
+[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TAMERLANE.
+
+
+  Kind solace in a dying hour!
+  Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
+  I will not madly deem that power
+  Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
+  Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
+  I have no time to dote or dream:
+  You call it hope--that fire of fire!
+  It is but agony of desire:
+  If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
+  Its fount is holier--more divine--
+  I would not call thee fool, old man,
+  But such is not a gift of thine.
+
+  Know thou the secret of a spirit
+  Bowed from its wild pride into shame
+  O yearning heart! I did inherit
+  Thy withering portion with the fame,
+  The searing glory which hath shone
+  Amid the Jewels of my throne,
+  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
+  Not Hell shall make me fear again--
+  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
+  And sunshine of my summer hours!
+  The undying voice of that dead time,
+  With its interminable chime,
+  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
+  Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
+
+  I have not always been as now:
+  The fevered diadem on my brow
+  I claimed and won usurpingly--
+  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
+  Rome to the Cæsar--this to me?
+  The heritage of a kingly mind,
+  And a proud spirit which hath striven
+  Triumphantly with human kind.
+  On mountain soil I first drew life:
+  The mists of the Taglay have shed
+  Nightly their dews upon my head,
+  And, I believe, the winged strife
+  And tumult of the headlong air
+  Have nestled in my very hair.
+
+  So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
+  ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
+  Upon me with the touch of Hell,
+  While the red flashing of the light
+  From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
+  Appeared to my half-closing eye
+  The pageantry of monarchy;
+  And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
+  Came hurriedly upon me, telling
+  Of human battle, where my voice,
+  My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
+  (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
+  And leap within me at the cry)
+  The battle-cry of Victory!
+
+  The rain came down upon my head
+  Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
+  Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
+  It was but man, I thought, who shed
+  Laurels upon me: and the rush--
+  The torrent of the chilly air
+  Gurgled within my ear the crush
+  Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
+  The hum of suitors--and the tone
+  Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
+
+  My passions, from that hapless hour,
+  Usurped a tyranny which men
+  Have deemed since I have reached to power,
+  My innate nature--be it so:
+  But, father, there lived one who, then,
+  Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
+  Burned with a still intenser glow
+  (For passion must, with youth, expire)
+  E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
+  In woman's weakness had a part.
+
+  I have no words--alas!--to tell
+  The loveliness of loving well!
+  Nor would I now attempt to trace
+  The more than beauty of a face
+  Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
+  Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
+  Thus I remember having dwelt
+  Some page of early lore upon,
+  With loitering eye, till I have felt
+  The letters--with their meaning--melt
+  To fantasies--with none.
+
+  O, she was worthy of all love!
+  Love as in infancy was mine--
+  'Twas such as angel minds above
+  Might envy; her young heart the shrine
+  On which my every hope and thought
+  Were incense--then a goodly gift,
+  For they were childish and upright--
+  Pure--as her young example taught:
+  Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
+  Trust to the fire within, for light?
+
+  We grew in age--and love--together--
+  Roaming the forest, and the wild;
+  My breast her shield in wintry weather--
+  And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
+  And she would mark the opening skies,
+  _I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
+  Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
+  For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
+  When, from our little cares apart,
+  And laughing at her girlish wiles,
+  I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
+  And pour my spirit out in tears--
+  There was no need to speak the rest--
+  No need to quiet any fears
+  Of her--who asked no reason why,
+  But turned on me her quiet eye!
+
+  Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
+  My spirit struggled with, and strove
+  When, on the mountain peak, alone,
+  Ambition lent it a new tone--
+  I had no being--but in thee:
+  The world, and all it did contain
+  In the earth--the air--the sea--
+  Its joy--its little lot of pain
+  That was new pleasure--the ideal,
+  Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
+  And dimmer nothings which were real--
+  (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
+  Parted upon their misty wings,
+  And, so, confusedly, became
+  Thine image and--a name--a name!
+  Two separate--yet most intimate things.
+
+  I was ambitious--have you known
+  The passion, father? You have not:
+  A cottager, I marked a throne
+  Of half the world as all my own,
+  And murmured at such lowly lot--
+  But, just like any other dream,
+  Upon the vapor of the dew
+  My own had past, did not the beam
+  Of beauty which did while it thro'
+  The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
+  My mind with double loveliness.
+
+  We walked together on the crown
+  Of a high mountain which looked down
+  Afar from its proud natural towers
+  Of rock and forest, on the hills--
+  The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
+  And shouting with a thousand rills.
+
+  I spoke to her of power and pride,
+  But mystically--in such guise
+  That she might deem it nought beside
+  The moment's converse; in her eyes
+  I read, perhaps too carelessly--
+  A mingled feeling with my own--
+  The flush on her bright cheek, to me
+  Seemed to become a queenly throne
+  Too well that I should let it be
+  Light in the wilderness alone.
+
+  I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
+  And donned a visionary crown--
+  Yet it was not that Fantasy
+  Had thrown her mantle over me--
+  But that, among the rabble--men,
+  Lion ambition is chained down--
+  And crouches to a keeper's hand--
+  Not so in deserts where the grand--
+  The wild--the terrible conspire
+  With their own breath to fan his fire.
+
+  Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
+  Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
+  Above all cities? in her hand
+  Their destinies? in all beside
+  Of glory which the world hath known
+  Stands she not nobly and alone?
+  Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
+  Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
+  And who her sovereign? Timour--he
+  Whom the astonished people saw
+  Striding o'er empires haughtily
+  A diademed outlaw!
+
+  O, human love! thou spirit given,
+  On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
+  Which fall'st into the soul like rain
+  Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
+  And, failing in thy power to bless,
+  But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
+  Idea! which bindest life around
+  With music of so strange a sound
+  And beauty of so wild a birth--
+  Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
+
+  When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
+  No cliff beyond him in the sky,
+  His pinions were bent droopingly--
+  And homeward turned his softened eye.
+  'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
+  There comes a sullenness of heart
+  To him who still would look upon
+  The glory of the summer sun.
+  That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
+  So often lovely, and will list
+  To the sound of the coming darkness (known
+  To those whose spirits hearken) as one
+  Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
+  But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
+
+  What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
+  Shed all the splendor of her noon,
+  _Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
+  In that time of dreariness, will seem
+  (So like you gather in your breath)
+  A portrait taken after death.
+  And boyhood is a summer sun
+  Whose waning is the dreariest one--
+  For all we live to know is known,
+  And all we seek to keep hath flown--
+  Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
+  With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
+  I reached my home--my home no more--
+  For all had flown who made it so.
+  I passed from out its mossy door,
+  And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
+  A voice came from the threshold stone
+  Of one whom I had earlier known--
+  O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
+  On beds of fire that burn below,
+  An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
+
+  Father, I firmly do believe--
+  I _know_--for Death who comes for me
+  From regions of the blest afar,
+  Where there is nothing to deceive,
+  Hath left his iron gate ajar.
+  And rays of truth you cannot see
+  Are flashing thro' Eternity----
+  I do believe that Eblis hath
+  A snare in every human path--
+  Else how, when in the holy grove
+  I wandered of the idol, Love,--
+  Who daily scents his snowy wings
+  With incense of burnt-offerings
+  From the most unpolluted things,
+  Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
+  Above with trellised rays from Heaven
+  No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
+  The light'ning of his eagle eye--
+  How was it that Ambition crept,
+  Unseen, amid the revels there,
+  Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
+  In the tangles of Love's very hair!
+
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece,
+  To the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
+
+
+  _Once_ it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sun-light lazily lay,
+  _Now_ each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless--
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Unceasingly, from morn till even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye--
+  Over the lilies that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ISRAFEL. [1]
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamoured Moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven),
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty--
+  Where Love's a grow-up God--
+    Where the Houri glances are
+  Imbued with all the beauty
+    Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore, thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest!
+  Merrily live and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit--
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute--
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+    Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+
+1836.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+  sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+'Koran'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  I heed not that my earthly lot
+    Hath--little of Earth in it--
+  That years of love have been forgot
+    In the hatred of a minute:--
+  I mourn not that the desolate
+    Are happier, sweet, than I,
+  But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
+    Who am a passer-by.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
+    The wantonest singing birds,
+
+  Are lips--and all thy melody
+    Of lip-begotten words--
+
+  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
+    Then desolately fall,
+  O God! on my funereal mind
+    Like starlight on a pall--
+
+  Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
+    And sleep to dream till day
+  Of the truth that gold can never buy--
+    Of the baubles that it may.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIVER
+
+
+  Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
+    Of crystal, wandering water,
+  Thou art an emblem of the glow
+        Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
+        The playful maziness of art
+    In old Alberto's daughter;
+
+  But when within thy wave she looks--
+    Which glistens then, and trembles--
+  Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
+    Her worshipper resembles;
+  For in his heart, as in thy stream,
+    Her image deeply lies--
+  His heart which trembles at the beam
+    Of her soul-searching eyes.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONG.
+
+
+  I saw thee on thy bridal day--
+    When a burning blush came o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee:
+
+  And in thine eye a kindling light
+    (Whatever it might be)
+  Was all on Earth my aching sight
+    Of Loveliness could see.
+
+  That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
+    As such it well may pass--
+  Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
+    In the breast of him, alas!
+
+  Who saw thee on that bridal day,
+    When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
+
+
+  Thy soul shall find itself alone
+  'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
+  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--tho' 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 forever.
+  Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
+  Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
+  From thy spirit shall they pass
+  No more--like dew-drops 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!
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM.
+
+
+  In visions of the dark night
+    I have dreamed of joy departed--
+  But a waking dream of life and light
+    Hath left me broken-hearted.
+
+  Ah! what is not a dream by day
+    To him whose eyes are cast
+  On things around him with a ray
+    Turned back upon the past?
+
+  That holy dream--that holy dream,
+    While all the world were chiding,
+  Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
+    A lonely spirit guiding.
+
+  What though that light, thro' storm and night,
+    So trembled from afar--
+  What could there be more purely bright
+    In Truth's day star?
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE.
+
+
+  Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
+  With drowsy head and folded wing,
+  Among the green leaves as they shake
+  Far down within some shadowy lake,
+  To me a painted paroquet
+  Hath been--a most familiar bird--
+  Taught me my alphabet to say--
+  To lisp my very earliest word
+  While in the wild wood I did lie,
+  A child--with a most knowing eye.
+
+  Of late, eternal Condor years
+  So shake the very Heaven on high
+  With tumult as they thunder by,
+  I have no time for idle cares
+  Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
+  And when an hour with calmer wings
+  Its down upon my spirit flings--
+  That little time with lyre and rhyme
+  To while away--forbidden things!
+  My heart would feel to be a crime
+  Unless it trembled with the strings.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FAIRYLAND.
+
+
+  Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
+  And cloudy-looking woods,
+  Whose forms we can't discover
+  For the tears that drip all over
+  Huge moons there wax and wane--
+  Again--again--again--
+  Every moment of the night--
+  Forever changing places--
+  And they put out the star-light
+  With the breath from their pale faces.
+  About twelve by the moon-dial
+  One more filmy than the rest
+  (A kind which, upon trial,
+  They have found to be the best)
+  Comes down--still down--and down
+  With its centre on the crown
+  Of a mountain's eminence,
+  While its wide circumference
+  In easy drapery falls
+  Over hamlets, over halls,
+  Wherever they may be--
+  O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
+  Over spirits on the wing--
+  Over every drowsy thing--
+  And buries them up quite
+  In a labyrinth of light--
+  And then, how deep!--O, deep!
+  Is the passion of their sleep.
+  In the morning they arise,
+  And their moony covering
+  Is soaring in the skies,
+  With the tempests as they toss,
+  Like--almost any thing--
+  Or a yellow Albatross.
+  They use that moon no more
+  For the same end as before--
+  Videlicet a tent--
+  Which I think extravagant:
+  Its atomies, however,
+  Into a shower dissever,
+  Of which those butterflies,
+  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
+  And so come down again
+  (Never-contented thing!)
+  Have brought a specimen
+  Upon their quivering wings.
+
+
+1831
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAKE.
+
+
+  In spring of youth it was my lot
+  To haunt of the wide world a spot
+  The which I could not love the less--
+  So lovely was the loneliness
+  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
+  And the tall pines that towered around.
+
+  But when the Night had thrown her pall
+  Upon the spot, as upon all,
+  And the mystic wind went by
+  Murmuring in melody--
+  Then--ah, then, I would awake
+  To the terror of the lone lake.
+
+  Yet that terror was not fright,
+  But a tremulous delight--
+  A feeling not the jewelled mine
+  Could teach or bribe me to define--
+  Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
+
+  Death was in that poisonous wave,
+  And in its gulf a fitting grave
+  For him who thence could solace bring
+  To his lone imagining--
+  Whose solitary soul could make
+  An Eden of that dim lake.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EVENING STAR.
+
+
+  'Twas noontide of summer,
+    And midtime of night,
+  And stars, in their orbits,
+    Shone pale, through the light
+  Of the brighter, cold moon.
+    'Mid planets her slaves,
+  Herself in the Heavens,
+    Her beam on the waves.
+
+    I gazed awhile
+    On her cold smile;
+  Too cold--too cold for me--
+    There passed, as a shroud,
+    A fleecy cloud,
+  And I turned away to thee,
+    Proud Evening Star,
+    In thy glory afar
+  And dearer thy beam shall be;
+    For joy to my heart
+    Is the proud part
+  Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
+    And more I admire
+    Thy distant fire,
+  Than that colder, lowly light.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+IMITATION.
+
+
+  A dark unfathomed tide
+  Of interminable pride--
+  A mystery, and a dream,
+  Should my early life seem;
+  I say that dream was fraught
+  With a wild and waking thought
+  Of beings that have been,
+  Which my spirit hath not seen,
+  Had I let them pass me by,
+  With a dreaming eye!
+  Let none of earth inherit
+  That vision on my spirit;
+  Those thoughts I would control,
+  As a spell upon his soul:
+  For that bright hope at last
+  And that light time have past,
+  And my wordly rest hath gone
+  With a sigh as it passed on:
+  I care not though it perish
+  With a thought I then did cherish.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
+
+
+     I.       The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                My seared and blighted heart hath known,
+              The highest hope of pride and power,
+                I feel hath flown.
+
+
+     II.      Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
+                But they have vanished long, alas!
+              The visions of my youth have been--
+                But let them pass.
+
+
+     III.     And pride, what have I now with thee?
+                Another brow may ev'n inherit
+              The venom thou hast poured on me--
+                Be still my spirit!
+
+
+     IV.      The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
+              The brightest glance of pride and power
+                I feel have been:
+
+
+     V.       But were that hope of pride and power
+                Now offered with the pain
+              Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
+                I would not live again:
+
+     VI.      For on its wing was dark alloy
+                And as it fluttered--fell
+              An essence--powerful to destroy
+                A soul that knew it well.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Translation from the Greek.
+
+
+HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
+
+
+  I.      Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
+            Like those champions devoted and brave,
+          When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
+            And to Athens deliverance gave.
+
+  II.     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
+            In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
+          Where the mighty of old have their home--
+            Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
+
+  III.    In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
+            Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
+          When he made at the tutelar shrine
+            A libation of Tyranny's blood.
+
+  IV.     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
+            Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
+          Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
+            Embalmed in their echoing songs!
+
+1827
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMS.
+
+
+  Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
+  My spirit not awakening, till the beam
+  Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
+  Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
+  'Twere better than the cold reality
+  Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
+  And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
+  A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
+  But should it be--that dream eternally
+  Continuing--as dreams have been to me
+  In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
+  'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
+  For I have revelled when the sun was bright
+  I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
+  And loveliness,--have left my very heart
+  Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
+  From mine own home, with beings that have been
+  Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
+  'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
+  From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
+  Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
+  Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
+  Its image on my spirit--or the moon
+  Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
+  Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
+  That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
+  _I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
+  I have been happy--and I love the theme:
+  Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
+  As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
+  Of semblance with reality which brings
+  To the delirious eye, more lovely things
+  Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
+  Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
+
+
+          _How often we forget all time, when lone
+          Admiring Nature's universal throne;
+          Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
+          Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
+
+
+I.        In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
+            In secret communing held--as he with it,
+          In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
+            Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
+          From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
+            A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
+          And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
+            Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
+
+
+II.       Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
+            To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
+          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
+            With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
+          Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
+            The unembodied essence, and no more
+          That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
+            As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
+
+
+III.      Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
+            To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
+          Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
+            And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
+          From us in life--but common--which doth lie
+            Each hour before us--but then only bid
+          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
+            T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
+
+
+IV.       Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
+            In beauty by our God, to those alone
+          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
+            Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
+          That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
+            Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
+          With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
+            Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A PÆAN.
+
+
+
+I.        How shall the burial rite be read?
+            The solemn song be sung?
+          The requiem for the loveliest dead,
+            That ever died so young?
+
+
+II.       Her friends are gazing on her,
+            And on her gaudy bier,
+          And weep!--oh! to dishonor
+            Dead beauty with a tear!
+
+
+III.     They loved her for her wealth--
+           And they hated her for her pride--
+          But she grew in feeble health,
+            And they _love_ her--that she died.
+
+
+IV.      They tell me (while they speak
+           Of her "costly broider'd pall")
+         That my voice is growing weak--
+           That I should not sing at all--
+
+
+V.       Or that my tone should be
+           Tun'd to such solemn song
+         So mournfully--so mournfully,
+           That the dead may feel no wrong.
+
+
+VI.      But she is gone above,
+           With young Hope at her side,
+         And I am drunk with love
+           Of the dead, who is my bride.--
+
+VII.     Of the dead--dead who lies
+           All perfum'd there,
+         With the death upon her eyes.
+           And the life upon her hair.
+
+
+VIII.    Thus on the coffin loud and long
+           I strike--the murmur sent
+         Through the gray chambers to my song,
+           Shall be the accompaniment.
+
+
+IX.      Thou diedst in thy life's June--
+           But thou didst not die too fair:
+         Thou didst not die too soon,
+           Nor with too calm an air.
+
+
+X.       From more than friends on earth,
+           Thy life and love are riven,
+         To join the untainted mirth
+           Of more than thrones in heaven.--
+
+
+XI.      Therefore, to thee this night
+           I will no requiem raise,
+         But waft thee on thy flight,
+           With a Pæan of old days.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+
+AL AARAAF.
+
+
+  Mysterious star!
+  Thou wert my dream
+  All a long summer night--
+  Be now my theme!
+  By this clear stream,
+  Of thee will I write;
+  Meantime from afar
+  Bathe me in light!
+
+  Thy world has not the dross of ours,
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our love or deck our bowers
+  In dreamy gardens, where do lie
+  Dreamy maidens all the day;
+  While the silver winds of Circassy
+  On violet couches faint away.
+  Little--oh! little dwells in thee
+  Like unto what on earth we see:
+  Beauty's eye is here the bluest
+  In the falsest and untruest--
+  On the sweetest air doth float
+  The most sad and solemn note--
+  If with thee be broken hearts,
+  Joy so peacefully departs,
+  That its echo still doth dwell,
+  Like the murmur in the shell.
+  Thou! thy truest type of grief
+  Is the gently falling leaf--
+  Thou! thy framing is so holy
+  Sorrow is not melancholy.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+
+  Succeeding years, too wild for song,
+  Then rolled like tropic storms along,
+  Where, though the garish lights that fly
+  Dying along the troubled sky,
+  Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
+  The blackness of the general Heaven,
+  That very blackness yet doth fling
+  Light on the lightning's silver wing.
+
+  For being an idle boy lang syne,
+  Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
+  I early found Anacreon rhymes
+  Were almost passionate sometimes--
+  And by strange alchemy of brain
+  His pleasures always turned to pain--
+  His naïveté to wild desire--
+  His wit to love--his wine to fire--
+  And so, being young and dipt in folly,
+  I fell in love with melancholy.
+
+  And used to throw my earthly rest
+  And quiet all away in jest--
+  I could not love except where Death
+  Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
+  Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
+  Were stalking between her and me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
+  Gone are the glory and the gloom--
+  The black hath mellow'd into gray,
+  And all the fires are fading away.
+
+  My draught of passion hath been deep--
+  I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
+  And after drunkenness of soul
+  Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
+  An idle longing night and day
+  To dream my very life away.
+
+  But dreams--of those who dream as I,
+  Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
+  Yet should I swear I mean alone,
+  By notes so very shrilly blown,
+  To break upon Time's monotone,
+  While yet my vapid joy and grief
+  Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
+  Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
+  Will shake his shadow in my path--
+  And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
+  Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                 DOUBTFUL POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ALONE.
+
+
+  From childhood's hour I have not been
+  As others were--I have not seen
+  As others saw--I could not bring
+  My passions from a common spring--
+  From the same source I have not taken
+  My sorrow--I could not awaken
+  My heart to joy at the same tone--
+  And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
+  _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
+  Of a most stormy life--was drawn
+  From every depth of good and ill
+  The mystery which binds me still--
+  From the torrent, or the fountain--
+  From the red cliff of the mountain--
+  From the sun that round me roll'd
+  In its autumn tint of gold--
+  From the lightning in the sky
+  As it passed me flying by--
+  From the thunder and the storm--
+  And the cloud that took the form
+  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
+  Of a demon in my view.
+
+
+March 17, 1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ISADORE.
+
+
+I.       Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
+             Whose shadows fall before
+             Thy lowly cottage door--
+         Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
+         Within thy snowy clasped hand
+             The purple flowers it bore.
+         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
+         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
+         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
+             Most beauteous Isadore!
+
+
+II.      And when I bade the dream
+             Upon thy spirit flee,
+             Thy violet eyes to me
+         Upturned, did overflowing seem
+         With the deep, untold delight
+             Of Love's serenity;
+         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
+         And pale as the Imperial Night
+         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
+             Enthralled my soul to thee!
+
+
+III.     Ah! ever I behold
+             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
+             Blue as the languid skies
+         Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
+         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
+             And olden memories
+         Are startled from their long repose
+         Like shadows on the silent snows
+         When suddenly the night-wind blows
+             Where quiet moonlight lies.
+
+
+IV.      Like music heard in dreams,
+             Like strains of harps unknown,
+             Of birds for ever flown,--
+         Audible as the voice of streams
+         That murmur in some leafy dell,
+             I hear thy gentlest tone,
+         And Silence cometh with her spell
+         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
+         When tremulous in dreams I tell
+             My love to thee alone!
+
+V.       In every valley heard,
+             Floating from tree to tree,
+             Less beautiful to me,
+         The music of the radiant bird,
+         Than artless accents such as thine
+             Whose echoes never flee!
+         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
+         For uttered in thy tones benign
+         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
+             Doth seem a melody!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE STREET.
+
+
+  In these rapid, restless shadows,
+    Once I walked at eventide,
+  When a gentle, silent maiden,
+    Walked in beauty at my side.
+  She alone there walked beside me
+  All in beauty, like a bride.
+
+  Pallidly the moon was shining
+    On the dewy meadows nigh;
+  On the silvery, silent rivers,
+    On the mountains far and high,--
+  On the ocean's star-lit waters,
+    Where the winds a-weary die.
+
+  Slowly, silently we wandered
+    From the open cottage door,
+  Underneath the elm's long branches
+    To the pavement bending o'er;
+  Underneath the mossy willow
+    And the dying sycamore.
+
+  With the myriad stars in beauty
+    All bedight, the heavens were seen,
+  Radiant hopes were bright around me,
+    Like the light of stars serene;
+  Like the mellow midnight splendor
+    Of the Night's irradiate queen.
+
+  Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
+    Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
+  Like the distant murmured music
+    Of unquiet, lovely seas;
+  While the winds were hushed in slumber
+    In the fragrant flowers and trees.
+
+  Wondrous and unwonted beauty
+    Still adorning all did seem,
+  While I told my love in fables
+    'Neath the willows by the stream;
+  Would the heart have kept unspoken
+    Love that was its rarest dream!
+
+  Instantly away we wandered
+    In the shadowy twilight tide,
+  She, the silent, scornful maiden,
+    Walking calmly at my side,
+  With a step serene and stately,
+    All in beauty, all in pride.
+
+  Vacantly I walked beside her.
+    On the earth mine eyes were cast;
+  Swift and keen there came unto me
+    Bitter memories of the past--
+  On me, like the rain in Autumn
+    On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
+
+  Underneath the elms we parted,
+    By the lowly cottage door;
+  One brief word alone was uttered--
+    Never on our lips before;
+  And away I walked forlornly,
+  Broken-hearted evermore.
+
+  Slowly, silently I loitered,
+    Homeward, in the night, alone;
+  Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
+    That my youth had never known;
+  Wild unrest, like that which cometh
+    When the Night's first dream hath flown.
+
+  Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
+    Mad, discordant melodies,
+  And keen melodies like shadows
+    Haunt the moaning willow trees,
+  And the sycamores with laughter
+    Mock me in the nightly breeze.
+
+  Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
+    Through the sighing foliage streams;
+  And each morning, midnight shadow,
+    Shadow of my sorrow seems;
+  Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
+    And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE FOREST REVERIE.
+
+
+      'Tis said that when
+      The hands of men
+    Tamed this primeval wood,
+  And hoary trees with groans of wo,
+  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
+    Were in their strength subdued,
+      The virgin Earth
+      Gave instant birth
+    To springs that ne'er did flow--
+      That in the sun
+      Did rivulets run,
+  And all around rare flowers did blow--
+      The wild rose pale
+      Perfumed the gale,
+  And the queenly lily adown the dale
+      (Whom the sun and the dew
+      And the winds did woo),
+  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
+
+      So when in tears
+      The love of years
+    Is wasted like the snow,
+  And the fine fibrils of its life
+  By the rude wrong of instant strife
+    Are broken at a blow--
+      Within the heart
+      Do springs upstart
+    Of which it doth now know,
+      And strange, sweet dreams,
+      Like silent streams
+  That from new fountains overflow,
+      With the earlier tide
+      Of rivers glide
+  Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
+  Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
+    Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
+      Sweet flowers, ere long,--
+    The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
+had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
+publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
+of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
+publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
+adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
+guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
+a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
+'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
+If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
+from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
+the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
+the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
+The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
+his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
+qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
+claimed for them."
+
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
+Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
+no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
+questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
+were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
+'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
+them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
+to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
+works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
+whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
+is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
+be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
+elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
+assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
+so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
+by the author of "The Raven."
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                              PROSE POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
+
+
+    "Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
+
+    _Servius_.
+
+
+"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
+our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
+mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
+de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
+the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
+them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
+complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
+exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
+_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
+_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
+its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
+tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
+estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
+will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
+for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
+of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
+does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
+experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
+who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
+behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
+but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
+upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
+war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
+valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
+forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
+that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
+colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
+form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
+whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
+moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
+thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
+are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
+own cognizance of the _animalculæ_ which infest the brain, a being which
+we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
+same manner as these _animalculæ_ must thus regard us.
+
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
+[2].
+
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
+in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
+une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
+est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
+is a thing that does not exist.
+
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
+
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.
+
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+  So blended bank and shadow there,
+  That each seemed pendulous in air--
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings [4].
+
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
+wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
+conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
+deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
+and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
+and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
+not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
+clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
+seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
+with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
+and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
+and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
+momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
+entombed.
+
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
+
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."
+
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
+at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
+"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+'De Sitû Orbis', says,
+
+  "Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4:
+
+  "Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera."
+
+'P. Commire'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POWER OF WORDS.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
+  immortality!
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+  Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
+  the angels freely, that it may be given!
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+  all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+  knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+  all, were the curse of a fiend.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But does not The Most High know all?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  _That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
+  unknown even to HIM.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
+  be known?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
+  the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+  thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+  points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
+  walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+  appeared to blend into unity?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
+  infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
+  at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
+  unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
+  soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
+  Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
+  swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
+  where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
+  triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
+  earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+  now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+  accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+  not God?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Explain!
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+  throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+  be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+  immediate results of the Divine creative power.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+  extreme.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
+  Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+  to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
+  final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
+  successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
+  denominate the creation of animalculæ.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+  creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
+  since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+  hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
+  immediate handiwork of the King?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+  conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+  perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+  example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+  vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+  indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+  earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
+  one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
+  well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
+  by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
+  became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+  extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+  atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+  a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+  the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+  of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
+  portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+  of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
+  retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+  analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+  progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+  applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+  applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+  deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+  understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
+  lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
+  given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
+  consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+  demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
+  end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
+  universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
+  we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
+  impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+  particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
+  modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
+  new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
+  the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
+  but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
+  these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
+  inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+  analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+  power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
+  faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
+  causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
+  variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
+  itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+  proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
+  pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+  _creation_.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+  motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  God.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+  lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  You did.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+  the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
+  air?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+  we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
+  terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+  flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
+  passions of a turbulent heart.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
+  since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
+  beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
+  brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
+  raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
+  unhallowed of hearts!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
+
+
+  [Greek: Mellonta  sauta']
+
+  These things are in the future.
+
+  _Sophocles_--'Antig.'
+
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  "Born again?"
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+  upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+  explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+  secret.
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Death!
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+  vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+  confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+  Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+  which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+  upon all pleasures!
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+  we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+  did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+  no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+  within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+  in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+  strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+  evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+  became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+  say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+  incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+  be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+  begin?
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  At what point?
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  You have said.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+  of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+  the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
+  instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+  breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+  eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+  epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+  forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
+  ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+  to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+  five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+  some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+  truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+  --principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+  guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+  long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+  in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+  Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
+  have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
+  of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+  _analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
+  the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
+  intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
+  the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
+  of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
+  intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
+  of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
+  scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
+  themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
+  scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
+  upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
+  enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
+  solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
+  blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
+  solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
+  exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
+  opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+  days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
+  diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
+  and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+  them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+  of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+  still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+  God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+  be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+  system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+  Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+  in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
+  voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
+  Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+  made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+  Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+  cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+  of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+  of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+  slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+  arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+  destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
+  neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
+  crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
+  between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
+  have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
+  gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
+  contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
+  [Greek: mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+  education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
+  desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
+  [1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+  truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se réduit à céder au
+  sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+  natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+  over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+  not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+  age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+  living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+  myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+  the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+  Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+  the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+  either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+  regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+  artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+  and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+  but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+  save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+  that he must be "_born again._"
+
+  And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+  daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+  days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+  undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+  obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+  mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+  length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
+  man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+  no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+  but still for the _material_, man.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+  the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+  corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+  and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+  grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+  the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+  together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+  of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+  the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+  had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+  fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+  replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+  pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
+  days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+  torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
+
+  Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+  It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+  him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+  fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+  consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+  being awakened by external disturbances.
+
+  I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+  beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+  unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
+  other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+  confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+  rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+  last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
+  far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+  have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+  offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+  the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
+  range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+  distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+  the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+  struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+  this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+  _sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+  themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
+  in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+  was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
+  extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+  undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+  received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+  highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+  upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+  long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+  immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
+  purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+  senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+  understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+  much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+  floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+  appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+  musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+  intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+  constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+  heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+  alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
+  spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
+  loud cries.
+
+  They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
+  flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+  vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
+  images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+  dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+  in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
+
+  The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+  vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+  sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
+  solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+  dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+  oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+  palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+  reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+  first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+  lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+  forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+  but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+  great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+  there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+  melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+  which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+  from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+  tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+  sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+  sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+  to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+  pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+  faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+  purely sensual pleasure as before.
+
+  And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+  appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+  exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
+  inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+  frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+  artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+  _that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
+  even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
+  pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
+  _Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
+  this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
+  By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
+  and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
+  to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
+  these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
+  abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
+  no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
+  accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
+  mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
+  this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
+  sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
+  exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
+  sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
+  obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
+  the temporal eternity.
+
+  It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+  from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+  lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+  monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+  distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+  nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+  of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+  of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+  the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+  the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+  duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+  the deadly _Decay_.
+
+  Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+  sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+  intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+  flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+  of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+  sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+  not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+  which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+  hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+  heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+  and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
+
+  And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+  rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+  each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+  flight--without effort and without object.
+
+  A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
+  indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
+  its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
+  _place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
+  body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
+  happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
+  imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
+  slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
+  yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
+  of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
+  startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
+  which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
+  bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
+  That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
+  vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
+  had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
+  had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
+  instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
+  and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
+  form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
+  sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+  portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+  grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+  which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+  may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+  _music_ for the soul."
+
+Repub. lib. 2.
+
+  "For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+  causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+  taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
+  the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
+  beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
+  and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
+
+Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
+in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
+the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
+the true.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
+
+
+  I will bring fire to thee.
+
+  _Euripides_.--'Androm'.
+
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Why do you call me Eiros?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
+  earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  This is indeed no dream!
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+  see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+  already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+  allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+  induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
+  terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+  rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+  senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+  of _the new_.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
+  feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+  undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+  suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  In Aidenn?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  In Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+  things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
+  the august and certain Present.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+  Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+  of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
+  burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+  which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+  things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+  fearfully perished.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+  cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+  of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+  mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
+  remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+  unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+  philosophy of the day.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+  analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+  astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+  left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+  writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+  having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+  immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+  epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+  the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+  been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+  satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+  either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+  had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+  tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+  substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+  in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+  accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
+  the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
+  inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
+  strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
+  the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
+  by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
+  received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
+
+  The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+  was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+  would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+  two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+  that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+  effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+  would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+  among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+  truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+  understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+  astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+  approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+  very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+  perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+  in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+  Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+  absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+  respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+  their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
+  gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
+  fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
+  for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
+  in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
+  bowed down and adored.
+
+  That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+  from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+  among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+  reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+  density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
+  gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+  satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+  served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+  fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+  to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+  instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+  be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+  enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+  nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+  great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+  It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+  regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
+  every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
+  some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+  from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+  excessive interest.
+
+  What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+  question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+  probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+  possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+  or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+  discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+  larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+  grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
+
+  There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+  comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+  previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+  lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+  certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+  hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+  A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+  sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+  orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
+  disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
+  saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
+  incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
+  with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
+  rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
+
+  Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+  were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+  felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+  exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+  heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+  vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+  predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+  luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+  vegetable thing.
+
+  Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+  evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+  over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
+  general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+  rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+  dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+  radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+  possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+  topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+  thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
+
+  It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+  of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+  of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+  atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+  vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+  life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+  Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+  life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+  ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+  latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+  which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
+  extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
+  omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
+  minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
+  denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
+
+  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+  That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+  was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+  gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+  Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
+  Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+  bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+  possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+  threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+  of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+  I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+  moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+  all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+  majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
+  sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
+  mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+  intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+  even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+  Thus ended all.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
+
+
+    Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
+
+    'Psalm of David'.
+
+
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
+
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.
+
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
+heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
+all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
+the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
+thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
+limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
+drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
+save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
+Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
+burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
+formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
+assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
+glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
+merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
+Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
+reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
+the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
+enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
+portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
+plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
+of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
+the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
+although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
+still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
+expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
+mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
+Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
+off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
+undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.--A FABLE.
+
+
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
+
+"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
+"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
+of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
+
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.
+
+"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.
+
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.
+
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
+
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
+
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
+down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
+the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.
+
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
+the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
+more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
+SILENCE.
+
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
+
+...
+
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                   ESSAYS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
+
+
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
+
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
+
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
+commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
+
+In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
+very long poem will ever be popular again.
+
+That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
+its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
+sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
+Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
+considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
+concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
+saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
+physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
+the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
+material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
+instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
+_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
+the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
+about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
+gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
+effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
+praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
+sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
+rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
+the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
+effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
+fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
+can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
+proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
+as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
+falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
+
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
+while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
+profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.
+
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+
+  I arise from dreams of thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night
+  When the winds are breathing low,
+    And the stars are shining bright.
+  I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+  Has led me--who knows how?--
+    To thy chamber-window, sweet!
+
+  The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark the silent stream--
+  The champak odors fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+  The nightingale's complaint,
+    It dies upon her heart,
+  As I must die on thine,
+    O, beloved as thou art!
+
+  O, lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+  Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+  My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast:
+  O, press it close to thine again,
+    Where it will break at last!
+
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
+
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
+    Walk'd spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
+    And honor charm'd the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true--
+  For heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo--
+  But honor'd well her charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail--
+  Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
+    And nothing could avail.
+
+  No mercy now can clear her brow
+    From this world's peace to pray,
+  For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
+    Her woman's heart gave way!--
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
+    By man is cursed alway!
+
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.
+
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
+has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
+the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
+should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
+work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
+idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
+have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
+sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
+confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
+force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
+look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
+the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
+dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
+se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
+solely for the poem's sake.
+
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
+with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
+flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
+truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
+simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
+we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
+converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
+perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
+poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
+who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
+reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
+
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
+
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
+those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
+_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
+
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
+which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
+feel_ as poetic.
+
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
+in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
+that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
+unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
+union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
+widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
+had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
+own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
+
+To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
+Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
+Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
+Truth.
+
+A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
+the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
+maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
+of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
+elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
+Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
+satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
+the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
+sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
+obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
+possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
+deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
+attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
+incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
+Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
+may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
+work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
+proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.
+
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
+    That my soul cannot resist;
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day,
+  Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+
+           --the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+  Down the corridors of Time.
+
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
+of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
+sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
+"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
+to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
+attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
+should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
+writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
+in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
+adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
+author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
+upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
+occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
+considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
+sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
+
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+
+  There, through the long, long summer hours,
+    The golden light should lie,
+  And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
+    Stand in their beauty by.
+  The oriole should build and tell
+  His love-tale, close beside my cell;
+    The idle butterfly
+  Should rest him there, and there be heard
+  The housewife-bee and humming bird.
+
+  And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
+    Come, from the village sent,
+  Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
+    With fairy laughter blent?
+  And what if, in the evening light,
+  Betrothed lovers walk in sight
+    Of my low monument?
+  I would the lovely scene around
+  Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
+
+  I know, I know I should not see
+    The season's glorious show,
+  Nor would its brightness shine for me;
+    Nor its wild music flow;
+
+  But if, around my place of sleep,
+  The friends I love should come to weep,
+    They might not haste to go.
+  Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
+  Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
+
+  These to their soften'd hearts should bear
+    The thought of what has been,
+  And speak of one who cannot share
+    The gladness of the scene;
+  Whose part in all the pomp that fills
+  The circuit of the summer hills,
+    Is--that his grave is green;
+  And deeply would their hearts rejoice
+  To hear again his living voice.
+
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+
+  I fill this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon;
+  To whom the better elements
+    And kindly stars have given
+  A form so fair, that like the air,
+    'Tis less of earth than heaven.
+
+  Her every tone is music's own,
+    Like those of morning birds,
+  And something more than melody
+    Dwells ever in her words;
+  The coinage of her heart are they,
+    And from her lips each flows
+  As one may see the burden'd bee
+    Forth issue from the rose.
+
+  Affections are as thoughts to her,
+    The measures of her hours;
+  Her feelings have the fragrancy,
+    The freshness of young flowers;
+  And lovely passions, changing oft,
+    So fill her, she appears
+  The image of themselves by turns,--
+    The idol of past years!
+
+  Of her bright face one glance will trace
+    A picture on the brain,
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain;
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When death is nigh my latest sigh
+    Will not be life's, but hers.
+
+  I fill'd this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon--
+  Her health! and would on earth there stood,
+    Some more of such a frame,
+  That life might be all poetry,
+    And weariness a name.
+
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
+especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
+refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
+hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
+
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
+of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
+Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
+once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
+book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
+replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
+Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
+the chaff_ for his reward.
+
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
+_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
+point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
+they are _not_ merits altogether.
+
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
+which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
+human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
+
+
+  Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
+  Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
+  Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
+  And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
+
+  Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
+  Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
+  I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
+  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
+
+  Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
+  And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
+  Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
+  And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
+
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
+greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
+In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
+profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
+lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
+composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
+
+One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+
+  O saw ye not fair Ines?
+    She's gone into the West,
+  To dazzle when the sun is down
+    And rob the world of rest
+  She took our daylight with her,
+    The smiles that we love best,
+  With morning blushes on her cheek,
+    And pearls upon her breast.
+
+  O turn again, fair Ines,
+    Before the fall of night,
+  For fear the moon should shine alone,
+    And stars unrivall'd bright;
+  And blessed will the lover be
+    That walks beneath their light,
+  And breathes the love against thy cheek
+    I dare not even write!
+
+  Would I had been, fair Ines,
+    That gallant cavalier,
+  Who rode so gaily by thy side,
+    And whisper'd thee so near!
+  Were there no bonny dames at home,
+    Or no true lovers here,
+  That he should cross the seas to win
+    The dearest of the dear?
+
+  I saw thee, lovely Ines,
+    Descend along the shore,
+  With bands of noble gentlemen,
+    And banners-waved before;
+  And gentle youth and maidens gay,
+    And snowy plumes they wore;
+  It would have been a beauteous dream,
+    If it had been no more!
+
+  Alas, alas, fair Ines,
+    She went away with song,
+  With Music waiting on her steps,
+    And shoutings of the throng;
+  But some were sad and felt no mirth,
+    But only Music's wrong,
+  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
+    To her you've loved so long.
+
+  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
+    That vessel never bore
+  So fair a lady on its deck,
+    Nor danced so light before,--
+  Alas for pleasure on the sea,
+    And sorrow on the shore!
+  The smile that blest one lover's heart
+    Has broken many more!
+
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+
+  One more Unfortunate,
+  Weary of breath,
+  Rashly importunate
+  Gone to her death!
+
+  Take her up tenderly,
+  Lift her with care;--
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young and so fair!
+
+  Look at her garments
+  Clinging like cerements;
+  Whilst the wave constantly
+  Drips from her clothing;
+  Take her up instantly,
+  Loving, not loathing.
+
+  Touch her not scornfully
+  Think of her mournfully,
+  Gently and humanly;
+  Not of the stains of her,
+  All that remains of her
+  Now is pure womanly.
+
+  Make no deep scrutiny
+  Into her mutiny
+  Rash and undutiful;
+  Past all dishonor,
+  Death has left on her
+  Only the beautiful.
+
+  Where the lamps quiver
+  So far in the river,
+  With many a light
+  From window and casement,
+  From garret to basement,
+  She stood, with amazement,
+  Houseless by night.
+
+  The bleak wind of March
+  Made her tremble and shiver;
+  But not the dark arch,
+  Or the black flowing river:
+  Mad from life's history,
+  Glad to death's mystery,
+  Swift to be hurl'd--
+  Anywhere, anywhere
+  Out of the world!
+
+  In she plunged boldly,
+  No matter how coldly
+  The rough river ran,--
+  Over the brink of it,
+  Picture it,--think of it,
+  Dissolute Man!
+  Lave in it, drink of it
+  Then, if you can!
+
+  Still, for all slips of hers,
+  One of Eve's family--
+  Wipe those poor lips of hers
+  Oozing so clammily,
+  Loop up her tresses
+  Escaped from the comb,
+  Her fair auburn tresses;
+  Whilst wonderment guesses
+  Where was her home?
+
+  Who was her father?
+  Who was her mother!
+  Had she a sister?
+  Had she a brother?
+  Or was there a dearer one
+  Still, and a nearer one
+  Yet, than all other?
+
+  Alas! for the rarity
+  Of Christian charity
+  Under the sun!
+  Oh! it was pitiful!
+  Near a whole city full,
+  Home she had none.
+
+  Sisterly, brotherly,
+  Fatherly, motherly,
+  Feelings had changed:
+  Love, by harsh evidence,
+  Thrown from its eminence;
+  Even God's providence
+  Seeming estranged.
+
+  Take her up tenderly;
+  Lift her with care;
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young, and so fair!
+  Ere her limbs frigidly
+  Stiffen too rigidly,
+  Decently,--kindly,--
+  Smooth and compose them;
+  And her eyes, close them,
+  Staring so blindly!
+
+  Dreadfully staring
+  Through muddy impurity,
+  As when with the daring
+  Last look of despairing
+  Fixed on futurity.
+
+  Perishing gloomily,
+  Spurred by contumely,
+  Cold inhumanity,
+  Burning insanity,
+  Into her rest,--
+  Cross her hands humbly,
+  As if praying dumbly,
+  Over her breast!
+  Owning her weakness,
+  Her evil behavior,
+  And leaving, with meekness,
+  Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.
+
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+
+  Though the day of my destiny's over,
+    And the star of my fate hath declined,
+  Thy soft heart refused to discover
+    The faults which so many could find;
+  Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
+    It shrunk not to share it with me,
+  And the love which my spirit hath painted
+    It never hath found but in _thee._
+
+  Then when nature around me is smiling,
+    The last smile which answers to mine,
+  I do not believe it beguiling,
+    Because it reminds me of thine;
+  And when winds are at war with the ocean,
+    As the breasts I believed in with me,
+  If their billows excite an emotion,
+    It is that they bear me from _thee._
+
+  Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
+    And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
+  Though I feel that my soul is delivered
+    To pain--it shall not be its slave.
+  There is many a pang to pursue me:
+    They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
+  They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
+    'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
+
+  Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
+    Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
+  Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
+    Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
+  Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
+    Though parted, it was not to fly,
+  Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
+    Nor mute, that the world might belie.
+
+  Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
+    Nor the war of the many with one--
+  If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
+    'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
+  And if dearly that error hath cost me,
+    And more than I once could foresee,
+  I have found that whatever it lost me,
+    It could not deprive me of _thee_.
+
+  From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
+    Thus much I at least may recall,
+  It hath taught me that which I most cherished
+    Deserved to be dearest of all:
+  In the desert a fountain is springing,
+    In the wide waste there still is a tree,
+  And a bird in the solitude singing,
+    Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
+
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.
+
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
+_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
+profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
+_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
+ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
+so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
+long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+
+    Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
+  Tears from the depth of some divine despair
+  Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
+  In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
+  And thinking of the days that are no more.
+
+    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
+  That brings our friends up from the underworld,
+  Sad as the last which reddens over one
+  That sinks with all we love below the verge;
+  So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
+
+    Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
+  The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
+  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
+  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
+  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
+
+    Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
+  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
+  On lips that are for others; deep as love,
+  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
+  O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
+quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
+Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
+regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
+Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her _love._
+
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+
+  A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
+    A sword of metal keene!
+  Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
+    Al else on earth is meane.
+  The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
+    The rowleing of the drum,
+  The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
+    Be soundes from heaven that come.
+  And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
+    When as their war-cryes welle,
+  May tole from heaven an angel bright,
+    And rowse a fiend from hell,
+
+  Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
+    And don your helmes amaine,
+  Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
+    Us to the field againe.
+  No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
+    When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
+  Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
+    For the fayrest of the land;
+  Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
+    Thus weepe and puling crye,
+  Our business is like men to fight,
+    And hero-like to die!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
+
+
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
+the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
+He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
+volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
+accounting for what had been done."
+
+I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
+least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
+plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_
+constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
+consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
+tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
+
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.
+
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
+originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
+dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
+interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.
+
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections
+and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
+
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
+
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
+the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
+part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
+put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
+design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
+referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.
+
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
+circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.
+
+We commence, then, with this intention.
+
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
+paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
+advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
+depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.
+
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
+limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
+its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
+other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
+capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
+ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
+proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
+the production of any effect at all.
+
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
+for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
+fact, a hundred and eight.
+
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
+--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
+Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
+object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
+to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
+Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
+truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
+to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
+elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
+that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
+introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
+general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
+artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
+subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
+far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
+of the poem.
+
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
+this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
+development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
+is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
+
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
+in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
+one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
+universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
+value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
+considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
+depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
+thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
+repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
+adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
+that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
+novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
+_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
+
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
+_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
+clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
+an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
+any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
+would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
+a single word as the best _refrain_.
+
+The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
+my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
+course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
+such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
+protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
+inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
+connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
+
+The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
+select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
+possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
+tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
+impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
+first which presented itself.
+
+The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
+word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
+inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
+I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
+pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
+spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
+the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
+exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
+then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
+of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
+suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
+capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
+_tone_.
+
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
+mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
+when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
+what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
+obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
+then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
+the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
+such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
+
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
+such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
+I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
+which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
+query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
+so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
+frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
+the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
+wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
+solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
+superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
+self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
+prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
+merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
+frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
+_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
+of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
+strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
+first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
+which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
+reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
+conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
+
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+
+  "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
+  By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
+
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
+stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
+verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.
+
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
+remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
+
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
+_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
+_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
+
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.
+
+The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
+the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
+idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
+flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
+the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
+curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
+the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
+adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
+knocked.
+
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.
+
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
+being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
+lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
+
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+
+  Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
+  _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
+
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
+  By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
+  "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
+      With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+
+The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the _dénouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+_directly_ as possible.
+
+With the _dénouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
+the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
+
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
+which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
+_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
+instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
+of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
+transcendentalists.
+
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+
+  "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
+              Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+
+
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
+
+
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
+love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
+sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
+which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
+with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
+merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
+admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
+would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
+wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
+being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
+would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
+handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
+ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
+desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
+sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
+error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
+supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
+and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
+two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
+artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
+poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
+channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
+what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
+which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
+not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
+multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
+but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
+was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
+this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
+volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
+again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
+good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
+as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
+in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
+(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
+
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
+to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
+successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
+of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
+their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
+us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
+opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
+Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
+untenable and absurd.
+
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.
+
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
+author says:
+
+
+  "By the murmur of a spring,
+  Or the least boughs rustleling,
+  By a daisy whose leaves spread,
+  Shut when Titan goes to bed,
+  Or a shady bush or tree,
+  She could more infuse in me
+  Than all Nature's beauties con
+  In some other wiser man.
+  By her help I also now
+  Make this churlish place allow
+  Something that may sweeten gladness
+  In the very gall of sadness--
+  The dull loneness, the black shade,
+  That these hanging vaults have made
+  The strange music of the waves
+  Beating on these hollow caves,
+  This black den which rocks emboss,
+  Overgrown with eldest moss,
+  The rude portals that give light
+  More to terror than delight,
+  This my chamber of neglect
+  Walled about with disrespect;
+  From all these and this dull air
+  A fit object for despair,
+  She hath taught me by her might
+  To draw comfort and delight."
+
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
+of its species:
+
+
+  "It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+  'Twas on those little silver feet,
+  With what a pretty skipping grace
+  It oft would challenge me the race,
+  And when't had left me far away
+  'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
+  For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+  And trod as if on the four winds.
+  I have a garden of my own,
+  But so with roses overgrown,
+  And lilies, that you would it guess
+  To be a little wilderness;
+  And all the spring-time of the year
+  It only loved to be there.
+  Among the beds of lilies I
+  Have sought it oft where it should lie,
+  Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+  Find it, although before mine eyes.
+  For in the flaxen lilies shade
+  It like a bank of lilies laid;
+  Upon the roses it would feed
+  Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
+  And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+  And print those roses on my lip,
+  But all its chief delight was still
+  With roses thus itself to fill,
+  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
+  Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
+fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+
+  "And trod as if on the four winds!"
+
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
+being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+
+  "And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
+
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+
+  "Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
+
+
+END OF TEXT
+
+
+
+
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Edgar Allan Poe</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 10, 2003 [eBook #10031]<br />
+[Most recently updated: March 13, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Clytie Siddall, Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS ***</div>
+
+<h1>The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe</h1>
+
+<h4>edited by<br/>
+<br/>
+John H. Ingram</h4>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:55%;">
+<img src="images/PI1.gif" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" />
+</div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>Table of Contents</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#introduction"><b>Preface</b></a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section1"><b>Memoir</b></a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2"><b>Poems of Later Life</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2a">Dedication</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2b">Preface</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2c">The Raven</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2d">The Bells</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2e">Ulalume</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2f">To Helen</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2g">Annabel Lee</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2h">A Valentine</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2i">An Enigma</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2j">To My Mother</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2k">For Annie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2l">To F&mdash;&mdash;</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2m">To Frances S. Osgood</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2n">Eldorado</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2o">Eulalie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2p">A Dream Within a Dream</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2q">To Marie Louise (Shew)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2r">To The Same</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2s">The City in the Sea</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2t">The Sleeper</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2u">Bridal Ballad</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section2v">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3"><b>Poems of Manhood</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3a">Lenore</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3b">To One in Paradise</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3c">The Coliseum</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3d">The Haunted Palace</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3e">The Conqueror Worm</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3f">Silence</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3g">Dreamland</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3h">To Zante</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3i">Hymn</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section3j">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section4"><b>Scenes from <i>Politian</i></b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section4a">Note</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5"><b>Poems of Youth</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5a">Introduction (1831)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5b">To Science</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5c">Al Aaraaf</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5d">Tamerlane</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5e">To Helen</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5f">The Valley of Unrest</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5g">Israfel</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5h">To &mdash;&mdash; ("I heed not that my earthly lot")</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5i">To &mdash;&mdash; ("The Bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5j">To the River</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5k">Song</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5l">Spirits of the Dead</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5m">A Dream</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5n">Romance</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5o">Fairyland</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5p">The Lake</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5q">Evening Star</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5r">Imitation</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5s">"The Happiest Day"</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5t">Hymn (Translation from the Greek)</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5u">Dreams</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5v">"In Youth I have known one"</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5w">A Pæan</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section5x">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6"><b>Doubtful Poems</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6a">Alone</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6b">To Isadore</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6c">The Village Street</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6d">The Forest Reverie</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section6e">Notes</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7"><b>Prose Poems</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7a">The Island of the Fay</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7b">The Power of Words</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7c">The Colloquy of Monos and Una</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7d">The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7e">Shadow&mdash;a Parable</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section7f">Silence&mdash;a Fable</a><br /><br /></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8"><b>Essays</b></a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8a">The Poetic Principle</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8b">The Philosophy of Composition</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#section8c">Old English Poetry</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<h2><a name="introduction">Preface</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been <i>verbatim</i> reprints of the first posthumous
+collection, published at New York in 1850.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>John H. Ingram.</b>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section1">Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of <i>William Wilson</i>,
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of <i>William Wilson</i>. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of <i>William Wilson</i>
+went through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of
+the author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness.
+His schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an
+"old, irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until
+its destruction a few years ago.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The <i>soi-disant</i> William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says, "The teeming brain of childhood requires no
+external world of incident to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the
+nightly summons to bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical
+half-holidays and perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its
+pastimes, its intrigues&mdash;these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were
+made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a universe
+of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring,
+<i>'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle de fer!'"</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats&mdash;accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+not been heard of, he was <i>facile princeps</i>,"
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+"a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+"A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+golden apples."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+among the first&mdash;not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+recitation:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce<br/>
+Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'
+</p>
+
+<p class="noindent">
+and
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+'Non ebur neque aureum<br/>
+Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,' etc.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride, &mdash;fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,&mdash;Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked,
+"Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+&mdash;to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+passionate youth."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Pæan," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter&mdash;a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of <i>his</i> dreams&mdash;the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and
+supernal loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean
+of <i>his</i> thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived
+with her father in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young
+people met again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed
+away, recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+"He entered the schools of ancient and
+modern languages, attending the lectures on Latin, Greek, French,
+Spanish, and Italian. I was a member of the last three classes," says
+Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently deceased librarian, "and can
+testify that he was tolerably regular in his attendance, and a
+successful student, having obtained distinction at the final examination
+in Latin and French, and this was at that time the highest honor a
+student could obtain. The present regulations in regard to degrees had
+not then been adopted. Under existing regulations, he would have
+graduated in the two languages above-named, and have been entitled to
+diplomas."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+"I was <i>acquainted</i>,
+with him, but that is about all. My impression was, and is, that no one
+could say that he <i>knew</i> him. He wore a melancholy face always, and
+even his smile&mdash;for I do not ever remember to have seen him laugh&mdash;
+seemed to be forced. When he engaged sometimes with others in athletic
+exercises, in which, so far as high or long jumping, I believe he
+excelled all the rest, Poe, with the same ever sad face, appeared to
+participate in what was amusement to the others more as a task than
+sport."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying <i>to divide his mind,</i> to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+"As
+librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was at or
+near the close of the session before I met him in the social circle.
+After spending an evening together at a private house he invited me, on
+our return, into his room. It was a cold night in December, and his fire
+having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of some tallow candles, and
+the fragments of a small table which he broke up for the purpose, he
+soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze I spent a very pleasant
+hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with regret of the large amount
+of money he had wasted, and of the debts he had contracted during the
+session. If my memory be not at fault, he estimated his indebtedness at
+$2,000 and, though they were gaming debts, he was earnest and emphatic
+in the declaration that he was bound by honor to pay them at the
+earliest opportunity."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his <i>alma mater</i> is now only too proud
+to enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his <i>protégé's</i> collegiate career with
+equal pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's
+scholastic successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling
+debts which, like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent
+altercation took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily
+quitted the shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,&mdash;that dream of all young authors,&mdash;is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i>, a moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe
+became first a paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the
+publication, which ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and
+profitable periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the
+brilliancy and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the <i>Messenger</i> began to attract attention
+and to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his
+editorial salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the <i>Messenger</i>, and moved with all his
+household goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that
+Poe was desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his
+employer, or of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his
+own labors procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small
+and irregular, his most important work having been a republication from
+the <i>Messenger</i> in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled
+<i>Arthur Gordon Pym</i>. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well
+as its other merits, excited public curiosity both in England and
+America; but Poe's remuneration does not appear to have been
+proportionate to its success, nor did he receive anything from the
+numerous European editions the work rapidly passed through.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for 1837 he had
+contributed a few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor
+to take up the editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of
+his own, and it was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one
+of his conditions for accepting the editorship of the <i>Gentleman's
+Magazine</i> was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe worked hard at the <i>Gentleman's</i> for some time, contributing to
+its columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as <i>Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques</i>, twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of <i>Graham's Magazine</i>. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+<i>Graham's Magazine</i> became a grand success. To its pages Poe
+contributed some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to
+the publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of <i>pabulum</i> put
+before it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+<i>Graham's</i>, attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series&mdash;<i>"une espèce de
+trilogie,"</i> as Baudelaire styles them&mdash;illustrative of an analytic
+phase of Poe's peculiar mind. This <i>trilogie</i> of tales, of which
+the later two were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie
+Roget," was avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the
+puzzling riddles of life by identifying another person's mind by our
+own. By trying to follow the processes by which a person would reason
+out a certain thing, Poe propounded the theory that another person might
+ultimately arrive, as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed,
+penetrate the innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret
+thoughts. Whilst the public was still pondering over the startling
+proposition, and enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still
+further increased his popularity and drew attention to his works by
+putting forward the attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human
+ingenuity could not construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not
+solve."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+<i>Graham's Magazine</i> and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+<i>Graham's</i> was small. He was not permitted to have undivided
+control, and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had
+rendered world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all
+his hopes, and caused him to resort to that refuge of the
+broken-hearted&mdash;to that drink which finally destroyed his prospects and
+his life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+"You say, 'Can you <i>hint</i>
+to me what was "that terrible evil" which caused the "irregularities" so
+profoundly lamented? Yes, I can do more than hint. This 'evil' was the
+greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife whom I loved as
+no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. Her life
+was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and underwent all the
+agonies of her death. She recovered partially, and I again hoped. At the
+end of a year, the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same
+scene.... Then again&mdash;again&mdash; and even once again at varying intervals.
+Each time I felt all the agonies of her death&mdash;and at each accession of
+the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more
+desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive&mdash;nervous in a
+very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible
+sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank&mdash;God only
+knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred
+the insanity to the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had,
+indeed, nearly abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one
+in the <i>death</i> of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a
+man. It was the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and
+despair which I could <i>not</i> longer have endured, without total loss
+of reason."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother&mdash;his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from
+<i>Graham's</i>, owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his
+fragile schemes of happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means
+melted away, and he became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to
+earn more. The terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved
+ones were reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from
+Mr. A. B. Harris's reminiscences.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+"It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while
+singing one evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she
+suffered a hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure,
+and needed the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment
+and surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she lay
+for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of her
+dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+"would steal out of the house at night, and go
+off and wander about the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing,
+not knowing which way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would
+endure the anxiety at home as long as she could, and then start off in
+search of him."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to <i>Graham's
+Magazine,</i> the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to
+the end of his life, and also to some other leading publications of
+Philadelphia and New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P.
+Willis, of the latter city, he determined to once more wander back to
+it, as he found it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where
+he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the <i>Evening Mirror</i>. He was, says Willis,
+"employed
+by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He resided with his
+wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town, but was at his desk
+in the office from nine in the morning till the evening paper went to
+press. With the highest admiration for his genius, and a willingness to
+let it atone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common
+report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
+occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on, however,
+and he was invariably punctual and industrious. With his pale,
+beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what genius was in
+him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always with
+deferential courtesy.... With a prospect of taking the lead in another
+periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up his employment with us."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the <i>Evening Mirror</i>, his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was
+published. The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever
+since, has a single short poem produced such a great and immediate
+enthusiasm. It did more to render its author famous than all his other
+writings put together. It made him the literary lion of the season;
+called into existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various
+languages, and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was
+naturally delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from
+time to time read it in his musical manner in public halls or at
+literary receptions. Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of
+art only, and wrote his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition,"
+to prove that it was merely a mechanical production made in accordance
+with certain set rules.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poe left the <i>Evening Mirror</i> in order to take part in the
+<i>Broadway Journal</i>, wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly
+the whole of his prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of
+this periodical, but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months
+of heartbreaking labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and
+mind, the unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her
+mother to a quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here
+after a time the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need,
+not even having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this
+dire moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of
+Poe himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless
+family.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm, &mdash;writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,&mdash;of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,&mdash;and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+"Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster<br/>
+Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore&mdash;<br/>
+Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore<br/>
+Of 'Never&mdash;nevermore.'"
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+<b>John H. Ingram.</b>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2">Poems of Later Life</a></h3>
+
+<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
+<a name="section2a"></a>
+<img src="images/PI2.gif" width="503" height="367" alt="[Illustration]" />
+</div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2b"></a>Preface</h3>
+
+<p>
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not&mdash;they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.<br/>
+<br/>
+1845. E. A. P.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2c"></a>The Raven</h3>
+
+<p>
+Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,<br/>
+Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore&mdash;<br/>
+While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br/>
+As of some one gently rapping&mdash;rapping at my chamber door.<br/>
+"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Only this and nothing more."<br/><br/>
+
+Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,<br/>
+And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.<br/>
+Eagerly I wished the morrow;&mdash;vainly I had sought to borrow<br/>
+From my books surcease of sorrow&mdash;sorrow for the lost Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+Nameless here for evermore.<br/><br/>
+
+And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain<br/>
+Thrilled me&mdash;filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;<br/>
+So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating<br/>
+"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;&mdash;<br/>
+This it is and nothing more."<br/><br/>
+
+Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,<br/>
+"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;<br/>
+But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,<br/>
+And so faintly you came tapping&mdash;tapping at my chamber door,<br/>
+That I scarce was sure I heard you"&mdash;here I opened wide the door:&mdash;<br/>
+Darkness there and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,<br/>
+Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;<br/>
+But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,<br/>
+And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"<br/>
+This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"<br/>
+Merely this and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,<br/>
+Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.<br/>
+"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;<br/>
+Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore&mdash;<br/>
+Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis the wind and nothing more."<br/>
+<br/>
+Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,<br/>
+In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;<br/>
+Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;<br/>
+But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-<br/>
+Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Perched, and sat, and nothing more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,<br/>
+By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,<br/>
+"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,<br/>
+Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,<br/>
+Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;<br/>
+For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br/>
+Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,<br/>
+With such name as "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only<br/>
+That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.<br/>
+Nothing further then he uttered&mdash;not a feather then he fluttered&mdash;<br/>
+Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before&mdash;<br/>
+On the morrow <i>he</i> will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."<br/>
+Then the bird said, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,<br/>
+"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,<br/>
+Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster<br/>
+Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore&mdash;<br/>
+Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore<br/>
+Of 'Never&mdash;nevermore.'"<br/>
+<br/>
+But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,<br/>
+Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;<br/>
+Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking<br/>
+Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore&mdash;<br/>
+What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore<br/>
+Meant in croaking "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing<br/>
+To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;<br/>
+This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining<br/>
+On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,<br/>
+But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,<br/>
+<i>She</i> shall press, ah, nevermore!<br/>
+<br/>
+Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer<br/>
+Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.<br/>
+"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee&mdash;by these angels he hath sent thee<br/>
+Respite&mdash;respite and nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!<br/>
+Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, and forget this lost Lenore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!&mdash;<br/>
+Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,<br/>
+Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted&mdash;<br/>
+On this home by Horror haunted&mdash;tell me truly, I implore&mdash;<br/>
+Is there&mdash;<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?&mdash;tell me&mdash;tell me, I implore!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!<br/>
+By that Heaven that bends above us &mdash; by that God we both adore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,<br/>
+It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore &mdash;<br/>
+Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting&mdash;<br/>
+"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!<br/>
+Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!<br/>
+Leave my loneliness unbroken!&mdash;quit the bust above my door!<br/>
+Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/>
+<br/>
+And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting<br/>
+On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;<br/>
+And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br/>
+And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br/>
+And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor<br/>
+Shall be lifted&mdash;nevermore!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Published, 1845.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2d"></a>The Bells</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Bells" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the sledges with the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Silver bells!<br/>
+What a world of merriment their melody foretells!<br/>
+How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,<br/>
+In their icy air of night!<br/>
+While the stars, that oversprinkle<br/>
+All the heavens, seem to twinkle<br/>
+With a crystalline delight;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells<br/>
+From the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the mellow wedding bells,<br/>
+Golden bells!<br/>
+What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!<br/>
+Through the balmy air of night<br/>
+How they ring out their delight!<br/>
+From the molten golden-notes,<br/>
+And all in tune,<br/>
+What a liquid ditty floats<br/>
+To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats<br/>
+On the moon!<br/>
+Oh, from out the sounding cells,<br/>
+What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!<br/>
+How it swells!<br/>
+How it dwells<br/>
+On the future! how it tells<br/>
+Of the rapture that impels<br/>
+To the swinging and the ringing<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the loud alarum bells&mdash;<br/>
+Brazen bells!<br/>
+What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!<br/>
+In the startled ear of night<br/>
+How they scream out their affright!<br/>
+Too much horrified to speak,<br/>
+They can only shriek, shriek,<br/>
+Out of tune,<br/>
+In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,<br/>
+In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire<br/>
+Leaping higher, higher, higher,<br/>
+With a desperate desire,<br/>
+And a resolute endeavor<br/>
+Now&mdash;now to sit or never,<br/>
+By the side of the pale-faced moon.<br/>
+Oh, the bells, bells, bells!<br/>
+What a tale their terror tells<br/>
+Of Despair!<br/>
+How they clang, and clash, and roar!<br/>
+What a horror they outpour<br/>
+On the bosom of the palpitating air!<br/>
+Yet the ear it fully knows,<br/>
+By the twanging,<br/>
+And the clanging,<br/>
+How the danger ebbs and flows;<br/>
+Yet the ear distinctly tells,<br/>
+In the jangling,<br/>
+And the wrangling,<br/>
+How the danger sinks and swells,<br/>
+By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Hear the tolling of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Iron bells!<br/>
+What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!<br/>
+In the silence of the night,<br/>
+How we shiver with affright<br/>
+At the melancholy menace of their tone!<br/>
+For every sound that floats<br/>
+From the rust within their throats<br/>
+Is a groan.<br/>
+And the people&mdash;ah, the people&mdash;<br/>
+They that dwell up in the steeple.<br/>
+All alone,<br/>
+And who tolling, tolling, tolling,<br/>
+In that muffled monotone,<br/>
+Feel a glory in so rolling<br/>
+On the human heart a stone&mdash;<br/>
+They are neither man nor woman&mdash;<br/>
+They are neither brute nor human &mdash;<br/>
+They are Ghouls:<br/>
+And their king it is who tolls;<br/>
+And he rolls, rolls, rolls,<br/>
+Rolls<br/>
+A pæan from the bells!<br/>
+And his merry bosom swells<br/>
+With the pæan of the bells!<br/>
+And he dances, and he yells;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the pæan of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells:<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the throbbing of the bells &mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells &mdash;<br/>
+To the sobbing of the bells;<br/>
+Keeping time, time, time,<br/>
+As he knells, knells, knells,<br/>
+In a happy Runic rhyme,<br/>
+To the rolling of the bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells-<br/>
+To the tolling of the bells,<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/>
+Bells, bells, bells &mdash;<br/>
+To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2e"></a>Ulalume</h3>
+
+<p>
+The skies they were ashen and sober;<br/>
+The leaves they were crisped and sere&mdash;<br/>
+The leaves they were withering and sere;<br/>
+It was night in the lonesome October<br/>
+Of my most immemorial year;<br/>
+It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,<br/>
+In the misty mid region of Weir&mdash;<br/>
+It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,<br/>
+In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.<br/><br/>
+
+Here once, through an alley Titanic.<br/>
+Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul&mdash;<br/>
+Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.<br/>
+These were days when my heart was volcanic<br/>
+As the scoriac rivers that roll&mdash;<br/>
+As the lavas that restlessly roll<br/>
+Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek<br/>
+In the ultimate climes of the pole&mdash;<br/>
+That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek<br/>
+In the realms of the boreal pole.<br/><br/>
+
+Our talk had been serious and sober,<br/>
+But our thoughts they were palsied and sere&mdash;<br/>
+Our memories were treacherous and sere&mdash;<br/>
+For we knew not the month was October,<br/>
+And we marked not the night of the year&mdash;<br/>
+(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)<br/>
+We noted not the dim lake of Auber&mdash;<br/>
+(Though once we had journeyed down here)&mdash;<br/>
+Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,<br/>
+Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.<br/><br/>
+
+And now as the night was senescent<br/>
+And star-dials pointed to morn&mdash;<br/>
+As the sun-dials hinted of morn&mdash;<br/>
+At the end of our path a liquescent<br/>
+And nebulous lustre was born,<br/>
+Out of which a miraculous crescent<br/>
+Arose with a duplicate horn&mdash;<br/>
+Astarte's bediamonded crescent<br/>
+Distinct with its duplicate horn.<br/><br/>
+
+And I said&mdash;"She is warmer than Dian:<br/>
+She rolls through an ether of sighs&mdash;<br/>
+She revels in a region of sighs:<br/>
+She has seen that the tears are not dry on<br/>
+These cheeks, where the worm never dies,<br/>
+And has come past the stars of the Lion<br/>
+To point us the path to the skies&mdash;<br/>
+To the Lethean peace of the skies&mdash;<br/>
+Come up, in despite of the Lion,<br/>
+To shine on us with her bright eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Come up through the lair of the Lion,<br/>
+With love in her luminous eyes."<br/><br/>
+
+But Psyche, uplifting her finger,<br/>
+Said&mdash;"Sadly this star I mistrust&mdash;<br/>
+Her pallor I strangely mistrust:&mdash;<br/>
+Oh, hasten!&mdash;oh, let us not linger!<br/>
+Oh, fly!&mdash;let us fly!&mdash;for we must."<br/>
+In terror she spoke, letting sink her<br/>
+Wings till they trailed in the dust&mdash;<br/>
+In agony sobbed, letting sink her<br/>
+Plumes till they trailed in the dust&mdash;<br/>
+Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.<br/><br/>
+
+I replied&mdash;"This is nothing but dreaming:<br/>
+Let us on by this tremulous light!<br/>
+Let us bathe in this crystalline light!<br/>
+Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming<br/>
+With Hope and in Beauty to-night:&mdash;<br/>
+See!&mdash;it flickers up the sky through the night!<br/>
+Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,<br/>
+And be sure it will lead us aright&mdash;<br/>
+We safely may trust to a gleaming<br/>
+That cannot but guide us aright,<br/>
+Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."<br/><br/>
+
+Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,<br/>
+And tempted her out of her gloom&mdash;<br/>
+And conquered her scruples and gloom;<br/>
+And we passed to the end of a vista,<br/>
+But were stopped by the door of a tomb&mdash;<br/>
+By the door of a legended tomb;<br/>
+And I said&mdash;"What is written, sweet sister,<br/>
+On the door of this legended tomb?"<br/>
+She replied&mdash;"Ulalume&mdash;Ulalume&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"<br/><br/>
+
+Then my heart it grew ashen and sober<br/>
+As the leaves that were crisped and sere&mdash;<br/>
+As the leaves that were withering and sere;<br/>
+And I cried&mdash;"It was surely October<br/>
+On <i>this</i> very night of last year<br/>
+That I journeyed&mdash;I journeyed down here&mdash;<br/>
+That I brought a dread burden down here!<br/>
+On this night of all nights in the year,<br/>
+Ah, what demon has tempted me here?<br/>
+Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber&mdash;<br/>
+This misty mid region of Weir&mdash;<br/>
+Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,&mdash;<br/>
+This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."<br/><br/>
+
+1847<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2f"></a>To Helen</h3>
+
+<p>
+I saw thee once&mdash;once only&mdash;years ago:<br/>
+I must not say <i>how</i> many&mdash;but <i>not</i> many.<br/>
+It was a July midnight; and from out<br/>
+A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,<br/>
+Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,<br/>
+There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,<br/>
+With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,<br/>
+Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand<br/>
+Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,<br/>
+Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe&mdash;<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses<br/>
+That gave out, in return for the love-light,<br/>
+Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death&mdash;<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses<br/>
+That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted<br/>
+By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.<br/><br/>
+
+Clad all in white, upon a violet bank<br/>
+I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon<br/>
+Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,<br/>
+And on thine own, upturn'd&mdash;alas, in sorrow!<br/><br/>
+
+Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight&mdash;<br/>
+Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),<br/>
+That bade me pause before that garden-gate,<br/>
+To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?<br/>
+No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,<br/>
+Save only thee and me&mdash;(O Heaven!&mdash;O God!<br/>
+How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)&mdash;<br/>
+Save only thee and me. I paused&mdash;I looked&mdash;<br/>
+And in an instant all things disappeared.<br/>
+(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)<br/>
+The pearly lustre of the moon went out:<br/>
+The mossy banks and the meandering paths,<br/>
+The happy flowers and the repining trees,<br/>
+Were seen no more: the very roses' odors<br/>
+Died in the arms of the adoring airs.<br/>
+All&mdash;all expired save thee&mdash;save less than thou:<br/>
+Save only the divine light in thine eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.<br/>
+I saw but them&mdash;they were the world to me.<br/>
+I saw but them&mdash;saw only them for hours&mdash;<br/>
+Saw only them until the moon went down.<br/>
+What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten<br/>
+Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!<br/>
+How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!<br/>
+How silently serene a sea of pride!<br/>
+How daring an ambition! yet how deep&mdash;<br/>
+How fathomless a capacity for love!<br/><br/>
+
+But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,<br/>
+Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;<br/>
+And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees<br/>
+Didst glide away. <i>Only thine eyes remained.</i><br/>
+They <i>would not</i> go&mdash;they never yet have gone.<br/>
+Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,<br/>
+<i>They</i> have not left me (as my hopes have) since.<br/>
+They follow me&mdash;they lead me through the years.<br/><br/>
+
+They are my ministers&mdash;yet I their slave.<br/>
+Their office is to illumine and enkindle&mdash;<br/>
+My duty, <i>to be saved</i> by their bright light,<br/>
+And purified in their electric fire,<br/>
+And sanctified in their elysian fire.<br/>
+They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),<br/>
+And are far up in Heaven&mdash;the stars I kneel to<br/>
+In the sad, silent watches of my night;<br/>
+While even in the meridian glare of day<br/>
+I see them still&mdash;two sweetly scintillant<br/>
+Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1846<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note2f">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2g"></a>Annabel Lee</h3>
+
+<p>
+It was many and many a year ago,<br/>
+In a kingdom by the sea,<br/>
+That a maiden there lived whom you may know<br/>
+By the name of <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br/>
+Than to love and be loved by me.<br/><br/>
+
+<i>I</i> was a child and <i>she</i> was a child,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea:<br/>
+But we loved with a love that was more than love&mdash;<br/>
+I and my <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven<br/>
+Coveted her and me.<br/><br/>
+
+And this was the reason that, long ago,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea,<br/>
+A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling<br/>
+My beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+So that her highborn kinsmen came<br/>
+And bore her away from me,<br/>
+To shut her up in a sepulchre<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea.<br/><br/>
+
+The angels, not half so happy in heaven,<br/>
+Went envying her and me&mdash;<br/>
+Yes!&mdash;that was the reason (as all men know,<br/>
+In this kingdom by the sea)<br/>
+That the wind came out of the cloud by night,<br/>
+Chilling and killing my <b>Annabel Lee</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br/>
+Of those who were older than we&mdash;<br/>
+Of many far wiser than we&mdash;<br/>
+And neither the angels in heaven above,<br/>
+Nor the demons down under the sea,<br/>
+Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes<br/>
+Of the beautiful <b>Annabel Lee</b>;<br/>
+And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side<br/>
+Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,<br/>
+In her sepulchre there by the sea&mdash;<br/>
+In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2g">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2h"></a>A Valentine</h3>
+
+<p>
+For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,<br/>
+Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,<br/>
+Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies<br/>
+Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.<br/>
+Search narrowly the lines!&mdash;they hold a treasure<br/>
+Divine&mdash;a talisman&mdash;an amulet<br/>
+That must be worn <i>at heart</i>. Search well the measure&mdash;<br/>
+The words&mdash;the syllables! Do not forget<br/>
+The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!<br/>
+And yet there is in this no Gordian knot<br/>
+Which one might not undo without a sabre,<br/>
+If one could merely comprehend the plot.<br/>
+Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering<br/>
+Eyes scintillating soul, there lie <i>perdus</i><br/>
+Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing<br/>
+Of poets by poets&mdash;as the name is a poet's, too.<br/>
+Its letters, although naturally lying<br/>
+Like the knight Pinto&mdash;Mendez Ferdinando&mdash;<br/>
+Still form a synonym for Truth&mdash;Cease trying!<br/>
+You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you <i>can</i> do.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1846<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>{To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.} </i><br/>
+<a href="#note2h">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2i"></a>An Enigma</h3>
+
+<p>
+"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,<br/>
+"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.<br/>
+Through all the flimsy things we see at once<br/>
+As easily as through a Naples bonnet&mdash;<br/>
+Trash of all trash!&mdash;how <i>can</i> a lady don it?<br/>
+Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff&mdash;<br/>
+Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff<br/>
+Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."<br/>
+And, veritably, Sol is right enough.<br/>
+The general tuckermanities are arrant<br/>
+Bubbles&mdash;ephemeral and <i>so</i> transparent&mdash;<br/>
+But <i>this is</i>, now&mdash;you may depend upon it&mdash;<br/>
+Stable, opaque, immortal&mdash;all by dint<br/>
+Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<i>{See comment after previous poem.}</i><br/>
+<a href="#note2i">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2j"></a>To My Mother</h3>
+
+<p>
+Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,<br/>
+The angels, whispering to one another,<br/>
+Can find, among their burning terms of love,<br/>
+None so devotional as that of "Mother,"<br/>
+Therefore by that dear name I long have called you&mdash;<br/>
+You who are more than mother unto me,<br/>
+And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,<br/>
+In setting my Virginia's spirit free.<br/>
+My mother&mdash;my own mother, who died early,<br/>
+Was but the mother of myself; but you<br/>
+Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,<br/>
+And thus are dearer than the mother I knew<br/>
+By that infinity with which my wife<br/>
+Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>{The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.&mdash;Ed.}</i><br/>
+<a href="#note2j">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2k"></a>For Annie</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thank Heaven! the crisis&mdash;<br/>
+The danger is past,<br/>
+And the lingering illness<br/>
+Is over at last&mdash;<br/>
+And the fever called "Living"<br/>
+Is conquered at last.<br/><br/>
+
+Sadly, I know,<br/>
+I am shorn of my strength,<br/>
+And no muscle I move<br/>
+As I lie at full length&mdash;<br/>
+But no matter!&mdash;I feel<br/>
+I am better at length.<br/><br/>
+
+And I rest so composedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed,<br/>
+That any beholder<br/>
+Might fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+Might start at beholding me<br/>
+Thinking me dead.<br/><br/>
+
+The moaning and groaning,<br/>
+The sighing and sobbing,<br/>
+Are quieted now,<br/>
+With that horrible throbbing<br/>
+At heart:&mdash;ah, that horrible,<br/>
+Horrible throbbing!<br/><br/>
+
+The sickness&mdash;the nausea&mdash;<br/>
+The pitiless pain&mdash;<br/>
+Have ceased, with the fever<br/>
+That maddened my brain&mdash;<br/>
+With the fever called "Living"<br/>
+That burned in my brain.<br/><br/>
+
+And oh! of all tortures<br/>
+<i>That</i> torture the worst<br/>
+Has abated&mdash;the terrible<br/>
+Torture of thirst,<br/>
+For the naphthaline river<br/>
+Of Passion accurst:&mdash;<br/>
+I have drank of a water<br/>
+That quenches all thirst:&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Of a water that flows,<br/>
+With a lullaby sound,<br/>
+From a spring but a very few<br/>
+Feet under ground&mdash;<br/>
+From a cavern not very far<br/>
+Down under ground.<br/><br/>
+
+And ah! let it never<br/>
+Be foolishly said<br/>
+That my room it is gloomy<br/>
+And narrow my bed&mdash;<br/>
+For man never slept<br/>
+In a different bed;<br/>
+And, to <i>sleep</i>, you must slumber<br/>
+In just such a bed.<br/><br/>
+
+My tantalized spirit<br/>
+Here blandly reposes,<br/>
+Forgetting, or never<br/>
+Regretting its roses&mdash;<br/>
+Its old agitations<br/>
+Of myrtles and roses:<br/><br/>
+
+For now, while so quietly<br/>
+Lying, it fancies<br/>
+A holier odor<br/>
+About it, of pansies&mdash;<br/>
+A rosemary odor,<br/>
+Commingled with pansies&mdash;<br/>
+With rue and the beautiful<br/>
+Puritan pansies.<br/><br/>
+
+And so it lies happily,<br/>
+Bathing in many<br/>
+A dream of the truth<br/>
+And the beauty of Annie&mdash;<br/>
+Drowned in a bath<br/>
+Of the tresses of Annie.<br/><br/>
+
+She tenderly kissed me,<br/>
+She fondly caressed,<br/>
+And then I fell gently<br/>
+To sleep on her breast&mdash;<br/>
+Deeply to sleep<br/>
+From the heaven of her breast.<br/><br/>
+
+When the light was extinguished,<br/>
+She covered me warm,<br/>
+And she prayed to the angels<br/>
+To keep me from harm&mdash;<br/>
+To the queen of the angels<br/>
+To shield me from harm.<br/><br/>
+
+And I lie so composedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed<br/>
+(Knowing her love)<br/>
+That you fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+And I rest so contentedly,<br/>
+Now in my bed,<br/>
+(With her love at my breast)<br/>
+That you fancy me dead&mdash;<br/>
+That you shudder to look at me.<br/>
+Thinking me dead.<br/><br/>
+
+But my heart it is brighter<br/>
+Than all of the many<br/>
+Stars in the sky,<br/>
+For it sparkles with Annie&mdash;<br/>
+It glows with the light<br/>
+Of the love of my Annie&mdash;<br/>
+With the thought of the light<br/>
+Of the eyes of my Annie.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2k">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2l"></a>To F&mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+Beloved! amid the earnest woes<br/>
+That crowd around my earthly path&mdash;<br/>
+(Drear path, alas! where grows<br/>
+Not even one lonely rose)&mdash;<br/>
+My soul at least a solace hath<br/>
+In dreams of thee, and therein knows<br/>
+An Eden of bland repose.<br/><br/>
+
+And thus thy memory is to me<br/>
+Like some enchanted far-off isle<br/>
+In some tumultuous sea&mdash;<br/>
+Some ocean throbbing far and free<br/>
+With storm&mdash;but where meanwhile<br/>
+Serenest skies continually<br/>
+Just o'er that one bright inland smile.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2l">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2m"></a>To Frances S. Osgood</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thou wouldst be loved?&mdash;then let thy heart<br/>
+From its present pathway part not;<br/>
+Being everything which now thou art,<br/>
+Be nothing which thou art not.<br/>
+So with the world thy gentle ways,<br/>
+Thy grace, thy more than beauty,<br/>
+Shall be an endless theme of praise.<br/>
+And love a simple duty.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2m">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2n"></a>Eldorado</h3>
+
+<p>
+Gaily bedight,<br/>
+A gallant knight,<br/>
+In sunshine and in shadow,<br/>
+Had journeyed long,<br/>
+Singing a song,<br/>
+In search of Eldorado.<br/>
+But he grew old&mdash;<br/>
+This knight so bold&mdash;<br/>
+And o'er his heart a shadow<br/>
+Fell as he found<br/>
+No spot of ground<br/>
+That looked like Eldorado.<br/><br/>
+
+And, as his strength<br/>
+Failed him at length,<br/>
+He met a pilgrim shadow&mdash;<br/>
+"Shadow," said he,<br/>
+"Where can it be&mdash;<br/>
+This land of Eldorado?"<br/><br/>
+
+"Over the Mountains<br/>
+Of the Moon,<br/>
+Down the Valley of the Shadow,<br/>
+Ride, boldly ride,"<br/>
+The shade replied,<br/>
+"If you seek for Eldorado!"<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2n">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2o"></a>Eulalie</h3>
+
+<table summary="Eulalie" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td align="center">             I dwelt alone<br/>
+In a world of moan,<br/>
+And my soul was a stagnant tide,<br/>
+Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride&mdash;<br/>
+Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.<br/>
+Ah, less&mdash;less bright<br/>
+The stars of the night<br/>
+Than the eyes of the radiant girl!<br/>
+And never a flake<br/>
+That the vapor can make<br/>
+With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,<br/>
+Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl&mdash;<br/>
+Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.<br/>
+Now Doubt&mdash;now Pain<br/>
+Come never again,<br/>
+For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,<br/>
+And all day long<br/>
+Shines, bright and strong,<br/>
+Astarté within the sky,<br/>
+While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye&mdash;<br/>
+While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2o">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2p"></a>A Dream within a Dream</h3>
+
+<p>
+Take this kiss upon the brow!<br/>
+And, in parting from you now,<br/>
+Thus much let me avow&mdash;<br/>
+You are not wrong, who deem<br/>
+That my days have been a dream:<br/>
+Yet if hope has flown away<br/>
+In a night, or in a day,<br/>
+In a vision or in none,<br/>
+Is it therefore the less <i>gone</i>?<br/>
+<i>All</i> that we see or seem<br/>
+Is but a dream within a dream.<br/><br/>
+
+I stand amid the roar<br/>
+Of a surf-tormented shore,<br/>
+And I hold within my hand<br/>
+Grains of the golden sand&mdash;<br/>
+How few! yet how they creep<br/>
+Through my fingers to the deep<br/>
+While I weep&mdash;while I weep!<br/>
+O God! can I not grasp<br/>
+Them with a tighter clasp?<br/>
+O God! can I not save<br/>
+<i>One</i> from the pitiless wave?<br/>
+Is <i>all</i> that we see or seem<br/>
+But a dream within a dream?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1849<br/>
+<a href="#note2p">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2q"></a>Marie Louise (Shew)</h3>
+
+<p>
+Of all who hail thy presence as the morning&mdash;<br/>
+Of all to whom thine absence is the night&mdash;<br/>
+The blotting utterly from out high heaven<br/>
+The sacred sun&mdash;of all who, weeping, bless thee<br/>
+Hourly for hope&mdash;for life&mdash;ah, above all,<br/>
+For the resurrection of deep buried faith<br/>
+In truth, in virtue, in humanity&mdash;<br/>
+Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed<br/>
+Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen<br/>
+At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"<br/>
+At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled<br/>
+In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes&mdash;<br/>
+Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude<br/>
+Nearest resembles worship,&mdash;oh, remember<br/>
+The truest, the most fervently devoted,<br/>
+And think that these weak lines are written by him&mdash;<br/>
+By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think<br/>
+His spirit is communing with an angel's.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1847<br/>
+<a href="#note2q">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2r"></a>(2) To Marie Louise (Shew) </h3>
+
+<p>
+Not long ago, the writer of these lines,<br/>
+In the mad pride of intellectuality,<br/>
+Maintained "the power of words"&mdash;denied that ever<br/>
+A thought arose within the human brain<br/>
+Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:<br/>
+And now, as if in mockery of that boast,<br/>
+Two words&mdash;two foreign soft dissyllables&mdash;<br/>
+Italian tones, made only to be murmured<br/>
+By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew<br/>
+That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"&mdash;<br/>
+Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,<br/>
+Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,<br/>
+Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions<br/>
+Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,<br/>
+(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")<br/>
+Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.<br/>
+The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.<br/>
+With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,<br/>
+I cannot write&mdash;I cannot speak or think&mdash;<br/>
+Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,<br/>
+This standing motionless upon the golden<br/>
+Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,<br/>
+Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,<br/>
+And thrilling as I see, upon the right,<br/>
+Upon the left, and all the way along,<br/>
+Amid empurpled vapors, far away<br/>
+To where the prospect terminates&mdash;<i>thee only!</i>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note2r">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2s"></a>The City in the Sea</h3>
+
+<p>
+Lo! Death has reared himself a throne<br/>
+In a strange city lying alone<br/>
+Far down within the dim West,<br/>
+Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best<br/>
+Have gone to their eternal rest.<br/>
+There shrines and palaces and towers<br/>
+(Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)<br/>
+Resemble nothing that is ours.<br/>
+Around, by lifting winds forgot,<br/>
+Resignedly beneath the sky<br/>
+The melancholy waters lie.    <br/><br/>
+
+No rays from the holy Heaven come down<br/>
+On the long night-time of that town;<br/>
+But light from out the lurid sea<br/>
+Streams up the turrets silently&mdash;<br/>
+Gleams up the pinnacles far and free&mdash;<br/>
+Up domes&mdash;up spires&mdash;up kingly halls&mdash;<br/>
+Up fanes&mdash;up Babylon-like walls&mdash;<br/>
+Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers<br/>
+Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers&mdash;<br/>
+Up many and many a marvellous shrine<br/>
+Whose wreathed friezes intertwine<br/>
+The viol, the violet, and the vine.<br/><br/>
+
+Resignedly beneath the sky<br/>
+The melancholy waters lie.<br/>
+So blend the turrets and shadows there<br/>
+That all seem pendulous in air,<br/>
+While from a proud tower in the town<br/>
+Death looks gigantically down.<br/><br/>
+
+There open fanes and gaping graves<br/>
+Yawn level with the luminous waves;<br/>
+But not the riches there that lie<br/>
+In each idol's diamond eye&mdash;<br/>
+Not the gaily-jewelled dead<br/>
+Tempt the waters from their bed;<br/>
+For no ripples curl, alas!<br/>
+Along that wilderness of glass&mdash;<br/>
+No swellings tell that winds may be<br/>
+Upon some far-off happier sea&mdash;<br/>
+No heavings hint that winds have been<br/>
+On seas less hideously serene. <br/><br/>
+
+But lo, a stir is in the air!<br/>
+The wave&mdash;there is a movement there!<br/>
+As if the towers had thrust aside,<br/>
+In slightly sinking, the dull tide&mdash;<br/>
+As if their tops had feebly given<br/>
+A void within the filmy Heaven.<br/>
+The waves have now a redder glow&mdash;<br/>
+The hours are breathing faint and low&mdash;<br/>
+And when, amid no earthly moans,<br/>
+Down, down that town shall settle hence,<br/>
+Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,<br/>
+Shall do it reverence.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1835?<br/>
+<a href="#note2s">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2t"></a>The Sleeper</h3>
+
+<p>
+At midnight, in the month of June,<br/>
+I stand beneath the mystic moon.<br/>
+An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,<br/>
+Exhales from out her golden rim,<br/>
+And, softly dripping, drop by drop,<br/>
+Upon the quiet mountain top,<br/>
+Steals drowsily and musically<br/>
+Into the universal valley.<br/>
+The rosemary nods upon the grave;<br/>
+The lily lolls upon the wave;<br/>
+Wrapping the fog about its breast,<br/>
+The ruin moulders into rest;<br/>
+Looking like Lethe, see! the lake<br/>
+A conscious slumber seems to take,<br/>
+And would not, for the world, awake.<br/>
+All Beauty sleeps!&mdash;and lo! where lies<br/>
+(Her casement open to the skies)<br/>
+Irene, with her Destinies!<br/><br/>
+
+Oh, lady bright! can it be right&mdash;<br/>
+This window open to the night!<br/>
+The wanton airs, from the tree-top,<br/>
+Laughingly through the lattice-drop&mdash;<br/>
+The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,<br/>
+Flit through thy chamber in and out,<br/>
+And wave the curtain canopy<br/>
+So fitfully&mdash;so fearfully&mdash;<br/>
+Above the closed and fringed lid<br/>
+'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,<br/>
+That, o'er the floor and down the wall,<br/>
+Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!<br/>
+Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?<br/>
+Why and what art thou dreaming here?<br/>
+Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,<br/>
+A wonder to these garden trees!<br/>
+Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!<br/>
+Strange, above all, thy length of tress,<br/>
+And this all-solemn silentness!<br/><br/>
+
+The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep<br/>
+Which is enduring, so be deep!<br/>
+Heaven have her in its sacred keep!<br/>
+This chamber changed for one more holy,<br/>
+This bed for one more melancholy,<br/>
+I pray to God that she may lie<br/>
+For ever with unopened eye,<br/>
+While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!<br/><br/>
+
+My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,<br/>
+As it is lasting, so be deep;<br/>
+Soft may the worms about her creep!<br/>
+Far in the forest, dim and old,<br/>
+For her may some tall vault unfold&mdash;<br/>
+Some vault that oft hath flung its black<br/>
+And winged panels fluttering back,<br/>
+Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,<br/>
+Of her grand family funerals&mdash;<br/>
+Some sepulchre, remote, alone,<br/>
+Against whose portal she hath thrown,<br/>
+In childhood many an idle stone&mdash;<br/>
+Some tomb from out whose sounding door<br/>
+She ne'er shall force an echo more,<br/>
+Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!<br/>
+It was the dead who groaned within.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2t">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section2u"></a>Bridal Ballad</h3>
+
+<p>
+The ring is on my hand,<br/>
+And the wreath is on my brow;<br/>
+Satins and jewels grand<br/>
+Are all at my command.<br/>
+And I am happy now.<br/><br/>
+
+And my lord he loves me well;<br/>
+But, when first he breathed his vow,<br/>
+I felt my bosom swell&mdash;<br/>
+For the words rang as a knell,<br/>
+And the voice seemed <i>his</i> who fell<br/>
+In the battle down the dell,<br/>
+And who is happy now.<br/><br/>
+
+But he spoke to reassure me,<br/>
+And he kissed my pallid brow,<br/>
+While a reverie came o'er me,<br/>
+And to the churchyard bore me,<br/>
+And I sighed to him before me,<br/>
+Thinking him dead D'Elormie,<br/>
+"Oh, I am happy now!"<br/><br/>
+
+And thus the words were spoken,<br/>
+And thus the plighted vow,<br/>
+And, though my faith be broken,<br/>
+And, though my heart be broken,<br/>
+Behold the golden keys<br/>
+That <i>proves</i> me happy now!<br/><br/>
+
+Would to God I could awaken<br/>
+For I dream I know not how,<br/>
+And my soul is sorely shaken<br/>
+Lest an evil step be taken,&mdash;<br/>
+Lest the dead who is forsaken<br/>
+May not be happy now.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1845<br/>
+<a href="#note2u">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section2v"></a>Notes</h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note2c"></a>Note on <i>The Raven</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York <i>Evening Mirror</i>&mdash;a paper its author was then assistant editor
+of. It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been
+written by N. P. Willis:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+"We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+number of the <i>American Review</i>, the following remarkable poem by
+Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it." 
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the February number of the <i>American Review</i> the poem was
+published as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note,
+evidently suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+["The following lines from a correspondent&mdash;besides the deep, quaint
+strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+intended by the author&mdash;appears to us one of the most felicitous
+specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+in all the others of one line&mdash;mostly the second in the verse"
+(stanza?)&mdash;"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+better understood."
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Ed.</b> <i>Am. Rev.</i>] 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2d"></a>Note on <i>The Bells</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+</p>
+
+<table summary="draft of The Bells" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">The bells!&mdash;ah the bells!<br/>
+The little silver bells!<br/>
+How fairy-like a melody there floats<br/>
+From their throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their merry little throats&mdash;<br/>
+From the silver, tinkling throats<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">The bells!&mdash;ah, the bells!<br/>
+The heavy iron bells!<br/>
+How horrible a monody there floats<br/>
+From their throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their deep-toned throats&mdash;<br/>
+From their melancholy throats<br/>
+How I shudder at the notes<br/>
+Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;<br/>
+Of the bells!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the <i>Union Magazine</i>. It was not published. So, in
+the following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+<i>Union Magazine</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2e"></a>Note on <i>Ulalume</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+This poem was first published in Colton's <i>American Review</i> for
+December 1847, as "To &mdash; &mdash; Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted
+immediately in the <i>Home Journal</i>, it was copied into various
+publications with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and
+was ascribed to him. When first published, it contained the following
+additional stanza which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs.
+Whitman wisely suppressed:
+</p>
+
+<table summary="draft addition to Ulalume" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td align="center">Said we then&mdash;the two, then&mdash;"Ah, can it<br/>
+Have been that the woodlandish ghouls&mdash;<br/>
+The pitiful, the merciful ghouls&mdash;<br/>
+To bar up our path and to ban it<br/>
+From the secret that lies in these wolds&mdash;<br/>
+Had drawn up the spectre of a planet<br/>
+From the limbo of lunary souls&mdash;<br/>
+This sinfully scintillant planet<br/>
+From the Hell of the planetary souls?"</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2f"></a>Note on <i>To Helen</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+<i>Union Magazine</i> and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge
+or desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven&mdash;how my heart beats
+in coupling those two words".
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2g"></a>Note on <i>Annabel Lee</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the <i>Union Magazine</i>, in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i>,
+who published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York <i>Tribune</i>,
+before any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2h"></a>Note on <i>A Valentine</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2i"></a>Note on <i>An Enigma</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's <i>Union Magazine</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2j"></a>Note on <i>To My Mother</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived <i>Flag of our Union</i>, early in 1849, but does not
+appear to have been issued until after its author's death, when it
+appeared in the <i>Leaflets of Memory</i> for 1850.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2k"></a>Note on <i>For Annie</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"For Annie" was first published in the <i>Flag of our Union</i>, in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the <i>Home
+Journal</i>.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2l"></a>Note on <i>To F&mdash;&mdash;</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To F&mdash;&mdash;" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the <i>Broadway
+Journal</i> for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from
+those inscribed "To Mary," in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for
+July 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas
+transposed, in <i>Graham's Magazine</i> for March 1842, as "To One
+Departed."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2m"></a>Note on <i>To Frances S. Osgood</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To F&mdash;s S. O&mdash;d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for September 1845.
+The earliest version of these lines appeared in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and
+was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly
+revised, the poem reappeared in Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for
+August, 1839, as "To &mdash;&mdash;."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2n"></a>Note on <i>Eldorado</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+<i>Flag of our Union</i>, it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2o"></a>Note on <i>Eulalie</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Eulalie&mdash;a Song" first appears in Colton's <i>American Review</i> for
+July, 1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2p"></a>Note on <i>A Dream within a Dream</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2q"></a>Note on <i>To Marie Louise (Shew)</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To M&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash; S&mdash;&mdash;," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2r"></a>>Note on the second poem entitled &nbsp;<i>To Marie Louise (Shew)</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To&mdash;&mdash;," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in
+1848, was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the
+above named posthumous collection.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2s"></a>Note on <i>The City in the Sea</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for August
+1835, whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's
+<i>American Review</i> for April, 1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2t"></a>Note on <i>The Sleeper</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the <i>Literary Messenger</i> for May
+1836, and, in its present form, in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for May
+1845.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note2u"></a>Note on <i>The Bridal Ballad</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and
+revised form, was reprinted in the <i>Broadway Journal</i> for August,
+1845.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section3">Poems of Manhood</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section3a"></a>Lenore</h3>
+
+<p>
+Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!<br/>
+Let the bell toll!&mdash;a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.<br/>
+And, Guy de Vere, hast <i>thou</i> no tear?&mdash;weep now or never more!<br/>
+See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!<br/>
+Come! let the burial rite be read&mdash;the funeral song be sung!&mdash;<br/>
+An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young&mdash;<br/>
+A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,<br/>
+And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her&mdash;that she died!<br/>
+How <i>shall</i> the ritual, then, be read?&mdash;the requiem how be sung<br/>
+By you&mdash;by yours, the evil eye,&mdash;by yours, the slanderous tongue<br/>
+That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"<br/><br/>
+
+<i>Peccavimus;</i> but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song<br/>
+Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!<br/>
+The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,<br/>
+Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride&mdash;<br/>
+For her, the fair and <i>débonnaire</i>, that now so lowly lies,<br/>
+The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes&mdash;<br/>
+The life still there, upon her hair&mdash;the death upon her eyes.<br/><br/>
+
+"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,<br/>
+But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!<br/>
+Let <i>no</i> bell toll!&mdash;lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,<br/>
+Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.<br/>
+To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven&mdash;<br/>
+From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven&mdash;<br/>
+From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1833<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3a">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3b"></a>To One in Paradise</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thou wast that all to me, love,<br/>
+For which my soul did pine&mdash;<br/>
+A green isle in the sea, love,<br/>
+A fountain and a shrine,<br/>
+All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,<br/>
+And all the flowers were mine.<br/><br/>
+
+Ah, dream too bright to last!<br/>
+Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise<br/>
+But to be overcast!<br/>
+A voice from out the Future cries,<br/>
+"On! on!"&mdash;but o'er the Past<br/>
+(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies<br/>
+Mute, motionless, aghast!<br/><br/>
+
+For, alas! alas! with me<br/>
+The light of Life is o'er!<br/>
+"No more&mdash;no more&mdash;no more"&mdash;<br/>
+(Such language holds the solemn sea<br/>
+To the sands upon the shore)<br/>
+Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,<br/>
+Or the stricken eagle soar!<br/><br/>
+
+And all my days are trances,<br/>
+And all my nightly dreams<br/>
+Are where thy dark eye glances,<br/>
+And where thy footstep gleams&mdash;<br/>
+In what ethereal dances,<br/>
+By what eternal streams!<br/><br/>
+
+Alas! for that accursed time<br/>
+They bore thee o'er the billow,<br/>
+From love to titled age and crime,<br/>
+And an unholy pillow!<br/>
+From me, and from our misty clime,<br/>
+Where weeps the silver willow!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1835<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3c"></a>The Coliseum</h3>
+
+<p>
+Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary<br/>
+Of lofty contemplation left to Time<br/>
+By buried centuries of pomp and power!<br/>
+At length&mdash;at length&mdash;after so many days<br/>
+Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,<br/>
+(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)<br/>
+I kneel, an altered and an humble man,<br/>
+Amid thy shadows, and so drink within<br/>
+My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!<br/><br/>
+
+Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!<br/>
+Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!<br/>
+I feel ye now&mdash;I feel ye in your strength&mdash;<br/>
+O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king<br/>
+Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!<br/>
+O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee<br/>
+Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!<br/><br/>
+
+Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!<br/>
+Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,<br/>
+A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!<br/>
+Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair<br/>
+Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!<br/>
+Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,<br/>
+Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,<br/>
+Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,<br/>
+The swift and silent lizard of the stones!<br/><br/>
+
+But stay! these walls&mdash;these ivy-clad arcades&mdash;<br/>
+These mouldering plinths&mdash;these sad and blackened shafts&mdash;<br/>
+These vague entablatures&mdash;this crumbling frieze&mdash;<br/>
+These shattered cornices&mdash;this wreck&mdash;this ruin&mdash;<br/>
+These stones&mdash;alas! these gray stones&mdash;are they all&mdash;<br/>
+All of the famed, and the colossal left<br/>
+By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?<br/><br/>
+
+"Not all"&mdash;the Echoes answer me&mdash;"not all!<br/>
+Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever<br/>
+From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,<br/>
+As melody from Memnon to the Sun.<br/>
+We rule the hearts of mightiest men&mdash;we rule<br/>
+With a despotic sway all giant minds.<br/>
+We are not impotent&mdash;we pallid stones.<br/>
+Not all our power is gone&mdash;not all our fame&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the magic of our high renown&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the wonder that encircles us&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the mysteries that in us lie&mdash;<br/>
+Not all the memories that hang upon<br/>
+And cling around about us as a garment,<br/>
+Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3d"></a>The Haunted Palace</h3>
+
+<p>
+In the greenest of our valleys<br/>
+By good angels tenanted,<br/>
+Once a fair and stately palace&mdash;<br/>
+Radiant palace&mdash;reared its head.<br/>
+In the monarch Thought's dominion&mdash;<br/>
+It stood there!<br/>
+Never seraph spread a pinion<br/>
+Over fabric half so fair!<br/><br/>
+
+Banners yellow, glorious, golden,<br/>
+On its roof did float and flow,<br/>
+(This&mdash;all this&mdash;was in the olden<br/>
+Time long ago),<br/>
+And every gentle air that dallied,<br/>
+In that sweet day,<br/>
+Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,<br/>
+A winged odor went away.<br/><br/>
+
+Wanderers in that happy valley,<br/>
+Through two luminous windows, saw<br/>
+Spirits moving musically,<br/>
+To a lute's well-tunëd law,<br/>
+Bound about a throne where, sitting<br/>
+(Porphyrogene!)<br/>
+In state his glory well befitting,<br/>
+The ruler of the realm was seen.<br/><br/>
+
+And all with pearl and ruby glowing<br/>
+Was the fair palace door,<br/>
+Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,<br/>
+And sparkling evermore,<br/>
+A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty<br/>
+Was but to sing,<br/>
+In voices of surpassing beauty,<br/>
+The wit and wisdom of their king.<br/><br/>
+
+But evil things, in robes of sorrow,<br/>
+Assailed the monarch's high estate.<br/>
+(Ah, let us mourn!&mdash;for never morrow<br/>
+Shall dawn upon him desolate !)<br/>
+And round about his home the glory<br/>
+That blushed and bloomed,<br/>
+Is but a dim-remembered story<br/>
+Of the old time entombed.<br/><br/>
+
+And travellers, now, within that valley,<br/>
+Through the red-litten windows see<br/>
+Vast forms, that move fantastically<br/>
+To a discordant melody,<br/>
+While, like a ghastly rapid river,<br/>
+Through the pale door<br/>
+A hideous throng rush out forever<br/>
+And laugh&mdash;but smile no more.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3e"></a>The Conqueror Worm</h3>
+
+<p>
+Lo! 'tis a gala night<br/>
+Within the lonesome latter years!<br/>
+An angel throng, bewinged, bedight<br/>
+In veils, and drowned in tears,<br/>
+Sit in a theatre, to see<br/>
+A play of hopes and fears,<br/>
+While the orchestra breathes fitfully<br/>
+The music of the spheres.<br/><br/>
+
+Mimes, in the form of God on high,<br/>
+Mutter and mumble low,<br/>
+And hither and thither fly&mdash;<br/>
+Mere puppets they, who come and go<br/>
+At bidding of vast formless things<br/>
+That shift the scenery to and fro,<br/>
+Flapping from out their Condor wings<br/>
+Invisible Wo!<br/><br/>
+
+That motley drama&mdash;oh, be sure<br/>
+It shall not be forgot!<br/>
+With its Phantom chased for evermore,<br/>
+By a crowd that seize it not,<br/>
+Through a circle that ever returneth in<br/>
+To the self-same spot,<br/>
+And much of Madness, and more of Sin,<br/>
+And Horror the soul of the plot.<br/><br/>
+
+But see, amid the mimic rout<br/>
+A crawling shape intrude!<br/>
+A blood-red thing that writhes from out<br/>
+The scenic solitude!<br/>
+It writhes!&mdash;it writhes!&mdash;with mortal pangs<br/>
+The mimes become its food,<br/>
+And the angels sob at vermin fangs<br/>
+In human gore imbued.<br/><br/>
+
+Out&mdash;out are the lights&mdash;out all!<br/>
+And, over each quivering form,<br/>
+The curtain, a funeral pall,<br/>
+Comes down with the rush of a storm,<br/>
+And the angels, all pallid and wan,<br/>
+Uprising, unveiling, affirm<br/>
+That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"<br/>
+And its hero the Conqueror Worm.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1838<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3f"></a>Silence</h3>
+
+<p>
+There are some qualities&mdash;some incorporate things,<br/>
+That have a double life, which thus is made<br/>
+A type of that twin entity which springs<br/>
+From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.<br/>
+There is a twofold <i>Silence</i>&mdash;sea and shore&mdash;<br/>
+Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,<br/>
+Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,<br/>
+Some human memories and tearful lore,<br/>
+Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."<br/>
+He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!<br/>
+No power hath he of evil in himself;<br/>
+But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)<br/>
+Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,<br/>
+That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod<br/>
+No foot of man), commend thyself to God!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1840<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3f">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3g"></a>Dreamland</h3>
+
+<p>
+By a route obscure and lonely,<br/>
+Haunted by ill angels only,<br/>
+Where an Eidolon, named <b>Night</b>,<br/>
+On a black throne reigns upright,<br/>
+I have reached these lands but newly<br/>
+From an ultimate dim Thule&mdash;<br/>
+From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,<br/>
+Out of <b>Space</b>&mdash;out of <b>Time</b>.<br/><br/>
+
+Bottomless vales and boundless floods,<br/>
+And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,<br/>
+With forms that no man can discover<br/>
+For the dews that drip all over;<br/>
+Mountains toppling evermore<br/>
+Into seas without a shore;<br/>
+Seas that restlessly aspire,<br/>
+Surging, unto skies of fire;<br/>
+Lakes that endlessly outspread<br/>
+Their lone waters&mdash;lone and dead,<br/>
+Their still waters&mdash;still and chilly<br/>
+With the snows of the lolling lily.<br/><br/>
+
+By the lakes that thus outspread<br/>
+Their lone waters, lone and dead,&mdash;<br/>
+Their sad waters, sad and chilly<br/>
+With the snows of the lolling lily,&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+By the mountains&mdash;near the river<br/>
+Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,&mdash;<br/>
+By the gray woods,&mdash;by the swamp<br/>
+Where the toad and the newt encamp,&mdash;<br/>
+By the dismal tarns and pools<br/>
+Where dwell the Ghouls,&mdash;<br/>
+By each spot the most unholy&mdash;<br/>
+In each nook most melancholy,&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+There the traveller meets aghast<br/>
+Sheeted Memories of the past&mdash;<br/>
+Shrouded forms that start and sigh<br/>
+As they pass the wanderer by&mdash;<br/>
+White-robed forms of friends long given,<br/>
+In agony, to the Earth&mdash;and Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+For the heart whose woes are legion<br/>
+'Tis a peaceful, soothing region&mdash;<br/>
+For the spirit that walks in shadow<br/>
+'Tis&mdash;oh, 'tis an Eldorado!<br/>
+But the traveller, travelling through it,<br/>
+May not&mdash;dare not openly view it;<br/>
+Never its mysteries are exposed<br/>
+To the weak human eye unclosed;<br/>
+So wills its King, who hath forbid<br/>
+The uplifting of the fringed lid;<br/>
+And thus the sad Soul that here passes<br/>
+Beholds it but through darkened glasses.<br/><br/>
+
+By a route obscure and lonely,<br/>
+Haunted by ill angels only.<br/>
+Where an Eidolon, named <b>Night</b>,<br/>
+On a black throne reigns upright,<br/>
+I have wandered home but newly<br/>
+From this ultimate dim Thule.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1844<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3g">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3h"></a>To Zante</h3>
+
+<p>
+Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,<br/>
+Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!<br/>
+How many memories of what radiant hours<br/>
+At sight of thee and thine at once awake!<br/>
+How many scenes of what departed bliss!<br/>
+How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!<br/>
+How many visions of a maiden that is<br/>
+No more&mdash;no more upon thy verdant slopes!<br/><br/>
+
+<i>No more!</i> alas, that magical sad sound<br/>
+Transforming all! Thy charms shall please <i>no more</i>&mdash;<br/>
+Thy memory <i>no more!</i> Accursed ground<br/>
+Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,<br/>
+O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!<br/>
+"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1887<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3h">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section3i"></a>Hymn</h3>
+
+<p>
+At morn&mdash;at noon&mdash;at twilight dim&mdash;<br/>
+Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!<br/>
+In joy and wo&mdash;in good and ill&mdash;<br/>
+Mother of God, be with me still!<br/>
+When the Hours flew brightly by,<br/>
+And not a cloud obscured the sky,<br/>
+My soul, lest it should truant be,<br/>
+Thy grace did guide to thine and thee<br/>
+Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast<br/>
+Darkly my Present and my Past,<br/>
+Let my future radiant shine<br/>
+With sweet hopes of thee and thine!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1885<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#note3i">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section3j"></a>Notes</h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note3a"></a>Note on <i>Lenore</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in <i>The
+Pioneer</i> for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"&mdash;now first
+published in the <b>Poems Of Youth</b>&mdash;the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3b"></a>Note on <i>To One in Paradise</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's <i>Gentleman's
+Magazine</i> for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the
+first time, to the piece.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3c"></a>Note on <i>The Coliseum</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore <i>Saturday Visitor</i>
+(<i>sic</i>) in 1833, and was republished in the <i>Southern Literary
+Messenger</i> for August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3d"></a>Note on <i>The Haunted Palace</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore <i>American
+Museum</i> for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much
+admired tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in
+Burton's <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for September, 1839. It reappeared
+in that as a separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3e"></a>Note on <i>The Conqueror Worm</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the <i>American Museum</i> for September, 1838.
+As a separate poem, it reappeared in <i>Graham's Magazine</i> for
+January, 1843.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3f"></a>Note on <i>Silence</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's
+<i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for April, 1840.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3g"></a>Note on <i>Dreamland</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in <i>Graham's
+Magazine</i> for June, 1844.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3h"></a>Note on <i>To Zante</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i>.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note3i"></a>Note on <i>Hymn</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for
+April, 1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title,
+were first published in the <i>Broadway Journal for August</i>, 1845.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section4">Scenes from <i>Politian</i></a></h2>
+
+<h4>an unpublished drama</h4>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>ROME &mdash; a Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE.</i>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou art sad, Castiglione.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Sad!&mdash;not I.<br/>
+Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!<br/>
+A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,<br/>
+Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing<br/>
+Thy happiness&mdash;what ails thee, cousin of mine?<br/>
+Why didst thou sigh so deeply?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Did I sigh?<br/>
+I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,<br/>
+A silly&mdash;a most silly fashion I have<br/>
+When I am <i>very</i> happy. Did I sigh? [<i>sighing</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged<br/>
+Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.<br/>
+Late hours and wine, Castiglione,&mdash;these<br/>
+Will ruin thee! thou art already altered&mdash;<br/>
+Thy looks are haggard&mdash;nothing so wears away<br/>
+The constitution as late hours and wine. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (musing)</i></td>
+<td>Nothing, fair cousin, nothing&mdash;<br/>
+Not even deep sorrow&mdash;<br/>
+Wears it away like evil hours and wine.<br/>
+I will amend. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Do it! I would have thee drop<br/>
+Thy riotous company, too&mdash;fellows low born<br/>
+Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir<br/>
+And Alessandra's husband. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I will drop them.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Thou wilt&mdash;thou must. Attend thou also more<br/>
+To thy dress and equipage&mdash;they are over plain<br/>
+For thy lofty rank and fashion&mdash;much depends<br/>
+Upon appearances. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I'll see to it.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Then see to it!&mdash;pay more attention, sir,<br/>
+To a becoming carriage&mdash;much thou wantest<br/>
+In dignity. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Much, much, oh, much I want<br/>
+In proper dignity. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra (haughtily)</i></td>
+<td>Thou mockest me, sir! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (abstractedly)</i></td>
+<td>Sweet, gentle Lalage!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>Heard I aright?<br/>
+I speak to him&mdash;he speaks of Lalage?<br/>
+Sir Count!<br/>
+<i>[places her hand on his shoulder</i>]<br/>
+what art thou dreaming?<br/>
+He's not well!<br/>
+What ails thee, sir? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione (starting)</i></td>
+<td>Cousin! fair cousin!&mdash;madam!<br/>
+I crave thy pardon&mdash;indeed I am not well&mdash;<br/>
+Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.<br/>
+This air is most oppressive!&mdash;Madam&mdash;the Duke! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td><i>Enter Di Broglio</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>My son, I've news for thee!&mdash;hey!&mdash;what's the matter?<br/>
+[<i>observing Alessandra</i>].<br/>
+I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,<br/>
+You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!<br/>
+I've news for you both. Politian is expected<br/>
+Hourly in Rome&mdash;Politian, Earl of Leicester!<br/>
+We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit<br/>
+To the imperial city. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>What! Politian<br/>
+Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>The same, my love.<br/>
+We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young<br/>
+In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,<br/>
+But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy<br/>
+Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,<br/>
+And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>I have heard much of this Politian.<br/>
+Gay, volatile and giddy&mdash;is he not,<br/>
+And little given to thinking? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>Far from it, love.<br/>
+No branch, they say, of all philosophy<br/>
+So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.<br/>
+Learned as few are learned. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Alessandra</i></td>
+<td>'Tis very strange!<br/>
+I have known men have seen Politian<br/>
+And sought his company. They speak of him<br/>
+As of one who entered madly into life,<br/>
+Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ridiculous! Now <i>I</i> have seen Politian<br/>
+And know him well&mdash;nor learned nor mirthful he.<br/>
+He is a dreamer, and shut out<br/>
+From common passions. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Di Broglio</i></td>
+<td>Children, we disagree.<br/>
+Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air<br/>
+Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear<br/>
+Politian was a <i>melancholy</i> man?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exeunt</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>ROME.&mdash;A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and
+looking into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading
+at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror.
+In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly
+upon a chair. </i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Jacinta! is it thou? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (pertly)</i></td>
+<td>Yes, ma'am, I'm here. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.<br/>
+Sit down!&mdash;let not my presence trouble you&mdash;<br/>
+Sit down!&mdash;for I am humble, most humble.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis time. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td><i>(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner
+upon the chair, resting her elbows upon
+the back, and regarding her mistress with
+a contemptuous look. Lalage continues
+to read.) </i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>"It in another climate, so he said,<br/>
+Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"<br/>
+[<i>pauses&mdash;turns over some leaves and resumes.</i>]<br/>
+"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower&mdash;<br/>
+But Ocean ever to refresh mankind<br/>
+Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"<br/>
+Oh, beautiful!&mdash;most beautiful!&mdash;how like<br/>
+To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!<br/>
+O happy land! [<i>pauses</i>] She died!&mdash;the maiden died!<br/>
+O still more happy maiden who couldst die!<br/>
+Jacinta!<br/>
+[<i>Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage
+presently resumes,</i>]<br/>
+Again!&mdash;a similar tale<br/>
+Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!<br/>
+Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play&mdash;<br/>
+"She died full young"&mdash;one Bossola answers him&mdash;<br/>
+"I think not so&mdash;her infelicity<br/>
+Seemed to have years too many"&mdash;Ah, luckless lady!<br/>
+Jacinta! [<i>still no answer.</i>]<br/>
+Here's a far sterner story&mdash;<br/>
+But like&mdash;oh, very like in its despair&mdash;<br/>
+Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily<br/>
+A thousand hearts&mdash;losing at length her own.<br/>
+She died. Thus endeth the history&mdash;and her maids<br/>
+Lean over her and keep&mdash;two gentle maids<br/>
+With gentle names&mdash;Eiros and Charmion!<br/>
+Rainbow and Dove!&mdash;Jacinta!<br/>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (pettishly)</i></td>
+<td>Madam, what is it?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind<br/>
+As go down in the library and bring me<br/>
+The Holy Evangelists? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i></td>
+<td>Pshaw! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>If there be balm<br/>
+For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!<br/>
+Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble<br/>
+Will there be found&mdash;"dew sweeter far than that<br/>
+Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i><br/>
+(<i>aside</i>)</td>
+<td>There, ma'am, 's the book.<br/>
+Indeed she is very troublesome.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (astonished)</i></td>
+<td>What didst thou say, Jacinta?<br/>
+Have I done aught<br/>
+To grieve thee or to vex thee?&mdash;I am sorry.<br/>
+For thou hast served me long and ever been<br/>
+Trustworthy and respectful.<br/>
+[<i>resumes her reading.</i>] </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>I can't believe<br/>
+She has any more jewels&mdash;no&mdash;no&mdash;she gave me all.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me<br/>
+Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.<br/>
+How fares good Ugo?&mdash;and when is it to be?<br/>
+Can I do aught?&mdash;is there no further aid<br/>
+Thou needest, Jacinta? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta (aside)</i></td>
+<td>Is there no <i>further</i> aid!<br/>
+That's meant for me. <br/>
+[<i>aloud</i>]<br/>
+I'm sure, madam, you need not<br/>
+Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Jewels! Jacinta,&mdash;now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Jacinta</i></td>
+<td>Oh, perhaps not!<br/>
+But then I might have sworn it. After all,<br/>
+There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,<br/>
+For he's sure the Count Castiglione never<br/>
+Would have given a real diamond to such as you;<br/>
+And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot<br/>
+Have use for jewels <i>now</i>. But I might have sworn it.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table&mdash;after a
+short pause raises it.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Poor Lalage!&mdash;and is it come to this?<br/>
+Thy servant maid!&mdash;but courage!&mdash;'tis but a viper<br/>
+Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!<br/>
+[<i>taking up the mirror</i>]<br/>
+Ha! here at least's a friend&mdash;too much a friend<br/>
+In earlier days&mdash;a friend will not deceive thee.<br/>
+Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)<br/>
+A tale&mdash;a pretty tale&mdash;and heed thou not<br/>
+Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.<br/>
+It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,<br/>
+And beauty long deceased&mdash;remembers me,<br/>
+Of Joy departed&mdash;Hope, the Seraph Hope,<br/>
+Inurned and entombed!&mdash;now, in a tone<br/>
+Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,<br/>
+Whispers of early grave untimely yawning<br/>
+For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!&mdash;thou liest not!<br/>
+<i>Thou</i> hast no end to gain&mdash;no heart to break&mdash;<br/>
+Castiglione lied who said he loved&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+Thou true&mdash;he false!&mdash;false!&mdash;false! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Refuge thou hast,<br/>
+Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!<br/>
+Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (arising hurriedly)</i></td>
+<td>I <i>cannot</i> pray!&mdash;My soul is at war with God!<br/>
+The frightful sounds of merriment below;<br/>
+Disturb my senses&mdash;go! I cannot pray&mdash;<br/>
+The sweet airs from the garden worry me!<br/>
+Thy presence grieves me&mdash;go!&mdash;thy priestly raiment<br/>
+Fills me with dread&mdash;thy ebony crucifix<br/>
+With horror and awe! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Think of thy precious soul! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Think of my early days!&mdash;think of my father<br/>
+And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,<br/>
+And the rivulet that ran before the door!<br/>
+Think of my little sisters!&mdash;think of them!<br/>
+And think of me!&mdash;think of my trusting love<br/>
+And confidence&mdash;his vows&mdash;my ruin&mdash;think&mdash;think<br/>
+Of my unspeakable misery!&mdash;&mdash;begone!<br/>
+Yet stay! yet stay!&mdash;what was it thou saidst of prayer<br/>
+And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith<br/>
+And vows before the throne? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>I did. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>'Tis well.<br/>
+There <i>is</i> a vow 'twere fitting should be made&mdash;<br/>
+A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,<br/>
+A solemn vow! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Daughter, this zeal is well! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Father, this zeal is anything but well!<br/>
+Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?<br/>
+A crucifix whereon to register<br/>
+This sacred vow? [<i>he hands her his own.</i>]<br/>
+Not that&mdash;Oh! no!&mdash;no!&mdash;no [<i>shuddering.</i>]<br/>
+Not that! Not that!&mdash;I tell thee, holy man,<br/>
+Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!<br/>
+Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,&mdash;<br/>
+<i>I</i> have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting<br/>
+The deed&mdash;the vow&mdash;the symbol of the deed&mdash;<br/>
+And the deed's register should tally, father!<br/>
+[<i>draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.</i>]<br/>
+Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine<br/>
+Is written in heaven! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monk</i></td>
+<td>Thy words are madness, daughter,<br/>
+And speak a purpose unholy&mdash;thy lips are livid&mdash;<br/>
+Thine eyes are wild&mdash;tempt not the wrath divine!<br/>
+Pause ere too late!&mdash;oh, be not&mdash;be not rash!<br/>
+Swear not the oath&mdash;oh, swear it not! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>'Tis sworn!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR. </i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Arouse thee now, Politian!<br/>
+Thou must not&mdash;nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not<br/>
+Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!<br/>
+Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee<br/>
+And live, for now thou diest! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Not so, Baldazzar!<br/>
+<i>Surely</i> I live!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Politian, it doth grieve me<br/>
+To see thee thus! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Baldazzar, it doth grieve me<br/>
+To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.<br/>
+Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?<br/>
+At thy behest I will shake off that nature<br/>
+Which from my forefathers I did inherit,<br/>
+Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,<br/>
+And be no more Politian, but some other.<br/>
+Command me, sir! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>To the field then&mdash;to the field&mdash;<br/>
+To the senate or the field. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Alas! alas!<br/>
+There is an imp would follow me even there!<br/>
+There is an imp <i>hath</i> followed me even there!<br/>
+There is&mdash;what voice was that? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I heard it not.<br/>
+I heard not any voice except thine own,<br/>
+And the echo of thine own. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Then I but dreamed. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp&mdash;the court<br/>
+Befit thee&mdash;Fame awaits thee&mdash;Glory calls&mdash;<br/>
+And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear<br/>
+In hearkening to imaginary sounds<br/>
+And phantom voices. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>It <i>is</i> a phantom voice!<br/>
+Didst thou not hear it <i>then</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I heard it not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thou heardst it not!&mdash;Baldazzar, speak no more<br/>
+To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.<br/>
+Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,<br/>
+Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities<br/>
+Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile<br/>
+We have been boys together&mdash;school-fellows&mdash;<br/>
+And now are friends&mdash;yet shall not be so long&mdash;<br/>
+For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me<br/>
+A kind and gentle office, and a Power&mdash;<br/>
+A Power august, benignant, and supreme&mdash;<br/>
+Shall then absolve thee of all further duties<br/>
+Unto thy friend. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Thou speakest a fearful riddle<br/>
+I <i>will</i> not understand.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Yet now as Fate<br/>
+Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,<br/>
+The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,<br/>
+And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!<br/>
+I <i>cannot</i> die, having within my heart<br/>
+So keen a relish for the beautiful<br/>
+As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air<br/>
+Is balmier now than it was wont to be&mdash;<br/>
+Rich melodies are floating in the winds&mdash;<br/>
+A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth&mdash;<br/>
+And with a holier lustre the quiet moon<br/>
+Sitteth in Heaven.&mdash;Hist! hist! thou canst not say<br/>
+Thou hearest not <i>now</i>, Baldazzar? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Indeed I hear not.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Not hear it!&mdash;listen&mdash;now&mdash;listen!&mdash;the faintest sound<br/>
+And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!<br/>
+A lady's voice!&mdash;and sorrow in the tone!<br/>
+Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!<br/>
+Again!&mdash;again!&mdash;how solemnly it falls<br/>
+Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice<br/>
+Surely I never heard&mdash;yet it were well<br/>
+Had I <i>but</i> heard it with its thrilling tones<br/>
+In earlier days!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I myself hear it now.<br/>
+Be still!&mdash;the voice, if I mistake not greatly,<br/>
+Proceeds from younder lattice&mdash;which you may see<br/>
+Very plainly through the window&mdash;it belongs,<br/>
+Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.<br/>
+The singer is undoubtedly beneath<br/>
+The roof of his Excellency&mdash;and perhaps<br/>
+Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke<br/>
+As the betrothed of Castiglione,<br/>
+His son and heir. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Be still!&mdash;it comes again!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (very faintly)</i></td>
+<td>"<a name="fr1">And</a> is thy heart so strong<a href="#f1"><sup>1</sup></a><br/>
+As for to leave me thus,<br/>
+That have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among?<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>The song is English, and I oft have heard it<br/>
+In merry England&mdash;never so plaintively&mdash;<br/>
+Hist! hist! it comes again! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (more loudly)</i></td>
+<td>"Is it so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus,<br/>
+That have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among?<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong<br/>
+As for to leave me thus?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>'Tis hushed and all is still!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>All <i>is not</i> still.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let us go down.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Go down, Baldazzar, go!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>The hour is growing late&mdash;the Duke awaits us,&mdash;<br/>
+Thy presence is expected in the hall<br/>
+Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (distinctly)</i></td>
+<td>"Who have loved thee so long,<br/>
+In wealth and woe among,<br/>
+And is thy heart so strong?<br/>
+Say nay! say nay!"</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let us descend!&mdash;'tis time. Politian, give<br/>
+These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,<br/>
+Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness<br/>
+Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Remember? I do. Lead on! I <i>do</i> remember.[<i>going</i>].<br/>
+Let us descend. Believe me I would give,<br/>
+Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom<br/>
+To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice&mdash;<br/>
+"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear<br/>
+Once more that silent tongue."</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Let me beg you, sir,<br/>
+Descend with me&mdash;the Duke may be offended.<br/>
+Let us go down, I pray you. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Voice (loudly)</i></td>
+<td><i>Say nay!&mdash;say nay!</i> </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis strange!&mdash;'tis very strange&mdash;methought the voice<br/>
+Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!<br/>
+[<i>Approaching the window</i>]<br/>
+Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.<br/>
+Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,<br/>
+Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make<br/>
+Apology unto the Duke for me;<br/>
+I go not down to-night. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>Your lordship's pleasure<br/>
+Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Good-night, my friend, good-night. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>The Gardens of a Palace&mdash;Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.</i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>And dost thou speak of love<br/>
+To <i>me</i>, Politian?&mdash;dost thou speak of love<br/>
+To Lalage?&mdash;ah woe&mdash;ah woe is me!<br/>
+This mockery is most cruel&mdash;most cruel indeed! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Weep not! oh, sob not thus!&mdash;thy bitter tears<br/>
+Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage&mdash;<br/>
+Be comforted! I know&mdash;I know it all,<br/>
+And <i>still</i> I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,<br/>
+And beautiful Lalage!&mdash;turn here thine eyes!<br/>
+Thou askest me if I could speak of love,<br/>
+Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen<br/>
+Thou askest me that&mdash;and thus I answer thee&mdash;<br/>
+Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. [<i>kneeling</i>]<br/>
+Sweet Lalage, <i>I love thee&mdash;love thee&mdash;love thee</i>;<br/>
+Thro' good and ill&mdash;thro' weal and woe, <i>I love thee</i>.<br/>
+Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,<br/>
+Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.<br/>
+Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,<br/>
+Burned there a holier fire than burneth now<br/>
+Within my spirit for <i>thee</i>. And do I love?<br/>
+[<i>arising</i>]<br/>
+Even for thy woes I love thee&mdash;even for thy woes&mdash;<br/>
+Thy beauty and thy woes. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Alas, proud Earl,<br/>
+Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!<br/>
+How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens<br/>
+Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,<br/>
+Could the dishonored Lalage abide?<br/>
+Thy wife, and with a tainted memory&mdash;<br/>
+My seared and blighted name, how would it tally<br/>
+With the ancestral honors of thy house,<br/>
+And with thy glory? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Speak not to me of glory!<br/>
+I hate&mdash;I loathe the name; I do abhor<br/>
+The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.<br/>
+Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?<br/>
+Do I not love&mdash;art thou not beautiful&mdash;<br/>
+What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:<br/>
+By all I hold most sacred and most solemn&mdash;<br/>
+By all my wishes now&mdash;my fears hereafter&mdash;<br/>
+By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven&mdash;<br/>
+There is no deed I would more glory in,<br/>
+Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory<br/>
+And trample it under foot. What matters it&mdash;<br/>
+What matters it, my fairest, and my best,<br/>
+That we go down unhonored and forgotten<br/>
+Into the dust&mdash;so we descend together?<br/>
+Descend together&mdash;and then&mdash;and then perchance&mdash; </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Why dost thou pause, Politian? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And then perchance<br/>
+<i>Arise</i> together, Lalage, and roam<br/>
+The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,<br/>
+And still&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Why dost thou pause, Politian?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And still<i> together&mdash;together</i>. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Now, Earl of Leicester!<br/>
+Thou <i>lovest</i> me, and in my heart of hearts<br/>
+I feel thou lovest me truly. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>O Lalage!<br/>
+[<i>throwing himself upon his knee.</i>]<br/>
+And lovest thou <i>me</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Hist! hush! within the gloom<br/>
+Of yonder trees methought a figure passed&mdash;<br/>
+A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless&mdash;<br/>
+Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.<br/>
+[<i>walks across and returns</i>]<br/>
+I was mistaken&mdash;'twas but a giant bough<br/>
+Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>My Lalage&mdash;my love! why art thou moved?<br/>
+Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,<br/>
+Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,<br/>
+Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind<br/>
+Is chilly&mdash;and these melancholy boughs<br/>
+Throw over all things a gloom. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>Politian!<br/>
+Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land<br/>
+With which all tongues are busy&mdash;a land new found&mdash;<br/>
+Miraculously found by one of Genoa&mdash;<br/>
+A thousand leagues within the golden west?<br/>
+A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,&mdash;<br/>
+And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,<br/>
+And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds<br/>
+Of Heaven untrammelled flow&mdash;which air to breathe<br/>
+Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter<br/>
+In days that are to come? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Oh, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou<br/>
+Fly to that Paradise&mdash;my Lalage, wilt thou<br/>
+Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,<br/>
+And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.<br/>
+And life shall then be mine, for I will live<br/>
+For thee, and in thine eyes&mdash;and thou shalt be<br/>
+No more a mourner&mdash;but the radiant Joys<br/>
+Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope<br/>
+Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee<br/>
+And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,<br/>
+My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,<br/>
+My all;&mdash;oh, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou, Lalage,<br/>
+Fly thither with me? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage</i></td>
+<td>A deed is to be done&mdash;<br/>
+Castiglione lives! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>And he shall die!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Lalage (after a pause)</i></td>
+<td>And&mdash;he&mdash;shall&mdash;die!&mdash;alas!<br/>
+Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?<br/>
+Where am I?&mdash;what was it he said?&mdash;Politian!<br/>
+Thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;thou art not <i>gone</i>, Politian!<br/>
+I <i>feel</i> thou art not gone&mdash;yet dare not look,<br/>
+Lest I behold thee not&mdash;thou <i>couldst</i> not go<br/>
+With those words upon thy lips&mdash;oh, speak to me!<br/>
+And let me hear thy voice&mdash;one word&mdash;one word,<br/>
+To say thou art not gone,&mdash;one little sentence,<br/>
+To say how thou dost scorn&mdash;how thou dost hate<br/>
+My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;<br/>
+Oh, speak to me! I <i>knew</i> thou wouldst not go!<br/>
+I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, <i>durst</i> not go.<br/>
+Villain, thou <i>art</i> not gone&mdash;thou mockest me!<br/>
+And thus I clutch thee&mdash;thus!&mdash;He is gone, he is gone&mdash;<br/>
+Gone&mdash;gone. Where am I?&mdash;'tis well&mdash;'tis very well!<br/>
+So that the blade be keen&mdash;the blow be sure,<br/>
+'Tis well, 'tis <i>very</i> well&mdash;alas! alas! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<span style="font-size: 150%;">V</span><br/>
+<br/>
+<i>The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.</i><br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>This weakness grows upon me. I am fain<br/>
+And much I fear me ill&mdash;it will not do<br/>
+To die ere I have lived!&mdash;Stay&mdash;stay thy hand,<br/>
+O Azrael, yet awhile!&mdash;Prince of the Powers<br/>
+Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!<br/>
+Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,<br/>
+In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!<br/>
+Give me to live yet&mdash;yet a little while:<br/>
+'Tis I who pray for life&mdash;I who so late<br/>
+Demanded but to die!&mdash;What sayeth the Count?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Baldazzar</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud<br/>
+Between the Earl Politian and himself,<br/>
+He doth decline your cartel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td><i>What</i> didst thou say?<br/>
+What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?<br/>
+With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes<br/>
+Laden from yonder bowers!&mdash;a fairer day,<br/>
+Or one more worthy Italy, methinks<br/>
+No mortal eyes have seen!&mdash;<i>what</i> said the Count? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>That he, Castiglione, not being aware<br/>
+Of any feud existing, or any cause<br/>
+Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,<br/>
+Cannot accept the challenge. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>It is most true&mdash;<br/>
+All this is very true. When saw you, sir,<br/>
+When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid<br/>
+Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,<br/>
+A heaven so calm as this&mdash;so utterly free<br/>
+From the evil taint of clouds?&mdash;and he did <i>say</i>? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>No more, my lord, than I have told you:<br/>
+The Count Castiglione will not fight.<br/>
+Having no cause for quarrel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now this is true&mdash;<br/>
+All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,<br/>
+And I have not forgotten it&mdash;thou'lt do me<br/>
+A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say<br/>
+Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,<br/>
+Hold him a villain?&mdash;thus much, I pr'ythee, say<br/>
+Unto the Count&mdash;it is exceeding just<br/>
+He should have cause for quarrel. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>My lord!&mdash;my friend!&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td>
+<td>'Tis he&mdash;he comes himself!<br/>
+[<i>aloud</i>] Thou reasonest well.<br/>
+I know what thou wouldst say&mdash;not send the message&mdash;<br/>
+Well!&mdash;I will think of it&mdash;I will not send it.<br/>
+Now pr'ythee, leave me&mdash;hither doth come a person<br/>
+With whom affairs of a most private nature<br/>
+I would adjust. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>I go&mdash;to-morrow we meet,<br/>
+Do we not?&mdash;at the Vatican. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>At the Vatican. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit Baldazzar</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Castiglione</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>The Earl of Leicester here! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>I <i>am</i> the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,<br/>
+Dost thou not, that I am here?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>My lord, some strange,<br/>
+Some singular mistake&mdash;misunderstanding&mdash;<br/>
+Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged<br/>
+Thereby, in heat of anger, to address<br/>
+Some words most unaccountable, in writing,<br/>
+To me, Castiglione; the bearer being<br/>
+Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware<br/>
+Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,<br/>
+Having given thee no offence. Ha!&mdash;am I right?<br/>
+'Twas a mistake?&mdash;undoubtedly&mdash;we all<br/>
+Do err at times. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Draw, villain, and prate no more! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha!&mdash;draw?&mdash;and villain? have at thee then at once,<br/>
+Proud Earl!<br/>
+[<i>Draws</i>.] </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thus to the expiatory tomb,<br/>
+Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee<br/>
+In the name of Lalage! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione<br/>
+(letting fall his sword and recoiling<br/>
+to the extremity of the stage)</i></td>
+<td>Of Lalage!<br/>
+Hold off&mdash;thy sacred hand!&mdash;avaunt, I say!<br/>
+Avaunt&mdash;I will not fight thee&mdash;indeed I dare not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?<br/>
+Shall I be baffled thus?&mdash;now this is well;<br/>
+Didst say thou <i>darest</i> not? Ha! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>I dare not&mdash;dare not&mdash;<br/>
+Hold off thy hand&mdash;with that beloved name<br/>
+So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee&mdash;<br/>
+I cannot&mdash;dare not. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now, by my halidom,<br/>
+I do believe thee!&mdash;coward, I do believe thee!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha!&mdash;coward!&mdash;this may not be!<br/>
+[<i>clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
+the Earl</i>]<br/>
+Alas! my lord,<br/>
+It is&mdash;it is&mdash;most true. In such a cause<br/>
+I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian (greatly softened)</i></td>
+<td>Alas!&mdash;I do&mdash;indeed I pity thee.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>And Lalage&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td><i>Scoundrel!&mdash;arise and die!</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>It needeth not be&mdash;thus&mdash;thus&mdash;Oh, let me die<br/>
+Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting<br/>
+That in this deep humiliation I perish.<br/>
+For in the fight I will not raise a hand<br/>
+Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home&mdash;<br/>
+[<i>baring his bosom</i>]<br/>
+Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon&mdash;<br/>
+Strike home. I <i>will not</i> fight thee. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Now's Death and Hell!<br/>
+Am I not&mdash;am I not sorely&mdash;grievously tempted<br/>
+To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:<br/>
+Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare<br/>
+For public insult in the streets&mdash;before<br/>
+The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee&mdash;<br/>
+Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee<br/>
+Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest&mdash;<br/>
+Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,&mdash;I'll taunt thee,<br/>
+Dost hear? with <i>cowardice</i>&mdash;thou <i>wilt not</i> fight me?<br/>
+Thou liest! thou <i>shalt</i>! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Now this indeed is just!<br/>
+Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f1"></a>Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr1">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section4a"></a>Note on <i>Politian</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the <i>Southern Literary Messenger</i> for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Politian" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Why do you laugh? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Indeed.<br/>
+I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not<br/>
+On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?<br/>
+Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.<br/>
+Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!<br/>
+We were walking in the garden. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Perfectly.<br/>
+I do remember it&mdash;what of it&mdash;what then? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td> O nothing&mdash;nothing at all. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Nothing at all!<br/>
+It is most singular that you should laugh<br/>
+At nothing at all! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Most singular&mdash;singular! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind<br/>
+As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.<br/>
+What are you talking of? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Was it not so?<br/>
+We differed in opinion touching him. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Him!&mdash;Whom? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Why, sir, the Earl Politian. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>The Earl of Leicester! Yes!&mdash;is it he you mean?<br/>
+We differed, indeed. If I now recollect<br/>
+The words you used were that the Earl you knew<br/>
+Was neither learned nor mirthful. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>Ha! ha!&mdash;now did I? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time<br/>
+You were wrong, it being not the character<br/>
+Of the Earl&mdash;whom all the world allows to be<br/>
+A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,<br/>
+Too positive again. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>'Tis singular!<br/>
+Most singular! I could not think it possible<br/>
+So little time could so much alter one!<br/>
+To say the truth about an hour ago,<br/>
+As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,<br/>
+All arm in arm, we met this very man<br/>
+The Earl&mdash;he, with his friend Baldazzar,<br/>
+Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he <i>is</i> altered!<br/>
+Such an account he gave me of his journey!<br/>
+'Twould have made you die with laughter&mdash;such tales he told<br/>
+Of his caprices and his merry freaks<br/>
+Along the road&mdash;such oddity&mdash;such humor&mdash;<br/>
+Such wit&mdash;such whim&mdash;such flashes of wild merriment<br/>
+Set off too in such full relief by the grave<br/>
+Demeanor of his friend&mdash;who, to speak the truth<br/>
+Was gravity itself&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Did I not tell you?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>You did&mdash;and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,<br/>
+How much I was mistaken! I always thought<br/>
+The Earl a gloomy man.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>So, so, you see!<br/>
+Be not too positive. Whom have we here?<br/>
+It cannot be the Earl? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>The Earl! Oh no!<br/>
+Tis not the Earl&mdash;but yet it is&mdash;and leaning<br/>
+Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!<br/>
+[<i>Enter Politian and Baldazzar.</i>]<br/>
+My lord, a second welcome let me give you<br/>
+To Rome&mdash;his Grace the Duke of Broglio.<br/>
+Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl<br/>
+Of Leicester in Great Britain.<br/>
+[<i>Politian bows haughtily.</i>]<br/>
+That, his friend<br/>
+Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,<br/>
+So please you, for Your Grace. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Ha! ha! Most welcome<br/>
+To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!<br/>
+And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!<br/>
+I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.<br/>
+Castiglione! call your cousin hither,<br/>
+And let me make the noble Earl acquainted<br/>
+With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time<br/>
+Most seasonable. The wedding&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Politian</i></td>
+<td>Touching those letters, sir,<br/>
+Your son made mention of&mdash;your son, is he not?&mdash;<br/>
+Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.<br/>
+If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here&mdash;<br/>
+Baldazzar! ah!&mdash;my friend Baldazzar here<br/>
+Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Retire!&mdash;so soon? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Castiglione</i></td>
+<td>What ho! Benito! Rupert!<br/>
+His lordship's chambers&mdash;show his lordship to them!<br/>
+His lordship is unwell. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Enter Benito</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Benito</i></td>
+<td>This way, my lord! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exit, followed by Politian.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Retire! Unwell!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Baldazzar</i></td>
+<td>So please you, sir. I fear me<br/>
+'Tis as you say&mdash;his lordship is unwell.<br/>
+The damp air of the evening&mdash;the fatigue<br/>
+Of a long journey&mdash;the&mdash;indeed I had better<br/>
+Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.<br/>
+I will return anon. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Duke</i></td>
+<td>Return anon!<br/>
+Now this is very strange! Castiglione!<br/>
+This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.<br/>
+You surely were mistaken in what you said<br/>
+Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!&mdash;which of us said<br/>
+Politian was a melancholy man? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td>[<i>Exeunt.</i>]</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section5">Poems of Youth</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section5a"></a>Introduction (1831)</h3>
+
+<p>
+<i>Letter to Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+West Point, 1831</i><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+Dear B&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+...<br/>
+<br/>
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition&mdash;that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.<br/>
+<br/>
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to <i>your</i> idea and
+<i>mine</i> of poetry, I feel to be false&mdash;the less poetical the critic,
+the less just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and
+because there are but few B&mdash;&mdash;s in the world, I would be as much
+ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud of your own. Another than
+yourself might here observe,
+
+'Shakespeare is in possession of the
+world's good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It
+appears then that the world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed
+of their favorable judgment?'
+
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation
+of the word 'judgment' or 'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly,
+but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having
+bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not
+originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks
+Shakespeare a great poet&mdash;yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But
+the fool's neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind,
+whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above
+the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his
+every-day actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means
+of which that superiority is ascertained, which <i>but</i> for them
+would never have been discovered&mdash;this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare
+is a great poet&mdash;the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his
+<i>opinion</i>. This neighbor's own opinion has, in like manner, been
+adopted from one above <i>him</i>, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted
+individuals who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the
+master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.<br/>
+<br/>
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire&mdash;an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel&mdash;their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either &mdash;if so&mdash;justly.<br/>
+<br/>
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history&mdash;the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings&mdash;but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;&mdash;therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.<br/>
+<br/>
+"To proceed: <i>ceteris paribus</i>, he who pleases is of more
+importance to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is
+happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is
+merely the means of obtaining.<br/>
+<br/>
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study&mdash;not a
+passion&mdash;it becomes the metaphysician to reason&mdash;but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination&mdash;intellect
+with the passions&mdash;or age with poetry.
+
+"'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;<br/>
+He who would search for pearls must dive below,' 
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought&mdash;not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith&mdash;that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.<br/>
+<br/>
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his
+<i>Biographia Literaria</i>&mdash;professedly his literary life and opinions,
+but, in fact, a treatise <i>de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis</i>. He
+goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a
+natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly
+and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a
+ray&mdash;while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for
+which the star is useful to us below&mdash;its brilliancy and its beauty.<br/>
+<br/>
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe&mdash;for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings&mdash;(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom&mdash;his <i>El
+Dorado</i>)&mdash;but they have the appearance of a better day recollected;
+and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we
+know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of
+the glacier.<br/>
+<br/>
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,&mdash;but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober&mdash;sober that they might not be deficient in formality&mdash;drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)&mdash;'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'&mdash;indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is <i>un</i>worthy to be done, or what
+<i>has</i> been done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking
+of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial,
+and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought
+hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. <i>Tantæne animis?</i> Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this&mdash;this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality&mdash;this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has <i>selected</i> for his contempt. We shall
+see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+"'And now she's at the pony's tail,<br/>
+And now she's at the pony's head,<br/>
+On that side now, and now on this;<br/>
+And, almost stifled with her bliss,<br/>
+A few sad tears does Betty shed....<br/>
+She pats the pony, where or when<br/>
+She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!<br/>
+Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!' 
+
+"Secondly:
+
+"'The dew was falling fast, the&mdash;stars began to blink;<br/>
+I heard a voice: it said,&mdash;"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"<br/>
+And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied<br/>
+A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.<br/>
+No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,<br/>
+And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.' 
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we <i>will</i> believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B&mdash;&mdash;, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+"'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion
+(<i>impossible!</i>) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of
+awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha!
+ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy
+these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha!
+ha! ha! 
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+'<i>J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+nient</i>;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own
+conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is
+lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics,
+and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In
+reading that man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano,
+conscious from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire
+and the light that are weltering below.<br/>
+<br/>
+"What is Poetry?&mdash;Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'<i>Très-volontiers;</i>' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a
+Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B&mdash;&mdash;, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then&mdash;and then think
+of the 'Tempest'&mdash;the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'&mdash; Prospero&mdash;Oberon&mdash;and
+Titania!<br/>
+<br/>
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its <i>immediate</i> object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having,
+for its object, an <i>indefinite</i> instead of a <i>definite</i>
+pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance
+presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with
+<i>in</i>definite sensations, to which end music is an <i>essential</i>,
+since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite
+conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry;
+music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music,
+is prose, from its very definitiveness.<br/>
+<br/>
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?<br/>
+<br/>
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B&mdash;&mdash;, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+"'No Indian prince has to his palace<br/>
+More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5b"></a>Sonnet &mdash; to Science</h3>
+
+<p>
+<b>Science</b>! true daughter of Old Time thou art!<br/>
+Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.<br/>
+Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,<br/>
+Vulture, whose wings are dull realities<br/>
+How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,<br/>
+Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering<br/>
+To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,<br/>
+Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!<br/>
+Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?<br/>
+And driven the Hamadryad from the wood<br/>
+To seek a shelter in some happier star?<br/>
+Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,<br/>
+The Elfin from the green grass, and from me<br/>
+The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829<br/>
+<br/>
+<a href="#section5x">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><a name="section5c"></a>
+Private reasons&mdash;some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems<a href="#f2"><sup>1</sup></a>&mdash;have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed <i>verbatim</i>&mdash;without alteration
+from the original edition&mdash;the date of which is too remote to be
+judiciously acknowledged.&mdash;E. A. P. (1845).<br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f2"></a>Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe that
+he was a copyist of Tennyson.&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#section5c">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="fr11"></a>Al Aaraf<a href="#f11"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<table summary="Al Aaraf" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td>O! nothing earthly save the ray<br/>
+(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,<br/>
+As in those gardens where the day<br/>
+Springs from the gems of Circassy&mdash;<br/>
+O! nothing earthly save the thrill<br/>
+Of melody in woodland rill&mdash;<br/>
+Or (music of the passion-hearted)<br/>
+Joy's voice so peacefully departed<br/>
+That like the murmur in the shell,<br/>
+Its echo dwelleth and will dwell&mdash;<br/>
+O! nothing of the dross of ours&mdash;<br/>
+Yet all the beauty&mdash;all the flowers<br/>
+That list our Love, and deck our bowers&mdash;<br/>
+Adorn yon world afar, afar&mdash;<br/>
+The wandering star.<br/><br/>
+
+'Twas a sweet time for Nesace&mdash;for there<br/>
+Her world lay lolling on the golden air,<br/>
+Near four bright suns&mdash;a temporary rest&mdash;<br/>
+An oasis in desert of the blest.<br/>
+Away away&mdash;'mid seas of rays that roll<br/>
+Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul&mdash;<br/>
+The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)<br/>
+Can struggle to its destin'd eminence&mdash;<br/>
+To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,<br/>
+And late to ours, the favour'd one of God&mdash;<br/>
+But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,<br/>
+She throws aside the sceptre&mdash;leaves the helm,<br/>
+And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,<br/>
+Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.<br/><br/>
+
+Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,<br/>
+Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,<br/>
+(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,<br/>
+Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,<br/>
+It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),<br/>
+She look'd into Infinity&mdash;and knelt.<br/>
+Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled&mdash;<br/>
+Fit emblems of the model of her world&mdash;<br/>
+Seen but in beauty&mdash;not impeding sight&mdash;<br/>
+Of other beauty glittering thro' the light&mdash;<br/>
+A wreath that twined each starry form around,<br/>
+And all the opal'd air in color bound.<br/><br/>
+
+All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed<br/>
+Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head<br/>
+<a name="fr12">On</a> the fair Capo Deucato<a href="#f12"><sup>2</sup></a>, and sprang<br/>
+So eagerly around about to hang<br/>
+Upon the flying footsteps of&mdash;deep pride&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr13">Of</a> her who lov'd a mortal&mdash;and so died<a href="#f13"><sup>3</sup></a>.<br/>
+The Sephalica, budding with young bees,<br/>
+Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:<br/>
+<a name="fr14">And</a> gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd<a href="#f14"><sup>4</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd<br/>
+All other loveliness: its honied dew<br/>
+(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)<br/>
+Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,<br/>
+And fell on gardens of the unforgiven<br/>
+In Trebizond&mdash;and on a sunny flower<br/>
+So like its own above that, to this hour,<br/>
+It still remaineth, torturing the bee<br/>
+With madness, and unwonted reverie:<br/>
+In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf<br/>
+And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief<br/>
+Disconsolate linger&mdash;grief that hangs her head,<br/>
+Repenting follies that full long have fled,<br/>
+Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,<br/>
+Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:<br/>
+Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light<br/>
+She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:<br/>
+<a name="fr15">And</a> Clytia<a href="#f15"><sup>5</sup></a> pondering between many a sun,<br/>
+While pettish tears adown her petals run:<br/>
+<a name="fr16">And</a> that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth<a href="#f16"><sup>6</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,<br/>
+Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing<br/>
+Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:<br/>
+<a name="fr17">And</a> Valisnerian lotus thither flown<a href="#f17"><sup>7</sup></a><br/>
+From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:<br/>
+<a name="fr18">And</a> thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante<a href="#f18"><sup>8</sup></a>! <br/>
+Isola d'oro!&mdash;Fior di Levante!<br/>
+<a name="fr19">And</a> the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever<a href="#f19"><sup>9</sup></a><br/>
+With Indian Cupid down the holy river&mdash;<br/>
+Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given<br/>
+To <a name="fr20">bear</a> the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:<a href="#f20"><sup>10</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+"Spirit! that dwellest where,<br/>
+In the deep sky,<br/>
+The terrible and fair,<br/>
+In beauty vie!<br/>
+Beyond the line of blue&mdash;<br/>
+The boundary of the star<br/>
+Which turneth at the view<br/>
+Of thy barrier and thy bar&mdash;<br/>
+Of the barrier overgone<br/>
+By the comets who were cast<br/>
+From their pride, and from their throne<br/>
+To be drudges till the last&mdash;<br/>
+To be carriers of fire<br/>
+(The red fire of their heart)<br/>
+With speed that may not tire<br/>
+And with pain that shall not part&mdash;<br/>
+Who livest&mdash;<i>that</i> we know&mdash;<br/>
+In Eternity&mdash;we feel&mdash;<br/>
+But the shadow of whose brow<br/>
+What spirit shall reveal?<br/>
+Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,<br/>
+Thy messenger hath known<br/>
+Have dream'd for thy Infinity<br/>
+A <a name="fr21">model</a> of their own<a href="#f21"><sup>11</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+Thy will is done, O God!<br/>
+The star hath ridden high<br/>
+Thro' many a tempest, but she rode<br/>
+Beneath thy burning eye;<br/>
+And here, in thought, to thee&mdash;<br/>
+In thought that can alone<br/>
+Ascend thy empire and so be<br/>
+A partner of thy throne&mdash;<br/>
+By <a name="fr22">winged</a> Fantasy<a href="#f22"><sup>12</sup></a>,<br/>
+My embassy is given,<br/>
+Till secrecy shall knowledge be<br/>
+In the environs of Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+She ceas'd&mdash;and buried then her burning cheek<br/>
+Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek<br/>
+A shelter from the fervor of His eye;<br/>
+For the stars trembled at the Deity.<br/>
+She stirr'd not&mdash;breath'd not&mdash;for a voice was there<br/>
+How solemnly pervading the calm air!<br/>
+A sound of silence on the startled ear<br/>
+Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."<br/>
+Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call<br/>
+"Silence"&mdash;which is the merest word of all.<br/>
+<br/>
+All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things<br/>
+Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings&mdash;<br/>
+But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high<br/>
+The eternal voice of God is passing by,<br/>
+And the red winds are withering in the sky!<br/>
+"<a name="fr23">What</a> tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run<a href="#f23"><sup>13</sup></a>,<br/>
+Link'd to a little system, and one sun&mdash;<br/>
+Where all my love is folly, and the crowd<br/>
+Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,<br/>
+The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath<br/>
+(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)<br/>
+What tho' in worlds which own a single sun<br/>
+The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,<br/>
+Yet thine is my resplendency, so given<br/>
+To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.<br/>
+Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,<br/>
+With all thy train, athwart the moony sky&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr24">Apart</a>&mdash;like fire-flies in Sicilian night<a href="#f24"><sup>14</sup></a>,<br/>
+And wing to other worlds another light!<br/>
+Divulge the secrets of thy embassy<br/>
+To the proud orbs that twinkle&mdash;and so be<br/>
+To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban<br/>
+Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"<br/><br/>
+
+Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,<br/>
+The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight<br/>
+Our faith to one love&mdash;and one moon adore&mdash;<br/>
+The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.<br/>
+As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,<br/>
+Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,<br/>
+And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain<br/>
+Her <a name="fr25">way</a>&mdash;but left not yet her Therasæan reign<a href="#f25"><sup>15</sup></a>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td>High on a mountain of enamell'd head&mdash;<br/>
+Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed<br/>
+Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,<br/>
+Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees<br/>
+With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"<br/>
+What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven&mdash;<br/>
+Of rosy head, that towering far away<br/>
+Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray<br/>
+Of sunken suns at eve&mdash;at noon of night,<br/>
+While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light&mdash;<br/>
+Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile<br/>
+Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,<br/>
+Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile<br/>
+Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,<br/>
+And nursled the young mountain in its lair.<br/>
+Of <a name="fr26">molten</a> stars their pavement, such as fall<a href="#f26"><sup>16</sup></a><br/>
+Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall<br/>
+Of their own dissolution, while they die&mdash;<br/>
+Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.<br/>
+A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,<br/>
+Sat gently on these columns as a crown&mdash;<br/>
+A window of one circular diamond, there,<br/>
+Look'd out above into the purple air<br/>
+And rays from God shot down that meteor chain<br/>
+And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,<br/>
+Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,<br/>
+Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.<br/>
+But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen<br/>
+The dimness of this world: that grayish green<br/>
+That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave <br/>
+Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave&mdash;<br/>
+And every sculptured cherub thereabout<br/>
+That from his marble dwelling peered out,<br/>
+Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche&mdash;<br/>
+Achaian statues in a world so rich?<br/>
+<a name="fr27">Friezes</a> from Tadmor and Persepolis<a href="#f27"><sup>17</sup></a>&mdash;<br/>
+From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss<br/>
+Of <a name="fr28">beautiful</a> Gomorrah! Oh, the wave<a href="#f28"><sup>18</sup></a><br/>
+Is now upon thee&mdash;but too late to save!<br/>
+Sound loves to revel in a summer night:<br/>
+Witness the murmur of the gray twilight<br/>
+<a name="fr29">That</a> stole upon the ear, in Eyraco<a href="#f29"><sup>19</sup></a>,<br/>
+Of many a wild star-gazer long ago&mdash;<br/>
+That stealeth ever on the ear of him<br/>
+Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,<br/>
+And sees the darkness coming as a cloud&mdash;<br/>
+Is <a name="fr30">not</a> its form&mdash;its voice&mdash;most palpable and loud?<a href="#f30"><sup>20</sup></a><br/>
+But what is this?&mdash;it cometh&mdash;and it brings<br/>
+A music with it&mdash;'tis the rush of wings&mdash;<br/>
+A pause&mdash;and then a sweeping, falling strain,<br/>
+And Nesace is in her halls again.<br/>
+From the wild energy of wanton haste<br/>
+Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;<br/>
+The zone that clung around her gentle waist<br/>
+Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.<br/>
+Within the centre of that hall to breathe<br/>
+She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,<br/>
+The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair<br/>
+And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!<br/><br/>
+
+<a name="fr31">Young</a> flowers were whispering in melody<a href="#f31"><sup>21</sup></a><br/>
+To happy flowers that night&mdash;and tree to tree;<br/>
+Fountains were gushing music as they fell<br/>
+In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;<br/>
+Yet silence came upon material things&mdash;<br/>
+Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings&mdash;<br/>
+And sound alone that from the spirit sprang<br/>
+Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:<br/><br/>
+
+"Neath blue-bell or streamer&mdash;<br/>
+Or tufted wild spray<br/>
+That keeps, from the dreamer,<br/>
+<a name="fr32">The</a> moonbeam away&mdash;<a href="#f32"><sup>22</sup></a><br/>
+Bright beings! that ponder,<br/>
+With half-closing eyes,<br/>
+On the stars which your wonder<br/>
+Hath drawn from the skies,<br/>
+Till they glance thro' the shade, and<br/>
+Come down to your brow<br/>
+Like&mdash;eyes of the maiden<br/>
+Who calls on you now&mdash;<br/>
+Arise! from your dreaming<br/>
+In violet bowers,<br/>
+To duty beseeming<br/>
+These star-litten hours&mdash;<br/>
+And shake from your tresses<br/>
+Encumber'd with dew<br/>
+<br/>
+The breath of those kisses<br/>
+That cumber them too&mdash;<br/>
+(O! how, without you, Love!<br/>
+Could angels be blest?)<br/>
+Those kisses of true love<br/>
+That lull'd ye to rest!<br/>
+Up! shake from your wing<br/>
+Each hindering thing:<br/>
+The dew of the night&mdash;<br/>
+It would weigh down your flight;<br/>
+And true love caresses&mdash;<br/>
+O! leave them apart!<br/>
+They are light on the tresses,<br/>
+But lead on the heart.<br/>
+<br/>
+Ligeia! Ligeia!<br/>
+My beautiful one!<br/>
+Whose harshest idea<br/>
+Will to melody run,<br/>
+O! is it thy will<br/>
+On the breezes to toss?<br/>
+Or, capriciously still,<br/>
+<a name="fr33">Like</a> the lone Albatross,<a href="#f33"><sup>23</sup></a><br/>
+Incumbent on night<br/>
+(As she on the air)<br/>
+To keep watch with delight<br/>
+On the harmony there?<br/>
+<br/>
+Ligeia! wherever<br/>
+Thy image may be,<br/>
+No magic shall sever<br/>
+Thy music from thee.<br/>
+Thou hast bound many eyes<br/>
+In a dreamy sleep&mdash;<br/>
+But the strains still arise<br/>
+Which <i>thy</i> vigilance keep&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+The sound of the rain<br/>
+Which leaps down to the flower,<br/>
+And dances again<br/>
+In the rhythm of the shower&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr34">The</a> murmur that springs<a href="#f34"><sup>24</sup></a><br/>
+From the growing of grass<br/>
+Are the music of things&mdash;<br/>
+But are modell'd, alas!<br/>
+Away, then, my dearest,<br/>
+O! hie thee away<br/>
+To springs that lie clearest<br/>
+Beneath the moon-ray&mdash;<br/>
+To lone lake that smiles,<br/>
+In its dream of deep rest,<br/>
+At the many star-isles<br/>
+That enjewel its breast&mdash;<br/>
+Where wild flowers, creeping,<br/>
+Have mingled their shade,<br/>
+On its margin is sleeping<br/>
+Full many a maid&mdash;<br/>
+Some have left the cool glade, and<br/>
+<a name="fr35">Have</a> slept with the bee&mdash;<a href="#f35"><sup>25</sup></a><br/>
+Arouse them, my maiden,<br/>
+On moorland and lea&mdash;<br/>
+<br/>
+Go! breathe on their slumber,<br/>
+All softly in ear,<br/>
+The musical number<br/>
+They slumber'd to hear&mdash;<br/>
+For what can awaken<br/>
+An angel so soon<br/>
+Whose sleep hath been taken<br/>
+Beneath the cold moon,<br/>
+As the spell which no slumber<br/>
+Of witchery may test,<br/>
+The rhythmical number<br/>
+Which lull'd him to rest?"<br/>
+<br/>
+Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,<br/>
+A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',<br/>
+Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight&mdash;<br/>
+Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light<br/>
+That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,<br/>
+O death! from eye of God upon that star;<br/>
+Sweet was that error&mdash;sweeter still that death&mdash;<br/>
+Sweet was that error&mdash;ev'n with <i>us</i> the breath<br/>
+Of Science dims the mirror of our joy&mdash;<br/>
+To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy&mdash;<br/>
+For what (to them) availeth it to know<br/>
+That Truth is Falsehood&mdash;or that Bliss is Woe?<br/>
+Sweet was their death&mdash;with them to die was rife<br/>
+With the last ecstasy of satiate life&mdash;<br/>
+Beyond that death no immortality&mdash;<br/>
+But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"&mdash;<br/>
+And there&mdash;oh! may my weary spirit dwell&mdash;<br/>
+<a name="fr36">Apart</a> from Heaven's Eternity&mdash;and yet how far from Hell!<a href="#f36"><sup>26</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim<br/>
+Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?<br/>
+But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts<br/>
+To those who hear not for their beating hearts.<br/>
+A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover&mdash;<br/>
+O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)<br/>
+Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?<br/>
+<a name="fr37">Unguided</a> Love hath fallen&mdash;'mid "tears of perfect moan."<a href="#f37"><sup>27</sup></a><br/><br/>
+
+He was a goodly spirit&mdash;he who fell:<br/>
+A wanderer by mossy-mantled well&mdash;<br/>
+A gazer on the lights that shine above&mdash;<br/>
+A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:<br/>
+What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,<br/>
+And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair&mdash;<br/>
+And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy<br/>
+To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.<br/>
+The night had found (to him a night of wo)<br/>
+Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo&mdash;<br/>
+Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,<br/>
+And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.<br/>
+Here sate he with his love&mdash;his dark eye bent<br/>
+With eagle gaze along the firmament:<br/>
+Now turn'd it upon her&mdash;but ever then<br/>
+It trembled to the orb of <b>Earth</b> again.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!<br/>
+How lovely 'tis to look so far away!<br/>
+She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve<br/>
+I left her gorgeous halls&mdash;nor mourned to leave,<br/>
+That eve&mdash;that eve&mdash;I should remember well&mdash;<br/>
+The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell<br/>
+On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall<br/>
+Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall&mdash;<br/>
+And on my eyelids&mdash;O, the heavy light!<br/>
+How drowsily it weighed them into night!<br/>
+On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran<br/>
+With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:<br/>
+But O, that light!&mdash;I slumbered&mdash;Death, the while,<br/>
+Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle<br/>
+So softly that no single silken hair<br/>
+Awoke that slept&mdash;or knew that he was there.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon<br/>
+<a name="fr38">Was</a> a proud temple called the Parthenon;<a href="#f38"><sup>28</sup></a><br/>
+More beauty clung around her columned wall<br/>
+<a name="fr39">Then</a> even thy glowing bosom beats withal,<a href="#f39"><sup>29</sup></a><br/>
+And when old Time my wing did disenthral<br/>
+Thence sprang I&mdash;as the eagle from his tower,<br/>
+And years I left behind me in an hour.<br/>
+What time upon her airy bounds I hung,<br/>
+One half the garden of her globe was flung<br/>
+Unrolling as a chart unto my view&mdash;<br/>
+Tenantless cities of the desert too!<br/>
+Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,<br/>
+And half I wished to be again of men."<br/><br/>
+
+"My Angelo! and why of them to be?<br/>
+A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee&mdash;<br/>
+And greener fields than in yon world above,<br/>
+And woman's loveliness&mdash;and passionate love."<br/>
+"But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft<br/>
+<a name="fr40">Failed</a>, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft,<a href="#f40"><sup>30</sup></a><br/>
+Perhaps my brain grew dizzy&mdash;but the world<br/>
+I left so late was into chaos hurled,<br/>
+Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,<br/>
+And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.<br/>
+Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,<br/>
+And fell&mdash;not swiftly as I rose before,<br/>
+But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'<br/>
+Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!<br/>
+Nor long the measure of my falling hours,<br/>
+For nearest of all stars was thine to ours&mdash;<br/>
+Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,<br/>
+A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."<br/><br/>
+
+"We came&mdash;and to thy Earth&mdash;but not to us<br/>
+Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:<br/>
+We came, my love; around, above, below,<br/>
+Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,<br/>
+Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod<br/>
+<i>She</i> grants to us as granted by her God&mdash;<br/>
+But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled<br/>
+Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!<br/>
+Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes<br/>
+Alone could see the phantom in the skies,<br/>
+When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be<br/>
+Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea&mdash;<br/>
+But when its glory swelled upon the sky,<br/>
+As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,<br/>
+We paused before the heritage of men,<br/>
+And thy star trembled&mdash;as doth Beauty then!"<br/><br/>
+
+Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away<br/>
+The night that waned and waned and brought no day.<br/>
+They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts<br/>
+Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1839
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f11"></a>Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens&mdash;attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter&mdash;then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.<br/>
+<a href="#fr11">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f12"></a>Footnote 2: On Santa Maura&mdash;olim Deucadia.<br/>
+<a href="#fr12">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f13"></a>Footnote 3: Sappho.<br/>
+<a href="#fr13">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f14"></a>Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.<br/>
+<a href="#fr14">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f15"></a>Footnote 5: Clytia&mdash;the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol&mdash;which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.&mdash;<i>B. de St. Pierre.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr15">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f16"></a>Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July&mdash;you then perceive it gradually open its petals&mdash;expand
+them&mdash;fade and die.&mdash;<i>St. Pierre</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr16">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f17"></a>Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet&mdash;thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.<br/>
+<a href="#fr17">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f18"></a>Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.<br/>
+<a href="#fr18">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f19"></a>Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.<br/>
+<a href="#fr19">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f20"></a>Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.&mdash;<i>Rev. St. John.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr20">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f21"></a>Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.&mdash;<i>Vide Clarke's Sermons</i>, vol. I, page
+26, fol. edit.<br/>
+<br/>
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.&mdash;<i>Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.&mdash;<i>Vide du
+Pin</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+Dicite sacrorum præesides nemorum Dese, etc.,<br/>
+Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine<br/>
+Natura solers finxit humanum genus?<br/>
+Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,<br/>
+Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+&mdash;And afterwards,
+
+Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit<br/>
+Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.
+<a href="#fr21">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f22"></a>Footnote 12:
+
+Seltsamen Tochter Jovis <br/>
+Seinem Schosskinde<br/>
+Der Phantasie.
+
+<i>Goethe</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr22">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f23"></a>Footnote 13: Sightless&mdash;too small to be seen.&mdash;<i>Legge</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr23">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f24"></a>Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.<br/>
+<a href="#fr24">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f25"></a>Footnote 15: Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.<br/>
+<a href="#fr25">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f26"></a>>Footnote 16:
+
+Some star which, from the ruin'd roof<br/>
+Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr26">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f27"></a>Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+"Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines&mdash;mais un palais
+érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles&mdash;peut-il être un chef
+d'oeuvre des arts!"
+<a href="#fr27">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f28"></a>Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"&mdash;Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five&mdash;Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+&mdash;but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At <i>any</i> season, such remains may be
+discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such
+distance as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space
+now usurped by the "Asphaltites."<br/>
+<a href="#fr28">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f29"></a>Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.<br/>
+<a href="#fr29">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f30"></a>Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.<br/>
+<a href="#fr30">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f31"></a>Footnote 21:
+
+Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+<i>Merry Wives of Windsor</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr31">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f32"></a>Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." 
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.<br/>
+<a href="#fr32">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f33"></a>Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.<br/>
+<a href="#fr33">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f34"></a>Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+"The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+do make when they growe."
+<a href="#fr34">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f35"></a>Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro&mdash;in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+O! were there an island,<br/>
+Tho' ever so wild,<br/>
+Where woman might smile, and<br/>
+No man be beguil'd, etc.
+<a href="#fr35">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f36"></a>Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+Un no rompido sueno&mdash;<br/>
+Un dia puro&mdash;allegre&mdash;libre<br/>
+Quiera&mdash;<br/>
+Libre de amor&mdash;de zelo&mdash;<br/>
+De odio&mdash;de esperanza&mdash;de rezelo.
+
+<i>Luis Ponce de Leon.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.<br/>
+<br/>
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures&mdash;the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.<br/>
+<a href="#fr36">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f37"></a>Footnote 27:
+
+There be tears of perfect moan<br/>
+Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr37">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f38"></a>Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687&mdash;the most elevated spot in Athens.<br/>
+<a href="#fr38">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f39"></a>Footnote 29:
+
+Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows<br/>
+Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+<i>Marlowe.</i><br/>
+<a href="#fr39">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f40"></a>Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.&mdash;<i>Milton</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr40">return</a><br/>
+<a href="#note5c">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5d"></a>Tamerlane</h3>
+
+<p>
+Kind solace in a dying hour!<br/>
+Such, father, is not (now) my theme&mdash;<br/>
+I will not madly deem that power<br/>
+Of Earth may shrive me of the sin<br/>
+Unearthly pride hath revelled in&mdash;<br/>
+I have no time to dote or dream:<br/>
+You call it hope&mdash;that fire of fire!<br/>
+It is but agony of desire:<br/>
+If I <i>can</i> hope&mdash;O God! I can&mdash;<br/>
+Its fount is holier&mdash;more divine&mdash;<br/>
+I would not call thee fool, old man,<br/>
+But such is not a gift of thine.<br/><br/>
+
+Know thou the secret of a spirit<br/>
+Bowed from its wild pride into shame<br/>
+O yearning heart! I did inherit<br/>
+Thy withering portion with the fame,<br/>
+The searing glory which hath shone<br/>
+Amid the Jewels of my throne,<br/>
+Halo of Hell! and with a pain<br/>
+Not Hell shall make me fear again&mdash;<br/>
+O craving heart, for the lost flowers<br/>
+And sunshine of my summer hours!<br/>
+The undying voice of that dead time,<br/>
+With its interminable chime,<br/>
+Rings, in the spirit of a spell,<br/>
+Upon thy emptiness&mdash;a knell.<br/><br/>
+
+I have not always been as now:<br/>
+The fevered diadem on my brow<br/>
+I claimed and won usurpingly&mdash;<br/>
+Hath not the same fierce heirdom given<br/>
+Rome to the Cæsar&mdash;this to me?<br/>
+The heritage of a kingly mind,<br/>
+And a proud spirit which hath striven<br/>
+Triumphantly with human kind.<br/>
+On mountain soil I first drew life:<br/>
+The mists of the Taglay have shed<br/>
+Nightly their dews upon my head,<br/>
+And, I believe, the winged strife<br/>
+And tumult of the headlong air<br/>
+Have nestled in my very hair.<br/><br/>
+
+So late from Heaven&mdash;that dew&mdash;it fell<br/>
+('Mid dreams of an unholy night)<br/>
+Upon me with the touch of Hell,<br/>
+While the red flashing of the light<br/>
+From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,<br/>
+Appeared to my half-closing eye<br/>
+The pageantry of monarchy;<br/>
+And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar<br/>
+Came hurriedly upon me, telling<br/>
+Of human battle, where my voice,<br/>
+My own voice, silly child!&mdash;was swelling<br/>
+(O! how my spirit would rejoice,<br/>
+And leap within me at the cry)<br/>
+The battle-cry of Victory!<br/><br/>
+
+The rain came down upon my head<br/>
+Unsheltered&mdash;and the heavy wind<br/>
+Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.<br/>
+It was but man, I thought, who shed<br/>
+Laurels upon me: and the rush&mdash;<br/>
+The torrent of the chilly air<br/>
+Gurgled within my ear the crush<br/>
+Of empires&mdash;with the captive's prayer&mdash;<br/>
+The hum of suitors&mdash;and the tone<br/>
+Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.<br/><br/>
+
+My passions, from that hapless hour,<br/>
+Usurped a tyranny which men<br/>
+Have deemed since I have reached to power,<br/>
+My innate nature&mdash;be it so:<br/>
+But, father, there lived one who, then,<br/>
+Then&mdash;in my boyhood&mdash;when their fire<br/>
+Burned with a still intenser glow<br/>
+(For passion must, with youth, expire)<br/>
+E'en <i>then</i> who knew this iron heart<br/>
+In woman's weakness had a part.<br/><br/>
+
+I have no words&mdash;alas!&mdash;to tell<br/>
+The loveliness of loving well!<br/>
+Nor would I now attempt to trace<br/>
+The more than beauty of a face<br/>
+Whose lineaments, upon my mind,<br/>
+Are&mdash;shadows on th' unstable wind:<br/>
+Thus I remember having dwelt<br/>
+Some page of early lore upon,<br/>
+With loitering eye, till I have felt<br/>
+The letters&mdash;with their meaning&mdash;melt<br/>
+To fantasies&mdash;with none.<br/><br/>
+
+O, she was worthy of all love!<br/>
+Love as in infancy was mine&mdash;<br/>
+'Twas such as angel minds above<br/>
+Might envy; her young heart the shrine<br/>
+On which my every hope and thought<br/>
+Were incense&mdash;then a goodly gift,<br/>
+For they were childish and upright&mdash;<br/>
+Pure&mdash;as her young example taught:<br/>
+Why did I leave it, and, adrift,<br/>
+Trust to the fire within, for light?<br/><br/>
+
+We grew in age&mdash;and love&mdash;together&mdash;<br/>
+Roaming the forest, and the wild;<br/>
+My breast her shield in wintry weather&mdash;<br/>
+And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.<br/>
+And she would mark the opening skies,<br/>
+<i>I</i> saw no Heaven&mdash;but in her eyes.<br/>
+Young Love's first lesson is&mdash;&mdash;the heart:<br/>
+For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,<br/>
+When, from our little cares apart,<br/>
+And laughing at her girlish wiles,<br/>
+I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,<br/>
+And pour my spirit out in tears&mdash;<br/>
+There was no need to speak the rest&mdash;<br/>
+No need to quiet any fears<br/>
+Of her&mdash;who asked no reason why,<br/>
+But turned on me her quiet eye!<br/><br/>
+
+Yet <i>more</i> than worthy of the love<br/>
+My spirit struggled with, and strove<br/>
+When, on the mountain peak, alone,<br/>
+Ambition lent it a new tone&mdash;<br/>
+I had no being&mdash;but in thee:<br/>
+The world, and all it did contain<br/>
+In the earth&mdash;the air&mdash;the sea&mdash;<br/>
+Its joy&mdash;its little lot of pain<br/>
+That was new pleasure&mdash;the ideal,<br/>
+Dim, vanities of dreams by night&mdash;<br/>
+And dimmer nothings which were real&mdash;<br/>
+(Shadows&mdash;and a more shadowy light!)<br/>
+Parted upon their misty wings,<br/>
+And, so, confusedly, became<br/>
+Thine image and&mdash;a name&mdash;a name!<br/>
+Two separate&mdash;yet most intimate things.<br/><br/>
+
+I was ambitious&mdash;have you known<br/>
+The passion, father? You have not:<br/>
+A cottager, I marked a throne<br/>
+Of half the world as all my own,<br/>
+And murmured at such lowly lot&mdash;<br/>
+But, just like any other dream,<br/>
+Upon the vapor of the dew<br/>
+My own had past, did not the beam<br/>
+Of beauty which did while it thro'<br/>
+The minute&mdash;the hour&mdash;the day&mdash;oppress<br/>
+My mind with double loveliness.<br/><br/>
+
+We walked together on the crown<br/>
+Of a high mountain which looked down<br/>
+Afar from its proud natural towers<br/>
+Of rock and forest, on the hills&mdash;<br/>
+The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers<br/>
+And shouting with a thousand rills.<br/><br/>
+
+I spoke to her of power and pride,<br/>
+But mystically&mdash;in such guise<br/>
+That she might deem it nought beside<br/>
+The moment's converse; in her eyes<br/>
+I read, perhaps too carelessly&mdash;<br/>
+A mingled feeling with my own&mdash;<br/>
+The flush on her bright cheek, to me<br/>
+Seemed to become a queenly throne<br/>
+Too well that I should let it be<br/>
+Light in the wilderness alone.<br/><br/>
+
+I wrapped myself in grandeur then,<br/>
+And donned a visionary crown&mdash;<br/>
+Yet it was not that Fantasy<br/>
+Had thrown her mantle over me&mdash;<br/>
+But that, among the rabble&mdash;men,<br/>
+Lion ambition is chained down&mdash;<br/>
+And crouches to a keeper's hand&mdash;<br/>
+Not so in deserts where the grand&mdash;<br/>
+The wild&mdash;the terrible conspire<br/>
+With their own breath to fan his fire.<br/><br/>
+
+Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!&mdash;<br/>
+Is she not queen of Earth? her pride<br/>
+Above all cities? in her hand<br/>
+Their destinies? in all beside<br/>
+Of glory which the world hath known<br/>
+Stands she not nobly and alone?<br/>
+Falling&mdash;her veriest stepping-stone<br/>
+Shall form the pedestal of a throne&mdash;<br/>
+And who her sovereign? Timour&mdash;he<br/>
+Whom the astonished people saw<br/>
+Striding o'er empires haughtily<br/>
+A diademed outlaw!<br/><br/>
+
+O, human love! thou spirit given,<br/>
+On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!<br/>
+Which fall'st into the soul like rain<br/>
+Upon the Siroc-withered plain,<br/>
+And, failing in thy power to bless,<br/>
+But leav'st the heart a wilderness!<br/>
+Idea! which bindest life around<br/>
+With music of so strange a sound<br/>
+And beauty of so wild a birth&mdash;<br/>
+Farewell! for I have won the Earth.<br/><br/>
+
+When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see<br/>
+No cliff beyond him in the sky,<br/>
+His pinions were bent droopingly&mdash;<br/>
+And homeward turned his softened eye.<br/>
+'Twas sunset: When the sun will part<br/>
+There comes a sullenness of heart<br/>
+To him who still would look upon<br/>
+The glory of the summer sun.<br/>
+That soul will hate the ev'ning mist<br/>
+So often lovely, and will list<br/>
+To the sound of the coming darkness (known<br/>
+To those whose spirits hearken) as one<br/>
+Who, in a dream of night, <i>would</i> fly,<br/>
+But <i>cannot</i>, from a danger nigh.<br/><br/>
+
+What tho' the moon&mdash;tho' the white moon<br/>
+Shed all the splendor of her noon,<br/>
+<i>Her</i> smile is chilly&mdash;and <i>her</i> beam,<br/>
+In that time of dreariness, will seem<br/>
+(So like you gather in your breath)<br/>
+A portrait taken after death.<br/>
+And boyhood is a summer sun<br/>
+Whose waning is the dreariest one&mdash;<br/>
+For all we live to know is known,<br/>
+And all we seek to keep hath flown&mdash;<br/>
+Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall<br/>
+With the noon-day beauty&mdash;which is all.<br/>
+I reached my home&mdash;my home no more&mdash;<br/>
+For all had flown who made it so.<br/>
+I passed from out its mossy door,<br/>
+And, tho' my tread was soft and low,<br/>
+A voice came from the threshold stone<br/>
+Of one whom I had earlier known&mdash;<br/>
+O, I defy thee, Hell, to show<br/>
+On beds of fire that burn below,<br/>
+An humbler heart&mdash;a deeper woe.<br/><br/>
+
+Father, I firmly do believe&mdash;<br/>
+I <i>know</i>&mdash;for Death who comes for me<br/>
+From regions of the blest afar,<br/>
+Where there is nothing to deceive,<br/>
+Hath left his iron gate ajar.<br/>
+And rays of truth you cannot see<br/>
+Are flashing thro' Eternity&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
+I do believe that Eblis hath<br/>
+A snare in every human path&mdash;<br/>
+Else how, when in the holy grove<br/>
+I wandered of the idol, Love,&mdash;<br/>
+Who daily scents his snowy wings<br/>
+With incense of burnt-offerings<br/>
+From the most unpolluted things,<br/>
+Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven<br/>
+Above with trellised rays from Heaven<br/>
+No mote may shun&mdash;no tiniest fly&mdash;<br/>
+The light'ning of his eagle eye&mdash;<br/>
+How was it that Ambition crept,<br/>
+Unseen, amid the revels there,<br/>
+Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt<br/>
+In the tangles of Love's very hair!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829.<br/>
+<br/>
+
+<a href="#note5d">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5e"></a>To Helen</h3>
+
+<p>
+Helen, thy beauty is to me<br/>
+Like those Nicean barks of yore,<br/>
+That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,<br/>
+The weary, wayworn wanderer bore<br/>
+To his own native shore.<br/><br/>
+
+On desperate seas long wont to roam,<br/>
+Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,<br/>
+Thy Naiad airs have brought me home<br/>
+To the glory that was Greece,<br/>
+To the grandeur that was Rome.<br/><br/>
+
+Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,<br/>
+How statue-like I see thee stand,<br/>
+The agate lamp within thy hand!<br/>
+Ah, Psyche, from the regions which<br/>
+Are Holy Land!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831<br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5f"></a>The Valley of Unrest</h3>
+
+<p>
+<i>Once</i> it smiled a silent dell<br/>
+Where the people did not dwell;<br/>
+They had gone unto the wars,<br/>
+Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,<br/>
+Nightly, from their azure towers,<br/>
+To keep watch above the flowers,<br/>
+In the midst of which all day<br/>
+The red sun-light lazily lay,<br/>
+<i>Now</i> each visitor shall confess<br/>
+The sad valley's restlessness.<br/>
+Nothing there is motionless&mdash;<br/>
+Nothing save the airs that brood<br/>
+Over the magic solitude.<br/>
+Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees<br/>
+That palpitate like the chill seas<br/>
+Around the misty Hebrides!<br/>
+Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven<br/>
+That rustle through the unquiet Heaven<br/>
+Unceasingly, from morn till even,<br/>
+Over the violets there that lie<br/>
+In myriad types of the human eye&mdash;<br/>
+Over the lilies that wave<br/>
+And weep above a nameless grave!<br/>
+They wave:&mdash;from out their fragrant tops<br/>
+Eternal dews come down in drops.<br/>
+They weep:&mdash;from off their delicate stems<br/>
+Perennial tears descend in gems.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831<br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5g"></a>Israfel<a href="#f41"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<p>
+In Heaven a spirit doth dwell<br/>
+"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"<br/>
+None sing so wildly well<br/>
+As the angel Israfel,<br/>
+And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),<br/>
+Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell<br/>
+Of his voice, all mute.<br/><br/>
+
+Tottering above<br/>
+In her highest noon,<br/>
+The enamoured Moon<br/>
+Blushes with love,<br/>
+While, to listen, the red levin<br/>
+(With the rapid Pleiads, even,<br/>
+Which were seven),<br/>
+Pauses in Heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+And they say (the starry choir<br/>
+And the other listening things)<br/>
+That Israfeli's fire<br/>
+Is owing to that lyre<br/>
+By which he sits and sings&mdash;<br/>
+The trembling living wire<br/>
+Of those unusual strings.<br/><br/>
+
+But the skies that angel trod,<br/>
+Where deep thoughts are a duty&mdash;<br/>
+Where Love's a grow-up God&mdash;<br/>
+Where the Houri glances are<br/>
+Imbued with all the beauty<br/>
+Which we worship in a star.<br/><br/>
+
+Therefore, thou art not wrong,<br/>
+Israfeli, who despisest<br/>
+An unimpassioned song;<br/>
+To thee the laurels belong,<br/>
+Best bard, because the wisest!<br/>
+Merrily live and long!<br/><br/>
+
+The ecstasies above<br/>
+With thy burning measures suit&mdash;<br/>
+Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,<br/>
+With the fervor of thy lute&mdash;<br/>
+Well may the stars be mute!<br/><br/>
+
+Yes, Heaven is thine; but this<br/>
+Is a world of sweets and sours;<br/>
+Our flowers are merely&mdash;flowers,<br/>
+And the shadow of thy perfect bliss<br/>
+Is the sunshine of ours.<br/><br/>
+
+If I could dwell<br/>
+Where Israfel<br/>
+Hath dwelt, and he where I,<br/>
+He might not sing so wildly well<br/>
+A mortal melody,<br/>
+While a bolder note than this might swell<br/>
+From my lyre within the sky.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1836
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f41"></a>Footnote 1:
+
+And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+<i>Koran</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#section5g">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<a href="#note5e">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5h"></a>To &mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+I heed not that my earthly lot<br/>
+Hath&mdash;little of Earth in it&mdash;<br/>
+That years of love have been forgot<br/>
+In the hatred of a minute:&mdash;<br/>
+I mourn not that the desolate<br/>
+Are happier, sweet, than I,<br/>
+But that <i>you</i> sorrow for <i>my</i> fate<br/>
+Who am a passer-by.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5i"></a>To &mdash;&mdash;</h3>
+
+<p>
+The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see<br/>
+The wantonest singing birds,<br/><br/>
+
+Are lips&mdash;and all thy melody<br/>
+Of lip-begotten words&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined<br/>
+Then desolately fall,<br/>
+O God! on my funereal mind<br/>
+Like starlight on a pall&mdash;<br/><br/>
+
+Thy heart&mdash;<i>thy</i> heart!&mdash;I wake and sigh,<br/>
+And sleep to dream till day<br/><br/>
+
+Of the truth that gold can never buy&mdash;<br/>
+Of the baubles that it may.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5j"></a>To the River</h3>
+
+<p>
+Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow<br/>
+Of crystal, wandering water,<br/>
+Thou art an emblem of the glow<br/>
+Of beauty&mdash;the unhidden heart&mdash;<br/>
+The playful maziness of art<br/>
+In old Alberto's daughter;<br/><br/>
+
+But when within thy wave she looks&mdash;<br/>
+Which glistens then, and trembles&mdash;<br/>
+Why, then, the prettiest of brooks<br/>
+Her worshipper resembles;<br/>
+For in his heart, as in thy stream,<br/>
+Her image deeply lies&mdash;<br/>
+His heart which trembles at the beam<br/>
+Of her soul-searching eyes.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5k"></a>Song</h3>
+
+<p>
+I saw thee on thy bridal day&mdash;<br/>
+When a burning blush came o'er thee,<br/>
+Though happiness around thee lay,<br/>
+The world all love before thee:<br/><br/>
+
+And in thine eye a kindling light<br/>
+(Whatever it might be)<br/>
+Was all on Earth my aching sight<br/>
+Of Loveliness could see.<br/><br/>
+
+That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame&mdash;<br/>
+As such it well may pass&mdash;<br/>
+Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame<br/>
+In the breast of him, alas!<br/><br/>
+
+Who saw thee on that bridal day,<br/>
+When that deep blush <i>would</i> come o'er thee,<br/>
+Though happiness around thee lay,<br/>
+The world all love before thee.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5l"></a>Spirits of the Dead</h3>
+
+<p>
+Thy soul shall find itself alone<br/>
+'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone<br/>
+Not one, of all the crowd, to pry<br/>
+Into thine hour of secrecy.<br/>
+Be silent in that solitude<br/>
+Which is not loneliness&mdash;for then<br/>
+The spirits of the dead who stood<br/>
+In life before thee are again<br/>
+In death around thee&mdash;and their will<br/>
+Shall overshadow thee: be still.<br/>
+The night&mdash;tho' clear&mdash;shall frown&mdash;<br/>
+And the stars shall not look down<br/>
+From their high thrones in the Heaven,<br/>
+With light like Hope to mortals given&mdash;<br/>
+But their red orbs, without beam,<br/>
+To thy weariness shall seem<br/>
+As a burning and a fever<br/>
+Which would cling to thee forever.<br/>
+Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish&mdash;<br/>
+Now are visions ne'er to vanish&mdash;<br/>
+From thy spirit shall they pass<br/>
+No more&mdash;like dew-drops from the grass.<br/>
+The breeze&mdash;the breath of God&mdash;is still&mdash;<br/>
+And the mist upon the hill<br/>
+Shadowy&mdash;shadowy&mdash;yet unbroken,<br/>
+Is a symbol and a token&mdash;<br/>
+How it hangs upon the trees,<br/>
+A mystery of mysteries!<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1837
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5m"></a>A Dream</h3>
+
+<p>
+In visions of the dark night<br/>
+I have dreamed of joy departed&mdash;<br/>
+But a waking dream of life and light<br/>
+Hath left me broken-hearted.<br/>
+Ah! what is not a dream by day<br/>
+To him whose eyes are cast<br/>
+On things around him with a ray<br/>
+Turned back upon the past?<br/>
+That holy dream&mdash;that holy dream,<br/>
+While all the world were chiding,<br/>
+Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,<br/>
+A lonely spirit guiding.<br/>
+What though that light, thro' storm and night,<br/>
+So trembled from afar&mdash;<br/>
+What could there be more purely bright<br/>
+In Truth's day star?<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1837
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5n"></a>Romance</h3>
+
+<p>
+Romance, who loves to nod and sing,<br/>
+With drowsy head and folded wing,<br/>
+Among the green leaves as they shake<br/>
+Far down within some shadowy lake,<br/>
+To me a painted paroquet<br/>
+Hath been&mdash;a most familiar bird&mdash;<br/>
+Taught me my alphabet to say&mdash;<br/>
+To lisp my very earliest word<br/>
+While in the wild wood I did lie,<br/>
+A child&mdash;with a most knowing eye.<br/><br/>
+
+Of late, eternal Condor years<br/>
+So shake the very Heaven on high<br/>
+With tumult as they thunder by,<br/>
+I have no time for idle cares<br/>
+Though gazing on the unquiet sky.<br/>
+And when an hour with calmer wings<br/>
+Its down upon my spirit flings&mdash;<br/>
+That little time with lyre and rhyme<br/>
+To while away&mdash;forbidden things!<br/>
+My heart would feel to be a crime<br/>
+Unless it trembled with the strings.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1829<br/>
+<a href="#note5n">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5o"></a>Fairyland</h3>
+
+<p>
+Dim vales&mdash;and shadowy floods&mdash;<br/>
+And cloudy-looking woods,<br/>
+Whose forms we can't discover<br/>
+For the tears that drip all over<br/>
+Huge moons there wax and wane&mdash;<br/>
+Again&mdash;again&mdash;again&mdash;<br/>
+Every moment of the night&mdash;<br/>
+Forever changing places&mdash;<br/>
+And they put out the star-light<br/>
+With the breath from their pale faces.<br/>
+About twelve by the moon-dial<br/>
+One more filmy than the rest<br/>
+(A kind which, upon trial,<br/>
+They have found to be the best)<br/>
+Comes down&mdash;still down&mdash;and down<br/>
+With its centre on the crown<br/>
+Of a mountain's eminence,<br/>
+While its wide circumference<br/>
+In easy drapery falls<br/>
+Over hamlets, over halls,<br/>
+Wherever they may be&mdash;<br/>
+O'er the strange woods&mdash;o'er the sea&mdash;<br/>
+Over spirits on the wing&mdash;<br/>
+Over every drowsy thing&mdash;<br/>
+And buries them up quite<br/>
+In a labyrinth of light&mdash;<br/>
+And then, how deep!&mdash;O, deep!<br/>
+Is the passion of their sleep.<br/>
+In the morning they arise,<br/>
+And their moony covering<br/>
+Is soaring in the skies,<br/>
+With the tempests as they toss,<br/>
+Like&mdash;almost any thing&mdash;<br/>
+Or a yellow Albatross.<br/>
+They use that moon no more<br/>
+For the same end as before&mdash;<br/>
+Videlicet a tent&mdash;<br/>
+Which I think extravagant:<br/>
+Its atomies, however,<br/>
+Into a shower dissever,<br/>
+Of which those butterflies,<br/>
+Of Earth, who seek the skies,<br/>
+And so come down again<br/>
+(Never-contented thing!)<br/>
+Have brought a specimen<br/>
+Upon their quivering wings.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1831
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5p"></a>The Lake</h3>
+
+<p>
+In spring of youth it was my lot<br/>
+To haunt of the wide world a spot<br/>
+The which I could not love the less&mdash;<br/>
+So lovely was the loneliness<br/>
+Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,<br/>
+And the tall pines that towered around.<br/><br/>
+
+But when the Night had thrown her pall<br/>
+Upon the spot, as upon all,<br/>
+And the mystic wind went by<br/>
+Murmuring in melody&mdash;<br/>
+Then&mdash;ah, then, I would awake<br/>
+To the terror of the lone lake.<br/><br/>
+
+Yet that terror was not fright,<br/>
+But a tremulous delight&mdash;<br/>
+A feeling not the jewelled mine<br/>
+Could teach or bribe me to define&mdash;<br/>
+Nor Love&mdash;although the Love were thine.<br/><br/>
+
+Death was in that poisonous wave,<br/>
+And in its gulf a fitting grave<br/>
+For him who thence could solace bring<br/>
+To his lone imagining&mdash;<br/>
+Whose solitary soul could make<br/>
+An Eden of that dim lake.<br/>
+
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5q"></a>Evening Star</h3>
+
+<p>
+'Twas noontide of summer,<br/>
+And midtime of night,<br/>
+And stars, in their orbits,<br/>
+Shone pale, through the light<br/>
+Of the brighter, cold moon.<br/>
+'Mid planets her slaves,<br/>
+Herself in the Heavens,<br/>
+Her beam on the waves.<br/><br/>
+
+I gazed awhile<br/>
+On her cold smile;<br/>
+Too cold&mdash;too cold for me&mdash;<br/>
+There passed, as a shroud,<br/>
+A fleecy cloud,<br/>
+And I turned away to thee,<br/>
+Proud Evening Star,<br/>
+In thy glory afar<br/>
+And dearer thy beam shall be;<br/>
+For joy to my heart<br/>
+Is the proud part<br/>
+Thou bearest in Heaven at night,<br/>
+And more I admire<br/>
+Thy distant fire,<br/>
+Than that colder, lowly light.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5r"></a>Imitation</h3>
+
+<p>
+A dark unfathomed tide<br/>
+Of interminable pride&mdash;<br/>
+A mystery, and a dream,<br/>
+Should my early life seem;<br/>
+I say that dream was fraught<br/>
+With a wild and waking thought<br/>
+Of beings that have been,<br/>
+Which my spirit hath not seen,<br/>
+Had I let them pass me by,<br/>
+With a dreaming eye!<br/>
+Let none of earth inherit<br/>
+That vision on my spirit;<br/>
+Those thoughts I would control,<br/>
+As a spell upon his soul:<br/>
+For that bright hope at last<br/>
+And that light time have past,<br/>
+And my wordly rest hath gone<br/>
+With a sigh as it passed on:<br/>
+I care not though it perish<br/>
+With a thought I then did cherish.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5s"></a>"The Happiest Day"</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Happiest Day" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">The happiest day&mdash;the happiest hour<br/>
+My seared and blighted heart hath known,<br/>
+The highest hope of pride and power,<br/>
+I feel hath flown. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween<br/>
+But they have vanished long, alas!<br/>
+The visions of my youth have been&mdash;<br/>
+But let them pass. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">And pride, what have I now with thee?<br/>
+Another brow may ev'n inherit<br/>
+The venom thou hast poured on me&mdash;<br/>
+Be still my spirit! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">The happiest day&mdash;the happiest hour<br/>
+Mine eyes shall see&mdash;have ever seen<br/>
+The brightest glance of pride and power<br/>
+I feel have been: </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">But were that hope of pride and power<br/>
+Now offered with the pain<br/>
+Ev'n <i>then</i> I felt&mdash;that brightest hour<br/>
+I would not live again: </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VI</span></td>
+<td align="center">For on its wing was dark alloy<br/>
+And as it fluttered&mdash;fell<br/>
+An essence&mdash;powerful to destroy<br/>
+A soul that knew it well.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5t"></a>Hymn <i>(translation from the Greek</i></h3>
+
+<h4><i>Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius</i></h4>
+
+<table summary="From the Greek" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,<br/>
+Like those champions devoted and brave,<br/>
+When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,<br/>
+And to Athens deliverance gave. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam<br/>
+In the joy breathing isles of the blest;<br/>
+Where the mighty of old have their home&mdash;<br/>
+Where Achilles and Diomed rest. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,<br/>
+Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,<br/>
+When he made at the tutelar shrine<br/>
+A libation of Tyranny's blood. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!<br/>
+Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!<br/>
+Endless ages shall cherish your fame,<br/>
+Embalmed in their echoing songs!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+1827
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5u"></a>Dreams</h3>
+
+<p>
+Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!<br/>
+My spirit not awakening, till the beam<br/>
+Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.<br/>
+Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,<br/>
+'Twere better than the cold reality<br/>
+Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,<br/>
+And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,<br/>
+A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.<br/>
+But should it be&mdash;that dream eternally<br/>
+Continuing&mdash;as dreams have been to me<br/>
+In my young boyhood&mdash;should it thus be given,<br/>
+'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.<br/>
+For I have revelled when the sun was bright<br/>
+I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light<br/>
+And loveliness,&mdash;have left my very heart<br/>
+<a name="fr51">Inclines</a> of my imaginary apart<a href="#f51"><sup>1</sup></a><br/>
+From mine own home, with beings that have been<br/>
+Of mine own thought&mdash;what more could I have seen?<br/>
+'Twas once&mdash;and only once&mdash;and the wild hour<br/>
+From my remembrance shall not pass&mdash;some power<br/>
+Or spell had bound me&mdash;'twas the chilly wind<br/>
+Came o'er me in the night, and left behind<br/>
+Its image on my spirit&mdash;or the moon<br/>
+Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon<br/>
+Too coldly&mdash;or the stars&mdash;howe'er it was<br/>
+That dream was that that night-wind&mdash;let it pass.<br/>
+<i>I have been</i> happy, though in a dream.<br/>
+I have been happy&mdash;and I love the theme:<br/>
+Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life<br/>
+As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife<br/>
+Of semblance with reality which brings<br/>
+To the delirious eye, more lovely things<br/>
+Of Paradise and Love&mdash;and all my own!&mdash;<br/>
+Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f51"></a>Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr51">return</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5v"></a>"In Youth I have Known One"</h3>
+
+<table summary="In Youth I have Known One" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td></td>
+<td align="center"><i>How often we forget all time, when lone<br/>
+Admiring Nature's universal throne;<br/>
+Her woods&mdash;her wilds&mdash;her mountains&mdash;the intense<br/>
+Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!</i></td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">In youth I have known one with whom the Earth<br/>
+In secret communing held&mdash;as he with it,<br/>
+In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:<br/>
+Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit<br/>
+From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth<br/>
+A passionate light such for his spirit was fit&mdash;<br/>
+And yet that spirit knew&mdash;not in the hour<br/>
+Of its own fervor&mdash;what had o'er it power.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought<br/>
+<a name="fr61">To</a> a ferver<a href="#f61"><sup>1</sup></a> by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,<br/>
+But I will half believe that wild light fraught<br/>
+With more of sovereignty than ancient lore<br/>
+Hath ever told&mdash;or is it of a thought<br/>
+The unembodied essence, and no more<br/>
+That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass<br/>
+As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye<br/>
+To the loved object&mdash;so the tear to the lid<br/>
+Will start, which lately slept in apathy?<br/>
+And yet it need not be&mdash;(that object) hid<br/>
+From us in life&mdash;but common&mdash;which doth lie<br/>
+Each hour before us&mdash;but then only bid<br/>
+With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken<br/>
+T' awake us&mdash;'Tis a symbol and a token&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of what in other worlds shall be&mdash;and given<br/>
+In beauty by our God, to those alone<br/>
+Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven<br/>
+Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,<br/>
+That high tone of the spirit which hath striven<br/>
+Though not with Faith&mdash;with godliness&mdash;whose throne<br/>
+With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;<br/>
+Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f61"></a>Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?&mdash;Ed.<br/>
+<a href="#fr61">return</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section5w"></a>A Pæan</h3>
+
+<table summary="A Pæan" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">How shall the burial rite be read?<br/>
+The solemn song be sung?<br/>
+The requiem for the loveliest dead,<br/>
+That ever died so young?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">Her friends are gazing on her,<br/>
+And on her gaudy bier,<br/>
+And weep!&mdash;oh! to dishonor<br/>
+Dead beauty with a tear! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">They loved her for her wealth&mdash;<br/>
+And they hated her for her pride&mdash;<br/>
+But she grew in feeble health,<br/>
+And they <i>love</i> her&mdash;that she died. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">They tell me (while they speak<br/>
+Of her "costly broider'd pall")<br/>
+That my voice is growing weak&mdash;<br/>
+That I should not sing at all&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">Or that my tone should be<br/>
+Tun'd to such solemn song<br/>
+So mournfully&mdash;so mournfully,<br/>
+That the dead may feel no wrong.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VI</span></td>
+<td align="center">But she is gone above,<br/>
+With young Hope at her side,<br/>
+And I am drunk with love<br/>
+Of the dead, who is my bride.&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VII</span></td>
+<td align="center">Of the dead&mdash;dead who lies<br/>
+All perfum'd there,<br/>
+With the death upon her eyes.<br/>
+And the life upon her hair. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VIII</span></td>
+<td align="center">Thus on the coffin loud and long<br/>
+I strike&mdash;the murmur sent<br/>
+Through the gray chambers to my song,<br/>
+Shall be the accompaniment. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">IX</span></td>
+<td align="center">Thou diedst in thy life's June&mdash;<br/>
+But thou didst not die too fair:<br/>
+Thou didst not die too soon,<br/>
+Nor with too calm an air. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">X</span></td>
+<td align="center">From more than friends on earth,<br/>
+Thy life and love are riven,<br/>
+To join the untainted mirth<br/>
+Of more than thrones in heaven.&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">XI</span></td>
+<td align="center">Therefore, to thee this night<br/>
+I will no requiem raise,<br/>
+But waft thee on thy flight,<br/>
+With a Pæan of old days.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section5x">Notes</a></h2>
+
+<p>
+On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+</p>
+
+<h3><a name="note5c"></a>Note on <i>Al Aaraaf</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+Mysterious star!<br/>
+Thou wert my dream<br/>
+All a long summer night&mdash;<br/>
+Be now my theme!<br/>
+By this clear stream,<br/>
+Of thee will I write;<br/>
+Meantime from afar<br/>
+Bathe me in light!<br/><br/>
+
+Thy world has not the dross of ours,<br/>
+Yet all the beauty&mdash;all the flowers<br/>
+That list our love or deck our bowers<br/>
+In dreamy gardens, where do lie<br/>
+Dreamy maidens all the day;<br/>
+While the silver winds of Circassy<br/>
+On violet couches faint away.<br/>
+Little&mdash;oh! little dwells in thee<br/>
+Like unto what on earth we see:<br/>
+Beauty's eye is here the bluest<br/>
+In the falsest and untruest&mdash;<br/>
+On the sweetest air doth float<br/>
+The most sad and solemn note&mdash;<br/>
+If with thee be broken hearts,<br/>
+Joy so peacefully departs,<br/>
+That its echo still doth dwell,<br/>
+Like the murmur in the shell.<br/>
+Thou! thy truest type of grief<br/>
+Is the gently falling leaf&mdash;<br/>
+Thou! thy framing is so holy<br/>
+Sorrow is not melancholy. 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5d"></a>Note on <i>Tamerlane</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5e"></a>Note on <i>To Helen, The Valley of Unrest, Israfel etc.</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+"To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note5n"></a>Note on <i>Romance</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+Succeeding years, too wild for song,<br/>
+Then rolled like tropic storms along,<br/>
+Where, though the garish lights that fly<br/>
+Dying along the troubled sky,<br/>
+Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,<br/>
+The blackness of the general Heaven,<br/>
+That very blackness yet doth fling<br/>
+Light on the lightning's silver wing.<br/><br/>
+
+For being an idle boy lang syne,<br/>
+Who read Anacreon and drank wine,<br/>
+I early found Anacreon rhymes<br/>
+Were almost passionate sometimes&mdash;<br/>
+And by strange alchemy of brain<br/>
+His pleasures always turned to pain&mdash;<br/>
+His naïveté to wild desire&mdash;<br/>
+His wit to love&mdash;his wine to fire&mdash;<br/>
+And so, being young and dipt in folly,<br/>
+I fell in love with melancholy.<br/><br/>
+
+And used to throw my earthly rest<br/>
+And quiet all away in jest&mdash;<br/>
+I could not love except where Death<br/>
+Was mingling his with Beauty's breath&mdash;<br/>
+Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,<br/>
+Were stalking between her and me.<br/><br/>
+
+...<br/><br/>
+
+But <i>now</i> my soul hath too much room&mdash;<br/>
+Gone are the glory and the gloom&mdash;<br/>
+The black hath mellow'd into gray,<br/>
+And all the fires are fading away.<br/><br/>
+
+My draught of passion hath been deep&mdash;<br/>
+I revell'd, and I now would sleep&mdash;<br/>
+And after drunkenness of soul<br/>
+Succeeds the glories of the bowl&mdash;<br/>
+An idle longing night and day<br/>
+To dream my very life away.<br/><br/>
+
+But dreams&mdash;of those who dream as I,<br/>
+Aspiringly, are damned, and die:<br/>
+Yet should I swear I mean alone,<br/>
+By notes so very shrilly blown,<br/>
+To break upon Time's monotone,<br/>
+While yet my vapid joy and grief<br/>
+Are tintless of the yellow leaf&mdash;<br/>
+Why not an imp the greybeard hath,<br/>
+Will shake his shadow in my path&mdash;<br/>
+And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook<br/>
+Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section6">Doubtful Poems</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section6a"></a>Alone</h3>
+
+<p>
+From childhood's hour I have not been<br/>
+As others were&mdash;I have not seen<br/>
+As others saw&mdash;I could not bring<br/>
+My passions from a common spring&mdash;<br/>
+From the same source I have not taken<br/>
+My sorrow&mdash;I could not awaken<br/>
+My heart to joy at the same tone&mdash;<br/>
+And all I loved&mdash;<i>I</i> loved alone&mdash;<br/>
+<i>Thou</i>&mdash;in my childhood&mdash;in the dawn<br/>
+Of a most stormy life&mdash;was drawn<br/>
+From every depth of good and ill<br/>
+The mystery which binds me still&mdash;<br/>
+From the torrent, or the fountain&mdash;<br/>
+From the red cliff of the mountain&mdash;<br/>
+From the sun that round me roll'd<br/>
+In its autumn tint of gold&mdash;<br/>
+From the lightning in the sky<br/>
+As it passed me flying by&mdash;<br/>
+From the thunder and the storm&mdash;<br/>
+And the cloud that took the form<br/>
+(When the rest of Heaven was blue)<br/>
+Of a demon in my view.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+March 17, 1829<br/>
+<a href="#note6a">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6b"></a>To Isadore</h3>
+
+<table summary="From the Greek" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="20">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
+<td align="center">Beneath the vine-clad eaves,<br/>
+Whose shadows fall before<br/>
+Thy lowly cottage door&mdash;<br/>
+Under the lilac's tremulous leaves&mdash;<br/>
+Within thy snowy clasped hand<br/>
+The purple flowers it bore.<br/>
+Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,<br/>
+Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land&mdash;<br/>
+Enchantress of the flowery wand,<br/>
+Most beauteous Isadore!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span></td>
+<td align="center">And when I bade the dream<br/>
+Upon thy spirit flee,<br/>
+Thy violet eyes to me<br/>
+Upturned, did overflowing seem<br/>
+With the deep, untold delight<br/>
+Of Love's serenity;<br/>
+Thy classic brow, like lilies white<br/>
+And pale as the Imperial Night<br/>
+Upon her throne, with stars bedight,<br/>
+Enthralled my soul to thee!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span></td>
+<td align="center">Ah! ever I behold<br/>
+Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,<br/>
+Blue as the languid skies<br/>
+Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;<br/>
+Now strangely clear thine image grows,<br/>
+And olden memories<br/>
+Are startled from their long repose<br/>
+Like shadows on the silent snows<br/>
+When suddenly the night-wind blows<br/>
+Where quiet moonlight lies. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span></td>
+<td align="center">Like music heard in dreams,<br/>
+Like strains of harps unknown,<br/>
+Of birds for ever flown,&mdash;<br/>
+Audible as the voice of streams<br/>
+That murmur in some leafy dell,<br/>
+I hear thy gentlest tone,<br/>
+And Silence cometh with her spell<br/>
+Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,<br/>
+When tremulous in dreams I tell<br/>
+My love to thee alone! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">V</span></td>
+<td align="center">In every valley heard,<br/>
+Floating from tree to tree,<br/>
+Less beautiful to me,<br/>
+The music of the radiant bird,<br/>
+Than artless accents such as thine<br/>
+Whose echoes never flee!<br/>
+Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:&mdash;<br/>
+For uttered in thy tones benign<br/>
+(Enchantress!) this rude name of mine<br/>
+Doth seem a melody! </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<p>
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6c"></a>The Village Street</h3>
+
+<p>
+In these rapid, restless shadows,<br/>
+Once I walked at eventide,<br/>
+When a gentle, silent maiden,<br/>
+Walked in beauty at my side.<br/>
+She alone there walked beside me<br/>
+All in beauty, like a bride.<br/><br/>
+
+Pallidly the moon was shining<br/>
+On the dewy meadows nigh;<br/>
+On the silvery, silent rivers,<br/>
+On the mountains far and high,&mdash;<br/>
+On the ocean's star-lit waters,<br/>
+Where the winds a-weary die.<br/><br/>
+
+Slowly, silently we wandered<br/>
+From the open cottage door,<br/>
+Underneath the elm's long branches<br/>
+To the pavement bending o'er;<br/>
+Underneath the mossy willow<br/>
+And the dying sycamore.<br/><br/>
+
+With the myriad stars in beauty<br/>
+All bedight, the heavens were seen,<br/>
+Radiant hopes were bright around me,<br/>
+Like the light of stars serene;<br/>
+Like the mellow midnight splendor<br/>
+Of the Night's irradiate queen.<br/><br/>
+
+Audibly the elm-leaves whispered<br/>
+Peaceful, pleasant melodies,<br/>
+Like the distant murmured music<br/>
+Of unquiet, lovely seas;<br/>
+While the winds were hushed in slumber<br/>
+In the fragrant flowers and trees.<br/><br/>
+
+Wondrous and unwonted beauty<br/>
+Still adorning all did seem,<br/>
+While I told my love in fables<br/>
+'Neath the willows by the stream;<br/>
+Would the heart have kept unspoken<br/>
+Love that was its rarest dream!<br/><br/>
+
+Instantly away we wandered<br/>
+In the shadowy twilight tide,<br/>
+She, the silent, scornful maiden,<br/>
+Walking calmly at my side,<br/>
+With a step serene and stately,<br/>
+All in beauty, all in pride.<br/><br/>
+
+Vacantly I walked beside her.<br/>
+On the earth mine eyes were cast;<br/>
+Swift and keen there came unto me<br/>
+Bitter memories of the past&mdash;<br/>
+On me, like the rain in Autumn<br/>
+On the dead leaves, cold and fast.<br/><br/>
+
+Underneath the elms we parted,<br/>
+By the lowly cottage door;<br/>
+One brief word alone was uttered&mdash;<br/>
+Never on our lips before;<br/>
+And away I walked forlornly,<br/>
+Broken-hearted evermore.<br/><br/>
+
+Slowly, silently I loitered,<br/>
+Homeward, in the night, alone;<br/>
+Sudden anguish bound my spirit,<br/>
+That my youth had never known;<br/>
+Wild unrest, like that which cometh<br/>
+When the Night's first dream hath flown.<br/><br/>
+
+Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper<br/>
+Mad, discordant melodies,<br/>
+And keen melodies like shadows<br/>
+Haunt the moaning willow trees,<br/>
+And the sycamores with laughter<br/>
+Mock me in the nightly breeze.<br/><br/>
+
+Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight<br/>
+Through the sighing foliage streams;<br/>
+And each morning, midnight shadow,<br/>
+Shadow of my sorrow seems;<br/>
+Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!<br/>
+And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section6d"></a>The Forest Reverie</h3>
+
+<p>
+'Tis said that when<br/>
+The hands of men<br/>
+Tamed this primeval wood,<br/>
+And hoary trees with groans of wo,<br/>
+Like warriors by an unknown foe,<br/>
+Were in their strength subdued,<br/>
+The virgin Earth<br/>
+Gave instant birth<br/>
+To springs that ne'er did flow&mdash;<br/>
+That in the sun<br/>
+Did rivulets run,<br/>
+And all around rare flowers did blow&mdash;<br/>
+The wild rose pale<br/>
+Perfumed the gale,<br/>
+And the queenly lily adown the dale<br/>
+(Whom the sun and the dew<br/>
+And the winds did woo),<br/>
+With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.<br/><br/>
+
+So when in tears<br/>
+The love of years<br/>
+Is wasted like the snow,<br/>
+And the fine fibrils of its life<br/>
+By the rude wrong of instant strife<br/>
+Are broken at a blow&mdash;<br/>
+Within the heart<br/>
+Do springs upstart<br/>
+Of which it doth now know,<br/>
+And strange, sweet dreams,<br/>
+Like silent streams<br/>
+That from new fountains overflow,<br/>
+With the earlier tide<br/>
+Of rivers glide<br/>
+Deep in the heart whose hope has died&mdash;<br/>
+Quenching the fires its ashes hide,&mdash;<br/>
+Its ashes, whence will spring and grow<br/>
+Sweet flowers, ere long,&mdash;<br/>
+The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+<a href="#note6b">Note</a>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section6e">Notes</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="note6a"></a>Note on <i>Alone</i></h3>
+
+<p>
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. <i>Fac-simile</i> copies of this
+piece had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to
+its publication in <i>Scribner's Magazine</i> for September 1875; but as
+proofs of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he
+refrained from publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not
+yet been adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal
+evidence to guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in
+the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829,
+and the <i>fac-simile</i> given in <i>Scribner's</i> is alleged to be of
+his handwriting. If the calligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all
+essential respects from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly
+resembles that of the writer of the heading and dating of the
+manuscript, both of which the contributor of the poem acknowledges to
+have been recently added. The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the
+most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made public, and,
+in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the
+whole of the parentage claimed for them."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="note6b"></a>Note on <i>To Isadore</i> etc.</h3>
+
+<p>
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the <i>Broadway Journal</i>, some lines
+"To Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces,
+bore no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to
+satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared,
+saying they were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in
+the <i>Broadway Journal</i> over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and
+whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In
+order, doubtless, to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing
+some of his known works in his journal over <i>noms de plume</i>, and as
+no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name
+of "A. M. Ide," it is not impossible that the poems now republished in
+this collection may be by the author of "The Raven." Having been
+published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to
+hide his hasty work under an assumed name. The three pieces are included
+in the present collection, so the reader can judge for himself what
+pretensions they possess to be by the author of "The Raven."
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section7">Prose Poems</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section7a"></a>The Island of the Fay</h3>
+
+<p>
+"Nullus enim locus sine genio est."<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Servius</i>.
+
+"<i>La musique</i>," <a name="fr71">says</a> Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"<a href="#f71"><sup>1</sup></a> which
+in all our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as
+if in mockery of their spirit&mdash;"<i>la musique est le seul des talens qui
+jouisse de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins</i>." He here
+confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for
+creating them. No more than any other <i>talent</i>, is that for music
+susceptible of complete enjoyment where there is no second party to
+appreciate its exercise; and it is only in common with other talents
+that it produces <i>effects</i> which may be fully enjoyed in solitude.
+The idea which the <i>raconteur</i> has either failed to entertain
+clearly, or has sacrificed in its expression to his national love of
+<i>point</i>, is doubtless the very tenable one that the higher order of
+music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone.
+The proposition in this form will be admitted at once by those who love
+the lyre for its own sake and for its spiritual uses. But there is one
+pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality, and perhaps only
+one, which owes even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of
+seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of
+natural scenery. In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of
+God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory. To me at least the
+presence, not of human life only, but of life, in any other form than
+that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless, is
+a stain upon the landscape, is at war with the genius of the scene. I
+love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the gray rocks, and the
+waters that silently smile, and the forests that sigh in uneasy
+slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains that look down upon all,&mdash;I
+love to regard these as themselves but the colossal members of one vast
+animate and sentient whole&mdash;a whole whose form (that of the sphere) is
+the most perfect and most inclusive of all; whose path is among
+associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the moon; whose mediate
+sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose thought is that of a
+god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in
+immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own cognizance
+of the <i>animalculæ</i> which infest the brain, a being which we in
+consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the same
+manner as these <i>animalculæ</i> must thus regard us.<br/>
+<br/>
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle&mdash;indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the <i>leading</i> principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In <a name="fr72">short</a>, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation<a href="#f72"><sup>2</sup></a>.<br/>
+<br/>
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed <i>alone.</i> <a name="fr73">What</a> flippant Frenchman<a href="#f73"><sup>3</sup></a> was it who
+said, in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that <i>"la
+solitude est une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que
+la solitude est une belle chose"</i>? The epigram cannot be gainsaid;
+but the necessity is a thing that does not exist.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.<br/>
+<br/>
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.<br/>
+<br/>
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+So blended bank and shadow there,<br/>
+That each seemed pendulous in air&mdash;
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There <a name="fr74">seemed</a> a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings<a href="#f74"><sup>4</sup></a>.<br/>
+<br/>
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and
+attitude&mdash;wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes,
+that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore
+the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung
+droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly
+hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of
+graves, but were not, although over and all about them the rue and the
+rosemary clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water,
+and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the
+element with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended
+lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it
+birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows
+issued momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors
+thus entombed.<br/>
+<br/>
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?&mdash;or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"<br/>
+<br/>
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."<br/>
+<br/>
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at
+each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f71"></a>Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from <i>moeurs</i>, and its meaning
+is "<i>fashionable</i>," or, more strictly, "of manners."<br/>
+<a href="#fr71">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f72"></a>Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+<i>De Sitû Orbis,</i> says,
+
+"Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.
+<a href="#fr72">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f73"></a>Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.<br/>
+<a href="#fr73">return</a><br/>
+<br/>
+<br/>
+<a name="f74"></a>Footnote 4:
+
+"Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera."
+
+<i>P. Commire</i>.<br/>
+<a href="#fr74">return</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7b"></a>The Power of Words</h3>
+
+<table summary="The Power of Words" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with immortality! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of the
+angels freely, that it may be given! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+all, were the curse of a fiend.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But does not The Most High know all? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td><i>That</i> (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the <i>one</i>
+thing unknown even to <b>Him</b>. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not <i>at last</i> all
+things be known? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Look down into the abysmal distances! &mdash;attempt to force the gaze down
+the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+thus&mdash;and thus&mdash;and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?&mdash;the
+walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+appeared to blend into unity?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>There are no dreams in Aidenn&mdash;but it is here whispered that, of this
+infinity of matter, the <i>sole</i> purpose is to afford infinite
+springs at which the soul may allay the thirst <i>to know</i> which is
+forever unquenchable within it&mdash;since to quench it would be to
+extinguish the soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and
+without fear. Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the
+Pleiades, and swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows
+beyond Orion, where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are
+the beds of the triplicate and triple-tinted suns. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!&mdash;speak to me in the
+earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+not God? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>I mean to say that the Deity does not create. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Explain</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+immediate results of the Divine creative power. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+extreme. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>I can comprehend you thus far&mdash;that certain operations of what we term
+Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+to that which has all the <i>appearance</i> of creation. Shortly
+before the final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember,
+many very successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak
+enough to denominate the creation of animalculæ. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+creation, and of the <i>only</i> species of creation which has ever
+been since the first word spoke into existence the first law. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+hourly forth into the heavens&mdash;are not these stars, Agathos, the
+immediate handiwork of the King? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+earth's air, which thenceforward, <i>and forever</i>, was actuated by
+the one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our
+globe well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the
+fluid by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation&mdash;so that
+it became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+of any given impulse were absolutely endless&mdash;and who saw that a
+portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+of algebraic analysis&mdash;who saw, too, the facility of the
+retrogradation&mdash;these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+progress&mdash;that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+understanding&mdash;one to whom the <i>perfection</i> of the algebraic
+analysis lay unfolded&mdash;there could be no difficulty in tracing every
+impulse given the air&mdash;and the ether through the air&mdash;to the remotest
+consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+demonstrable that every such impulse <i>given the air</i>, must <i>in
+the end</i> impress every individual thing that exists <i>within the
+universe;</i>&mdash; and the being of infinite understanding&mdash;the being
+whom we have imagined&mdash;might trace the remote undulations of the
+impulse&mdash;trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+particles of all matter&mdash;upward and onward forever in their
+modifications of old forms&mdash;or, in other words, <i>in their creation
+of new</i>&mdash;until he found them reflected&mdash;unimpressive <i>at
+last</i>&mdash;back from the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such
+a being do this, but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded
+him&mdash;should one of these numberless comets, for example, be presented
+to his inspection&mdash;he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection&mdash;this
+faculty of referring at <i>all</i> epochs, <i>all</i> effects to
+<i>all</i> causes&mdash;is of course the prerogative of the Deity
+alone&mdash;but in every variety of degree, short of the absolute
+perfection, is the power itself exercised by the whole host of the
+Angelic Intelligences.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But you speak merely of impulses upon the air. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether&mdash;which, since it
+pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+<i>creation</i>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+motion is thought &mdash;and the source of all thought is&mdash;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>God.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+lately perished&mdash;of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>You did. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+the <i>physical power of words</i>? Is not every word an impulse on
+the air? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Oinos.</i></td>
+<td>But why, Agathos, do you weep&mdash;and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+we hover above this fair star&mdash;which is the greenest and yet most
+terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+flowers look like a fairy dream &mdash;but its fierce volcanoes like the
+passions of a turbulent heart.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Agathos.</i></td>
+<td>They <i>are</i>!&mdash;they <i>are</i>!&mdash;This wild star &mdash;it is now three
+centuries since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the
+feet of my beloved &mdash;I spoke it&mdash;with a few passionate sentences&mdash;into
+birth. Its brilliant flowers <i>are</i> the dearest of all unfulfilled
+dreams, and its raging volcanoes <i>are</i> the passions of the most
+turbulent and unhallowed of hearts!</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7c"></a>The Colloquy of Monos and Una</h3>
+
+<p>
+<img src="images/PG1.gif" width="149" height="30" alt="Greek: Mellonta sauta'" /><br/>
+<br/>
+These things are in the future.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Sophocles</i>&mdash;<i>Antig</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Colloquy" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>"Born again?" </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+secret. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Death! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>How strangely, sweet <i>Una,</i> you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+upon all pleasures! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una &mdash;mine, mine forever now! </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+begin? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>At what point?</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>You have said. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+the moment of life's cessation&mdash;but commence with that sad, sad
+instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+forefathers&mdash;wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem&mdash;had
+ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+&mdash;principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+Occasionally the poetic intellect&mdash;that intellect which we now feel to
+have been the most exalted of all&mdash;since those truths which to us were
+of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+<i>analogy</i> which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone,
+and to the unaided reason bears no weight&mdash;occasionally did this
+poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague
+idea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of
+the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a
+distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant
+condition of his soul. And these men &mdash;the poets&mdash;living and perishing
+amid the scorn of the "utilitarians"&mdash;of rough pedants, who arrogated
+to themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to
+the scorned&mdash;these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not
+unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple
+than our enjoyments were keen&mdash;days when <i>mirth</i> was a word
+unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness&mdash;holy, august, and
+blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into
+far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these
+noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it
+by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+days. The great "movement" &mdash;that was the cant term&mdash;went on: a
+diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art&mdash;the Arts&mdash; arose supreme,
+and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+in the face of analogy and of God&mdash;in despite of the loud warning
+voice of the laws of <i>gradation</i> so visibly pervading all things
+in Earth and Heaven&mdash;wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+destruction in the perversion of our <i>taste</i>, or rather in the
+blind neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at
+this crisis that taste alone&mdash;that faculty which, holding a middle
+position between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never
+safely have been disregarded&mdash;it was now that taste alone could have
+led us gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the
+pure contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for
+the <img src="images/PG2.gif" width="87" height="30" alt="Greek: mousichae" />  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+education for the soul! <a name="fr81">Alas</a> for him and for it!&mdash;since both were most
+desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised<a href="#f81"><sup>1</sup></a>. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+truly!&mdash;"<i>Que tout notre raisonnement se réduit à céder au
+sentiment;</i>" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+that he must be "<i>born again.</i>"<br/>
+<br/>
+And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+length a fit dwelling-place for man:&mdash;for man the Death-purged&mdash;for
+man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+no more &mdash;for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+but still for the <i>material</i>, man.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Una.</i></td>
+<td>Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Monos.</i></td>
+<td>Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you&mdash;after some
+days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+torpor; and this was termed <i>Death</i> by those who stood around me.<br/>
+<br/>
+Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+being awakened by external disturbances.<br/>
+<br/>
+I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+unusually active, although eccentrically so&mdash;assuming often each
+other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers&mdash;fantastic flowers,
+far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+the balls could not roll in their sockets&mdash;but all objects within the
+range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+<i>sound</i>&mdash; sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+themselves at my side were light or dark in shade &mdash;curved or angular
+in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+was not irregular in action&mdash;estimating real sounds with an
+extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. <i>All</i> my perceptions
+were purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+alone. And this was in truth the <i>Death</i> of which these
+bystanders spoke reverently, in low whispers&mdash;you, sweet Una,
+gaspingly, with loud cries.<br/>
+<br/>
+They attired me for the coffin&mdash;three or four dark figures which
+flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+vision they affected me as <i>forms;</i> but upon passing to my side
+their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.<br/>
+<br/>
+The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+vague uneasiness&mdash;an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+sounds fall continuously within his ear&mdash;low distant bell-tones,
+solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+sentiment itself&mdash; a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+purely sensual pleasure as before.<br/>
+<br/>
+And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+exercise I found a wild delight&mdash;yet a delight still physical,
+inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+<i>that</i> of which no words could convey to the merely human
+intelligence even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental
+pendulous pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract
+idea of <i>Time</i>. By the absolute equalization of this movement&mdash;or
+of such as this&mdash;had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves
+been adjusted. By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock
+upon the mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings
+came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true
+proportion&mdash;and these deviations were omniprevalent&mdash;affected me just
+as violations of abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral
+sense. Although no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the
+individual seconds accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in
+holding steadily in mind the tones, and the respective momentary
+errors of each. And this&mdash;this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment
+of <i>duration</i>&mdash;this sentiment existing (as man could not possibly
+have conceived it to exist) independently of any succession of
+events&mdash;this idea &mdash;this sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of
+the rest, was the first obvious and certain step of the intemporal
+soul upon the threshold of the temporal eternity.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+the deadly <i>Decay</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.<br/>
+<br/>
+And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+flight&mdash;without effort and without object.<br/>
+<br/>
+A year passed. The consciousness of <i>being</i> had grown hourly more
+indistinct, and that of mere <i>locality</i> had in great measure
+usurped its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that
+of <i>place</i>. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had
+been the body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as
+often happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is
+<i>Death</i> imaged) &mdash;at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to
+the deep slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into
+awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams&mdash;so to me, in the
+strict embrace of the <i>Shadow</i>, came <i>that</i> light which
+alone might have had power to startle&mdash;the light of enduring
+<i>Love</i>. Men toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They
+upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the
+coffin of Una. And now again all was void. That nebulous light had
+been extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into
+quiescence. Many <i>lustra</i> had supervened. Dust had returned to
+dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being had at length
+utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead&mdash; instead of all
+things, dominant and perpetual&mdash;the autocrats <i>Place</i> and
+<i>Time.</i> For <i>that</i> which <i>was not</i>&mdash;for that which had
+no form&mdash;for that which had no thought&mdash;for that which had no
+sentience&mdash;for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+portion&mdash;for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates. </td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f81"></a>Footnote 1:
+
+"It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+<i>music</i> for the soul."
+
+<i>Repub</i>. lib. 2.
+
+"For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with <i>beauty</i> and
+making the man <i>beautiful-minded</i>. ... He will praise and admire
+<i>the beautiful</i>, will receive it with joy into his soul, will
+feed upon it, and <i>assimilate his own condition with it</i>."
+
+<i>Ibid</i>. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of <i>music</i> was with
+them, in fact, the general cultivation of the taste&mdash;of that which
+recognizes the beautiful&mdash;in contradistinction from reason, which deals
+only with the true.<br/>
+<a href="#fr81">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7d"></a>The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion</h3>
+
+<p>
+I will bring fire to thee.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Euripides</i>.&mdash;<i>Androm</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<table summary="Conversation" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="10">
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td> Why do you call me Eiros? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too,
+<i>my</i> earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>This is indeed no dream!</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Dreams are with us no more;&mdash;but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>True&mdash;I feel no stupor&mdash;none at all. The wild sickness and the
+terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+of <i>the new</i>.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>A few days will remove all this;&mdash; but I fully understand you, and
+feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+undergo&mdash;yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>In Aidenn? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>In Aidenn.</td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>O God!&mdash;pity me, Charmion!&mdash;I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+things&mdash;of the unknown now known&mdash;of the speculative Future merged in
+the august and certain Present. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward&mdash;but back. I am
+burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+fearfully perished. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>Most fearfully, fearfully!&mdash;this is indeed no dream. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros? </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>Mourned, Charmion?&mdash;oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Charmion.</i></td>
+<td>And that last hour&mdash;speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave&mdash;at that period, if I
+remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+philosophy of the day. </td>
+</tr>
+<tr align="left" valign="top">
+<td><i>Eiros.</i></td>
+<td>The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+accurately known. That among <i>them</i> we should look for the agency
+of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered
+an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late
+days strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a
+few of the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the
+announcement by astronomers of a <i>new</i> comet, yet this
+announcement was generally received with I know not what of agitation
+and mistrust.<br/>
+<br/>
+The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned
+<i>now</i> gave their intellect&mdash;their soul&mdash;to no such points as the
+allaying of fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They
+sought&mdash;they panted for right views. They groaned for perfected
+knowledge. <i>Truth</i> arose in the purity of her strength and
+exceeding majesty, and the wise bowed down and adored.<br/>
+<br/>
+That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+density of the comet's <i>nucleus</i> was far less than that of our
+rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+regard to pestilences and wars&mdash;errors which were wont to prevail upon
+every appearance of a comet&mdash;were now altogether unknown, as if by
+some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+excessive interest.<br/>
+<br/>
+What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.<br/>
+<br/>
+There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+orb any <i>accustomed</i> thoughts. Its <i>historical</i> attributes
+had disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous <i>novelty</i> of
+emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens,
+but as an incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had
+taken, with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle
+of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+vegetable thing.<br/>
+<br/>
+Yet another day&mdash;and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+over all men; and the first sense of <i>pain</i> was the wild signal
+for general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.<br/>
+<br/>
+It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a <i>total
+extraction of the nitrogen</i>? A combustion irresistible,
+all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate;&mdash; the entire fulfilment, in
+all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and
+horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.<br/>
+<br/>
+Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+Meantime a day again passed&mdash;bearing away with it the last shadow of
+Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+of the destroyer was now upon us;&mdash;even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+I speak. Let me be brief&mdash;brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+all things. Then&mdash;let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+majesty of the great God!&mdash;then, there came a shouting and pervading
+sound, as if from the mouth itself of <b>Him</b>; while the whole incumbent
+mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+Thus ended all.</td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7e"></a>Shadow &mdash; a Parable</h3>
+
+<p>
+Yea! though I walk through the valley of the <i>Shadow</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+<i>Psalm of David</i>.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.<br/>
+<br/>
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.<br/>
+<br/>
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets&mdash;but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account&mdash; things material and
+spiritual&mdash;heaviness in the atmosphere&mdash; a sense of
+suffocation&mdash;anxiety&mdash;and, above all, that terrible state of existence
+which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and
+awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight
+hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs&mdash;upon the household furniture&mdash;upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and
+borne down thereby&mdash;all things save only the flames of the seven iron
+lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender
+lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless;
+and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of
+ebony at which we sat each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of
+his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his
+companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way&mdash;which was
+hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon&mdash;which are madness; and drank
+deeply&mdash;although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet
+another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at
+full length he lay, enshrouded;&mdash;the genius and the demon of the scene.
+Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance,
+distorted with the plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half
+extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest
+in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those
+who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the
+departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the
+bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths
+of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of
+the son of Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes,
+rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak,
+and undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow&mdash;a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God&mdash;neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am <b>Shadow</b>, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section7f"></a>Silence &mdash; a Fable</h3>
+
+<p>
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves <i>are
+silent</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"<b>Listen</b> to <i>me</i>," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my
+head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the
+borders of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.<br/>
+<br/>
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.<br/>
+<br/>
+"But there is a boundary to their realm&mdash;the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.<br/>
+<br/>
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head&mdash;and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,&mdash;and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;&mdash;and the characters were <b>Desolation</b>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct&mdash;but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest&mdash;and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man&mdash;and the floods of the river came
+down&mdash;and the river was tormented into foam&mdash;and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds&mdash;and the forest crumbled before the wind&mdash;and
+the thunder rolled &mdash;and the lightning fell&mdash;and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;&mdash;but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.<br/>
+<br/>
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and <i>were still.</i> And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven&mdash;and the thunder died away &mdash;and the lightning did not flash&mdash;and
+the clouds hung motionless&mdash;and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained&mdash;and the trees ceased to rock&mdash;and the water-lilies sighed no
+more&mdash;and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;&mdash;and the characters were
+<b>Silence</b>.<br/>
+<br/>
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were <b>Silence</b>. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."<br/>
+<br/>
+...<br/>
+<br/>
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi&mdash;in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea&mdash;and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona&mdash;but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2><a name="section8">Essays</a></h2>
+
+<h3><a name="section8a"></a>The Poetic Principle</h3>
+
+<p>
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.<br/>
+<br/>
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags&mdash;fails&mdash;a revulsion ensues&mdash;and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.<br/>
+<br/>
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity&mdash;its totality of effect or impression&mdash;we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book&mdash;that is to say,
+commencing with the second&mdash;we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned&mdash;that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity&mdash;and this is precisely the fact.<br/>
+<br/>
+In regard to the <i>Iliad</i>, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+<i>were</i> popular in reality&mdash;which I doubt&mdash;it is at least clear that
+no very long poem will ever be popular again.<br/>
+<br/>
+That the extent of a poetical work is <i>ceteris paribus</i>, the
+measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a
+proposition sufficiently absurd&mdash;yet we are indebted for it to the
+Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere <i>size</i>,
+abstractly considered&mdash;there can be nothing in mere <i>bulk</i>, so far
+as a volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration
+from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere
+sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, <i>does</i> impress us
+with a sense of the sublime&mdash;but no man is impressed after <i>this</i>
+fashion by the material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the
+Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. <i>As
+yet</i>, they have not <i>insisted</i> on our estimating Lamartine by
+the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound&mdash;but what else are we to
+<i>infer</i> from their continual prating about "sustained effort"? If,
+by "sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplished an epic,
+let us frankly commend him for the effort&mdash;if this indeed be a thing
+commendable&mdash; but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's
+account. It is to be hoped thai common sense, in the time to come, will
+prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes&mdash;
+by the effect it produces&mdash;than by the time it took to impress the
+effect, or by the amount of "sustained effort" which had been found
+necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is
+one thing and genius quite another&mdash;nor can all the Quarterlies in
+Christendom confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which
+I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the
+meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be
+essentially damaged as truths.<br/>
+<br/>
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A <i>very</i> short
+poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces
+a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.<br/>
+<br/>
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+I arise from dreams of thee<br/>
+In the first sweet sleep of night<br/>
+When the winds are breathing low,<br/>
+And the stars are shining bright.<br/>
+I arise from dreams of thee,<br/>
+And a spirit in my feet<br/>
+Has led me&mdash;who knows how?&mdash;<br/>
+To thy chamber-window, sweet!<br/><br/>
+
+The wandering airs they faint<br/>
+On the dark the silent stream&mdash;<br/>
+The champak odors fail<br/>
+Like sweet thoughts in a dream;<br/>
+The nightingale's complaint,<br/>
+It dies upon her heart,<br/>
+As I must die on thine,<br/>
+O, beloved as thou art!<br/><br/>
+
+O, lift me from the grass!<br/>
+I die, I faint, I fail!<br/>
+Let thy love in kisses rain<br/>
+On my lips and eyelids pale.<br/>
+My cheek is cold and white, alas!<br/>
+My heart beats loud and fast:<br/>
+O, press it close to thine again,<br/>
+Where it will break at last!
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.<br/>
+<br/>
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+The shadows lay along Broadway,<br/>
+'Twas near the twilight-tide&mdash;<br/>
+And slowly there a lady fair<br/>
+Was walking in her pride.<br/>
+Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly<br/>
+Walk'd spirits at her side.<br/><br/>
+
+Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,<br/>
+And honor charm'd the air;<br/>
+And all astir looked kind on her,<br/>
+And called her good as fair&mdash;<br/>
+For all God ever gave to her<br/>
+She kept with chary care.<br/><br/>
+
+She kept with care her beauties rare<br/>
+From lovers warm and true&mdash;<br/>
+For heart was cold to all but gold,<br/>
+And the rich came not to woo&mdash;<br/>
+But honor'd well her charms to sell,<br/>
+If priests the selling do.<br/><br/>
+
+Now walking there was one more fair&mdash;<br/>
+A slight girl, lily-pale;<br/>
+And she had unseen company<br/>
+To make the spirit quail&mdash;<br/>
+Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,<br/>
+And nothing could avail.<br/><br/>
+
+No mercy now can clear her brow<br/>
+From this world's peace to pray,<br/>
+For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,<br/>
+Her woman's heart gave way!&mdash;<br/>
+But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,<br/>
+By man is cursed alway!
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.<br/>
+<br/>
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of <i>The
+Didactic</i>. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and
+indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem,
+it is said, should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical
+merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have
+patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians very especially have
+developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads that to write a
+poem simply for the poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been
+our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the true
+poetic dignity and force:&mdash;but the simple fact is that would we but
+permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately there
+discover that under the sun there neither exists nor <i>can</i> exist
+any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very
+poem, this poem <i>per se</i>, this poem which is a poem and nothing
+more, this poem written solely for the poem's sake.<br/>
+<br/>
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All <i>that</i> which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all
+<i>that</i> with which <i>she</i> has nothing whatever to do. It is but
+making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In
+enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of
+language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm,
+unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as
+possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. <i>He</i> must be blind
+indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between
+the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be
+theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall
+still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters
+of Poetry and Truth.<br/>
+<br/>
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the <i>offices</i> of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.<br/>
+<br/>
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind&mdash;he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp <i>now</i>, wholly, here on earth, at once and
+forever, those divine and rapturous joys of which <i>through</i> the
+poem, or <i>through</i> the music, we attain to but brief and
+indeterminate glimpses.<br/>
+<br/>
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness&mdash;this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted&mdash;has given to the world all
+<i>that</i> which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to
+understand and <i>to feel</i> as poetic.<br/>
+<br/>
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes&mdash;in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance&mdash;very especially
+in Music&mdash;and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected&mdash;is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles&mdash;the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It <i>may</i> be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in <i>fact.</i> We are often made to feel, with a shivering
+delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which
+<i>cannot</i> have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be
+little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular
+sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The
+old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess&mdash;and
+Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner,
+perfecting them as poems.<br/>
+<br/>
+To recapitulate then:&mdash;I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+<i>The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty.</i> Its sole arbiter is Taste.
+With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral
+relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with
+Duty or with Truth.<br/>
+<br/>
+A few words, however, in explanation. <i>That</i> pleasure which is at
+once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is
+derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the
+contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that
+pleasurable elevation, or excitement <i>of the soul</i>, which we
+recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished
+from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion,
+which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore&mdash;using
+the word as inclusive of the sublime&mdash;I make Beauty the province of the
+poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be
+made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:&mdash;no one as yet
+having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question
+is at least <i>most readily</i> attainable in the poem. It by no means
+follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of
+Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem,
+and with advantage; for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways,
+the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always
+contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is
+the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+The day is done, and the darkness<br/>
+Falls from the wings of Night,<br/>
+As a feather is wafted downward<br/>
+From an eagle in his flight.<br/><br/>
+
+I see the lights of the village<br/>
+Gleam through the rain and the mist,<br/>
+And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,<br/>
+That my soul cannot resist;<br/><br/>
+
+A feeling of sadness and longing,<br/>
+That is not akin to pain,<br/>
+And resembles sorrow only<br/>
+As the mist resembles the rain.<br/><br/>
+
+Come, read to me some poem,<br/>
+Some simple and heartfelt lay,<br/>
+That shall soothe this restless feeling,<br/>
+And banish the thoughts of day.<br/><br/>
+
+Not from the grand old masters,<br/>
+Not from the bards sublime,<br/>
+Whose distant footsteps echo<br/>
+Through the corridors of Time.<br/><br/>
+
+For, like strains of martial music,<br/>
+Their mighty thoughts suggest<br/>
+Life's endless toil and endeavor;<br/>
+And to-night I long for rest.<br/><br/>
+
+Read from some humbler poet,<br/>
+Whose songs gushed from his heart,<br/>
+As showers from the clouds of summer,<br/>
+Or tears from the eyelids start;<br/><br/>
+
+Who through long days of labor,<br/>
+And nights devoid of ease,<br/>
+Still heard in his soul the music<br/>
+Of wonderful melodies.<br/><br/>
+
+Such songs have power to quiet<br/>
+The restless pulse of care,<br/>
+And come like the benediction<br/>
+That follows after prayer.<br/><br/>
+
+Then read from the treasured volume<br/>
+The poem of thy choice,<br/>
+And lend to the rhyme of the poet<br/>
+The beauty of thy voice.<br/><br/>
+
+And the night shall be filled with music,<br/>
+And the cares that infest the day,<br/>
+Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,<br/>
+And as silently steal away.
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+&mdash;the bards sublime,<br/>
+Whose distant footsteps echo<br/>
+Down the corridors of Time. 
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful
+<i>insouciance</i> of its metre, so well in accordance with the
+character of the sentiments, and especially for the <i>ease</i> of the
+general manner. This "ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has
+long been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone&mdash;as a point
+of really difficult attainment. But not so:&mdash;a natural manner is
+difficult only to him who should never meddle with it&mdash;to the unnatural.
+It is but the result of writing with the understanding, or with the
+instinct, that <i>the tone</i>, in composition, should always be that
+which the mass of mankind would adopt&mdash;and must perpetually vary, of
+course, with the occasion. The author who, after the fashion of <i>The
+North American Review</i>, should be upon <i>all</i> occasions merely
+"quiet," must necessarily upon <i>many</i> occasions be simply silly, or
+stupid; and has no more right to be considered "easy" or "natural" than
+a Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+There, through the long, long summer hours,<br/>
+The golden light should lie,<br/>
+And thick young herbs and groups of flowers<br/>
+Stand in their beauty by.<br/>
+The oriole should build and tell<br/>
+His love-tale, close beside my cell;<br/>
+The idle butterfly<br/>
+Should rest him there, and there be heard<br/>
+The housewife-bee and humming bird.<br/><br/>
+
+And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,<br/>
+Come, from the village sent,<br/>
+Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,<br/>
+With fairy laughter blent?<br/>
+And what if, in the evening light,<br/>
+Betrothed lovers walk in sight<br/>
+Of my low monument?<br/>
+I would the lovely scene around<br/>
+Might know no sadder sight nor sound.<br/><br/>
+
+I know, I know I should not see<br/>
+The season's glorious show,<br/>
+Nor would its brightness shine for me;<br/>
+Nor its wild music flow;<br/><br/>
+
+But if, around my place of sleep,<br/>
+The friends I love should come to weep,<br/>
+They might not haste to go.<br/>
+Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,<br/>
+Should keep them lingering by my tomb.<br/><br/>
+
+These to their soften'd hearts should bear<br/>
+The thought of what has been,<br/>
+And speak of one who cannot share<br/>
+The gladness of the scene;<br/>
+Whose part in all the pomp that fills<br/>
+The circuit of the summer hills,<br/>
+Is&mdash;that his grave is green;<br/>
+And deeply would their hearts rejoice<br/>
+To hear again his living voice. 
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous&mdash;nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul&mdash;while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+A feeling of sadness and longing<br/>
+That is not akin to pain,<br/>
+And resembles sorrow only<br/>
+As the mist resembles the rain. 
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+I fill this cup to one made up<br/>
+Of loveliness alone,<br/>
+A woman, of her gentle sex<br/>
+The seeming paragon;<br/>
+To whom the better elements<br/>
+And kindly stars have given<br/>
+A form so fair, that like the air,<br/>
+'Tis less of earth than heaven.<br/><br/>
+
+Her every tone is music's own,<br/>
+Like those of morning birds,<br/>
+And something more than melody<br/>
+Dwells ever in her words;<br/>
+The coinage of her heart are they,<br/>
+And from her lips each flows<br/>
+As one may see the burden'd bee<br/>
+Forth issue from the rose.<br/><br/>
+
+Affections are as thoughts to her,<br/>
+The measures of her hours;<br/>
+Her feelings have the fragrancy,<br/>
+The freshness of young flowers;<br/>
+And lovely passions, changing oft,<br/>
+So fill her, she appears<br/>
+The image of themselves by turns,&mdash;<br/>
+The idol of past years!<br/><br/>
+
+Of her bright face one glance will trace<br/>
+A picture on the brain,<br/>
+And of her voice in echoing hearts<br/>
+A sound must long remain;<br/>
+But memory, such as mine of her,<br/>
+So very much endears,<br/>
+When death is nigh my latest sigh<br/>
+Will not be life's, but hers.<br/><br/>
+
+I fill'd this cup to one made up<br/>
+Of loveliness alone,<br/>
+A woman, of her gentle sex<br/>
+The seeming paragon&mdash;<br/>
+Her health! and would on earth there stood,<br/>
+Some more of such a frame,<br/>
+That life might be all poetry,<br/>
+And weariness a name.
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called <i>The North American Review.</i> The poem just cited
+is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we
+must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon
+his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.<br/>
+<br/>
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the
+<i>merits</i> of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak
+for themselves. Boccalina, in his <i>Advertisements from Parnassus</i>,
+tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon
+a very admirable book:&mdash;whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of
+the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On
+hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him
+pick out <i>all the chaff</i> for his reward.<br/>
+<br/>
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics&mdash;but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly <i>put</i>, to become self-evident.
+It is <i>not</i> excellence if it require to be demonstrated its
+such:&mdash;and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of
+Art, is to admit that they are <i>not</i> merits altogether.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning&mdash;"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the <i>all in all</i> of the divine passion of Love&mdash;a
+sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more
+passionate, human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied
+in words:
+
+Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,<br/>
+Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;<br/>
+Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,<br/>
+And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.<br/><br/>
+
+Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same<br/>
+Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?<br/>
+I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,<br/>
+I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.<br/><br/>
+
+Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,<br/>
+And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,&mdash;<br/>
+Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,<br/>
+And shield thee, and save thee,&mdash;or perish there too!
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy&mdash;a distinction originating with Coleridge&mdash;than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful <i>only.</i> But never was there
+a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true
+poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem
+more profoundly&mdash;more weirdly <i>imaginative,</i> in the best sense,
+than the lines commencing&mdash; "I would I were by that dim lake"&mdash; which
+are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
+remember them.<br/>
+<br/>
+One of the noblest&mdash;and, speaking of Fancy&mdash;one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+O saw ye not fair Ines?<br/>
+She's gone into the West,<br/>
+To dazzle when the sun is down<br/>
+And rob the world of rest<br/>
+She took our daylight with her,<br/>
+The smiles that we love best,<br/>
+With morning blushes on her cheek,<br/>
+And pearls upon her breast.<br/><br/>
+
+O turn again, fair Ines,<br/>
+Before the fall of night,<br/>
+For fear the moon should shine alone,<br/>
+And stars unrivall'd bright;<br/>
+And blessed will the lover be<br/>
+That walks beneath their light,<br/>
+And breathes the love against thy cheek<br/>
+I dare not even write!<br/><br/>
+
+Would I had been, fair Ines,<br/>
+That gallant cavalier,<br/>
+Who rode so gaily by thy side,<br/>
+And whisper'd thee so near!<br/>
+Were there no bonny dames at home,<br/>
+Or no true lovers here,<br/>
+That he should cross the seas to win<br/>
+The dearest of the dear?<br/><br/>
+
+I saw thee, lovely Ines,<br/>
+Descend along the shore,<br/>
+With bands of noble gentlemen,<br/>
+And banners-waved before;<br/>
+And gentle youth and maidens gay,<br/>
+And snowy plumes they wore;<br/>
+It would have been a beauteous dream,<br/>
+If it had been no more!<br/><br/>
+
+Alas, alas, fair Ines,<br/>
+She went away with song,<br/>
+With Music waiting on her steps,<br/>
+And shoutings of the throng;<br/>
+But some were sad and felt no mirth,<br/>
+But only Music's wrong,<br/>
+In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,<br/>
+To her you've loved so long.<br/><br/>
+
+Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,<br/>
+That vessel never bore<br/>
+So fair a lady on its deck,<br/>
+Nor danced so light before,&mdash;<br/>
+Alas for pleasure on the sea,<br/>
+And sorrow on the shore!<br/>
+The smile that blest one lover's heart<br/>
+Has broken many more! 
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,&mdash;one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal&mdash;imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+One more Unfortunate,<br/>
+Weary of breath,<br/>
+Rashly importunate<br/>
+Gone to her death!<br/><br/>
+
+Take her up tenderly,<br/>
+Lift her with care;&mdash;<br/>
+Fashion'd so slenderly,<br/>
+Young and so fair!<br/><br/>
+
+Look at her garments<br/>
+Clinging like cerements;<br/>
+Whilst the wave constantly<br/>
+Drips from her clothing;<br/>
+Take her up instantly,<br/>
+Loving, not loathing.<br/><br/>
+
+Touch her not scornfully<br/>
+Think of her mournfully,<br/>
+Gently and humanly;<br/>
+Not of the stains of her,<br/>
+All that remains of her<br/>
+Now is pure womanly.<br/><br/>
+
+Make no deep scrutiny<br/>
+Into her mutiny<br/>
+Rash and undutiful;<br/>
+Past all dishonor,<br/>
+Death has left on her<br/>
+Only the beautiful.<br/><br/>
+
+Where the lamps quiver<br/>
+So far in the river,<br/>
+With many a light<br/>
+From window and casement,<br/>
+From garret to basement,<br/>
+She stood, with amazement,<br/>
+Houseless by night.<br/><br/>
+
+The bleak wind of March<br/>
+Made her tremble and shiver;<br/>
+But not the dark arch,<br/>
+Or the black flowing river:<br/>
+Mad from life's history,<br/>
+Glad to death's mystery,<br/>
+Swift to be hurl'd&mdash;<br/>
+Anywhere, anywhere<br/>
+Out of the world!<br/><br/>
+
+In she plunged boldly,<br/>
+No matter how coldly<br/>
+The rough river ran,&mdash;<br/>
+Over the brink of it,<br/>
+Picture it,&mdash;think of it,<br/>
+Dissolute Man!<br/>
+Lave in it, drink of it<br/>
+Then, if you can!<br/>
+<br/>
+Still, for all slips of hers,<br/>
+One of Eve's family&mdash;<br/>
+Wipe those poor lips of hers<br/>
+Oozing so clammily,<br/>
+Loop up her tresses<br/>
+Escaped from the comb,<br/>
+Her fair auburn tresses;<br/>
+Whilst wonderment guesses<br/>
+Where was her home?<br/>
+<br/>
+Who was her father?<br/>
+Who was her mother!<br/>
+Had she a sister?<br/>
+Had she a brother?<br/>
+Or was there a dearer one<br/>
+Still, and a nearer one<br/>
+Yet, than all other?<br/>
+<br/>
+Alas! for the rarity<br/>
+Of Christian charity<br/>
+Under the sun!<br/>
+Oh! it was pitiful!<br/>
+Near a whole city full,<br/>
+Home she had none.<br/>
+<br/>
+Sisterly, brotherly,<br/>
+Fatherly, motherly,<br/>
+Feelings had changed:<br/>
+Love, by harsh evidence,<br/>
+Thrown from its eminence;<br/>
+Even God's providence<br/>
+Seeming estranged.<br/>
+<br/>
+Take her up tenderly;<br/>
+Lift her with care;<br/>
+Fashion'd so slenderly,<br/>
+Young, and so fair!<br/>
+Ere her limbs frigidly<br/>
+Stiffen too rigidly,<br/>
+Decently,&mdash;kindly,&mdash;<br/>
+Smooth and compose them;<br/>
+And her eyes, close them,<br/>
+Staring so blindly!<br/>
+<br/>
+Dreadfully staring<br/>
+Through muddy impurity,<br/>
+As when with the daring<br/>
+Last look of despairing<br/>
+Fixed on futurity.<br/>
+<br/>
+Perishing gloomily,<br/>
+Spurred by contumely,<br/>
+Cold inhumanity,<br/>
+Burning insanity,<br/>
+Into her rest,&mdash;<br/>
+Cross her hands humbly,<br/>
+As if praying dumbly,<br/>
+Over her breast!<br/>
+Owning her weakness,<br/>
+Her evil behavior,<br/>
+And leaving, with meekness,<br/>
+Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+Though the day of my destiny's over,<br/>
+And the star of my fate hath declined,<br/>
+Thy soft heart refused to discover<br/>
+The faults which so many could find;<br/>
+Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,<br/>
+It shrunk not to share it with me,<br/>
+And the love which my spirit hath painted<br/>
+It never hath found but in <i>thee.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Then when nature around me is smiling,<br/>
+The last smile which answers to mine,<br/>
+I do not believe it beguiling,<br/>
+Because it reminds me of thine;<br/>
+And when winds are at war with the ocean,<br/>
+As the breasts I believed in with me,<br/>
+If their billows excite an emotion,<br/>
+It is that they bear me from <i>thee.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,<br/>
+And its fragments are sunk in the wave,<br/>
+Though I feel that my soul is delivered<br/>
+To pain&mdash;it shall not be its slave.<br/>
+There is many a pang to pursue me:<br/>
+They may crush, but they shall not contemn&mdash;<br/>
+They may torture, but shall not subdue me&mdash;<br/>
+'Tis of <i>thee</i> that I think&mdash;not of them.<br/>
+<br/>
+Though human, thou didst not deceive me,<br/>
+Though woman, thou didst not forsake,<br/>
+Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,<br/>
+Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,&mdash;<br/>
+Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,<br/>
+Though parted, it was not to fly,<br/>
+Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,<br/>
+Nor mute, that the world might belie.<br/><br/>
+
+Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,<br/>
+Nor the war of the many with one&mdash;<br/>
+If my soul was not fitted to prize it,<br/>
+'Twas folly not sooner to shun:<br/>
+And if dearly that error hath cost me,<br/>
+And more than I once could foresee,<br/>
+I have found that whatever it lost me,<br/>
+It could not deprive me of <i>thee</i>.<br/><br/>
+
+From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,<br/>
+Thus much I at least may recall,<br/>
+It hath taught me that which I most cherished<br/>
+Deserved to be dearest of all:<br/>
+In the desert a fountain is springing,<br/>
+In the wide waste there still is a tree,<br/>
+And a bird in the solitude singing,<br/>
+Which speaks to my spirit of <i>thee</i>.
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.<br/>
+<br/>
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and <i>think</i> him the noblest of
+poets, <i>not</i> because the impressions he produces are at <i>all</i>
+times the most profound&mdash;<i>not</i> because the poetical excitement
+which he induces is at <i>all</i> times the most intense&mdash;but because it
+is at all times the most ethereal&mdash;in other words, the most elevating
+and most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am
+about to read is from his last long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,<br/>
+Tears from the depth of some divine despair<br/>
+Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,<br/>
+In looking on the happy Autumn fields,<br/>
+And thinking of the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,<br/>
+That brings our friends up from the underworld,<br/>
+Sad as the last which reddens over one<br/>
+That sinks with all we love below the verge;<br/>
+So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns<br/>
+The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds<br/>
+To dying ears, when unto dying eyes<br/>
+The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;<br/>
+So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.<br/>
+<br/>
+Dear as remember'd kisses after death,<br/>
+And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd<br/>
+On lips that are for others; deep as love,<br/>
+Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;<br/>
+O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in <i>an elevating excitement of the
+soul</i>, quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of
+the Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For
+in regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary&mdash;Love &mdash;the true, the divine
+Eros&mdash;the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus&mdash;is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her <i>love.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!<br/>
+A sword of metal keene!<br/>
+Al else to noble heartes is drosse&mdash;<br/>
+Al else on earth is meane.<br/>
+The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.<br/>
+The rowleing of the drum,<br/>
+The clangor of the trumpet lowde&mdash;<br/>
+Be soundes from heaven that come.<br/>
+And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,<br/>
+When as their war-cryes welle,<br/>
+May tole from heaven an angel bright,<br/>
+And rowse a fiend from hell,<br/>
+
+Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,<br/>
+And don your helmes amaine,<br/>
+Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call<br/>
+Us to the field againe.<br/>
+No shrewish teares shall fill your eye<br/>
+When the sword-hilt's in our hand,&mdash;<br/>
+Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe<br/>
+For the fayrest of the land;<br/>
+Let piping swaine, and craven wight,<br/>
+Thus weepe and puling crye,<br/>
+Our business is like men to fight,<br/>
+And hero-like to die!
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section8b"></a>The Philosophy of Composition</h3>
+
+<p>
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of <i>Barnaby Rudge</i>,
+says&mdash;"By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his <i>Caleb
+Williams</i> backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of
+difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for the first, cast
+about him for some mode of accounting for what had been done."<br/>
+<br/>
+I cannot think this the <i>precise</i> mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin&mdash;and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea&mdash;but the author of <i>Caleb
+Williams</i> was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage
+derivable from at least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more
+clear than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its
+<i>dénouement</i> before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only
+with the <i>dénouement</i> constantly in view that we can give a plot
+its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, by making the
+incidents, and especially the tone at all points, tend to the
+development of the intention.<br/>
+<br/>
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis&mdash;or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day&mdash;or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative&mdash;-designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.<br/>
+<br/>
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an <i>effect.</i> Keeping
+originality <i>always</i> in view&mdash;for he is false to himself who
+ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source
+of interest&mdash;I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone&mdash;whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone&mdash;afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would&mdash;that is to say, who could&mdash;detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say&mdash;but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers&mdash;poets in especial&mdash;prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy&mdash;an ecstatic intuition&mdash;and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought&mdash;at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment&mdash;at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view&mdash;at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable&mdash;at the cautious selections
+and rejections&mdash;at the painful erasures and interpolations,&mdash;in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary <i>histrio.</i><br/>
+<br/>
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.<br/>
+<br/>
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+<i>desideratum</i>, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest
+in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on
+my part to show the <i>modus operandi</i> by which some one of my own
+works was put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It
+is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition
+is referrible either to accident or intuition&mdash; that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, <i>per se</i>, the
+circumstance&mdash;or say the necessity&mdash;which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing <i>a</i> poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.<br/>
+<br/>
+We commence, then, with this intention.<br/>
+<br/>
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression&mdash;for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, <i>ceteris
+paribus</i>, no poet can afford to dispense with <i>anything</i> that
+may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones&mdash;that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose&mdash;a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, <i>inevitably</i>, with corresponding
+depressions&mdash;the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art&mdash;the limit of a single sitting&mdash;and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+<i>Robinson Crusoe</i> (demanding no unity), this limit may be
+advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a
+poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear
+mathematical relation to its merit&mdash;in other words, to the excitement or
+elevation&mdash;again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical
+effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity
+must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect&mdash;this,
+with one proviso&mdash;that a certain degree of duration is absolutely
+requisite for the production of any effect at all.<br/>
+<br/>
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper
+<i>length</i> for my intended poem&mdash;a length of about one hundred lines.
+It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.<br/>
+<br/>
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+<i>universally</i> appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration&mdash;the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect&mdash;they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of <i>soul</i>
+&mdash;<i>not</i> of intellect, or of heart&mdash;upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes&mdash; that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment&mdash;no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is <i>most readily</i> attained in the
+poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and
+the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although
+attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in
+prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a
+<i>homeliness</i> (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are
+absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the
+excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means
+follows from anything here said that passion, or even truth, may not be
+introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem&mdash;for they may
+serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in
+music, by contrast&mdash;but the true artist will always contrive, first, to
+tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly,
+to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the
+atmosphere and the essence of the poem.<br/>
+<br/>
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+<i>tone</i> of its highest manifestation&mdash;and all experience has shown
+that this tone is one of <i>sadness</i>. Beauty of whatever kind, in its
+supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
+Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.<br/>
+<br/>
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem&mdash;some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects&mdash;or more properly
+<i>points</i>, in the theatrical sense&mdash;I did not fail to perceive
+immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the
+<i>refrain</i>. The universality of its employment sufficed to assure me
+of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to
+analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the <i>refrain</i>, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse,
+but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone&mdash;both in sound
+and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of
+identity&mdash;of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the
+effect, by adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I
+continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to
+produce continuously novel effects, by the variation <i>of the
+application</i> of the <i>refrain</i>&mdash;the <i>refrain</i> itself
+remaining, for the most part, unvaried.<br/>
+<br/>
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the <i>nature</i> of
+my <i>refrain</i>. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it
+was clear that the <i>refrain</i> itself must be brief, for there would
+have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of
+application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of
+the sentence would of course be the facility of the variation. This led
+me at once to a single word as the best <i>refrain</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+The question now arose as to the <i>character</i> of the word. Having
+made up my mind to a <i>refrain</i>, the division of the poem into
+stanzas was of course a corollary, the <i>refrain</i> forming the close
+to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and
+susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these
+considerations inevitably led me to the long <i>o</i> as the most
+sonorous vowel in connection with <i>r</i> as the most producible
+consonant.<br/>
+<br/>
+The sound of the <i>refrain</i> being thus determined, it became
+necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in
+the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had
+predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have
+been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it
+was the very first which presented itself.<br/>
+<br/>
+The next <i>desideratum</i> was a pretext for the continuous use of the
+one word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found
+in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous
+repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely
+from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or
+monotonously spoken by a <i>human</i> being&mdash;I did not fail to perceive,
+in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony
+with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the
+word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a <i>non</i>-reasoning
+creature capable of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first
+instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as
+equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the
+intended <i>tone</i>.<br/>
+<br/>
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+<i>supremeness</i> or perfection at all points, I asked myself&mdash;"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the <i>universal</i> understanding
+of mankind, is the <i>most</i> melancholy?" Death, was the obvious
+reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most
+poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer
+here also is obvious&mdash;"When it most closely allies itself to
+<i>Beauty</i>; the death, then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably
+the most poetical topic in the world, and equally is it beyond doubt
+that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."<br/>
+<br/>
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+<i>application</i> of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode
+of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the <i>variation of application</i>. I saw
+that I could make the first query propounded by the lover&mdash;the first
+query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"&mdash;that I could make
+this first query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still
+less, and so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+<i>nonchalance</i> by the melancholy character of the word itself, by
+its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous
+reputation of the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to
+superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different
+character&mdash;queries whose solution he has passionately at
+heart&mdash;propounds them half in superstition and half in that species of
+despair which delights in self-torture&mdash;propounds them not altogether
+because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird
+(which reason assures him is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote),
+but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his
+questions as to receive from the <i>expected</i> "Nevermore" the most
+delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the
+opportunity thus afforded me, or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in
+the progress of the construction, I first established in mind the climax
+or concluding query&mdash;that query to which "Nevermore" should be in the
+last place an answer&mdash;that query in reply to which this word "Nevermore"
+should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.<br/>
+<br/>
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!<br/>
+By that heaven that bends above us&mdash;by that God we both adore,<br/>
+Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,<br/>
+It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;<br/>
+Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.<br/>
+<br/>
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+<i>rhythm</i>, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre
+and stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for <i>centuries, no man,
+in verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing</i>. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.<br/>
+<br/>
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic&mdash;the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+<i>refrain</i> of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their <i>combinations into stanzas;</i> nothing
+even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.<br/>
+<br/>
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven&mdash;and the first branch of this consideration was the
+<i>locale</i>. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields&mdash;but it has always appeared to me that a close
+<i>circumscription of space</i> is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident&mdash;it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.<br/>
+<br/>
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber &mdash;in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished&mdash;this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.<br/>
+<br/>
+The <i>locale</i> being thus determined, I had now to introduce the
+bird&mdash;and the thought of introducing him through the window was
+inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance,
+that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a
+"tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging,
+the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect
+arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and
+thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress
+that knocked.<br/>
+<br/>
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.<br/>
+<br/>
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage&mdash;it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely <i>suggested</i> by the bird&mdash;the bust of
+<i>Pallas</i> being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the
+scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the
+word, Pallas, itself.<br/>
+<br/>
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic&mdash;approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible&mdash;is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+Not the <i>least obeisance made he</i>&mdash;not a moment stopped or stayed he,<br/>
+<i>But with mien of lord or lady</i>, perched above my chamber door.
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+Then this ebony bird beguiling my <i>sad fancy</i> into smiling<br/>
+By the <i>grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore</i>,<br/>
+"Though thy <i>crest be shorn and shaven</i>, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,<br/>
+Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore&mdash;<br/>
+Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore? "<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/><br/>
+
+Much I marvelled <i>this ungainly fowl</i> to hear discourse so plainly,<br/>
+Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;<br/>
+For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being<br/>
+<i>Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;<br/>
+Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door</i>,<br/>
+With such name as "Nevermore." 
+
+The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness&mdash;this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc. 
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests&mdash;no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader&mdash;to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the <i>dénouement</i>&mdash;which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+<i>directly</i> as possible.<br/>
+<br/>
+With the <i>dénouement</i> proper&mdash;with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore,"
+to the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world&mdash;the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable&mdash;of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams&mdash;the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"&mdash;a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.<br/>
+<br/>
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required&mdash;first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that <i>richness</i> (to borrow from colloquy a forcible
+term) which we are too fond of confounding with <i>the ideal</i>.
+It is the <i>excess</i> of the suggested meaning&mdash;it is the rendering
+this the upper instead of the under current of theme&mdash;which turns into
+prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the
+so-called transcendentalists.<br/>
+<br/>
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem&mdash;their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"<br/>
+Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical&mdash;but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of <i>Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance</i> is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting<br/>
+On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;<br/>
+And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,<br/>
+And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br/>
+And my soul <i>from out that shadow</i> that lies floating on the floor<br/>
+Shall be lifted&mdash;nevermore! 
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h3><a name="section8c"></a>Old English Poetry<a href="#f91"><span style="font-size: 70%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
+
+<p>
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry&mdash;we mean to the simple
+love of the antique&mdash;and that, again, a third of even the proper
+<i>poetic sentiment</i> inspired by their writings, should be ascribed
+to a fact which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the
+abstract, and with the old British poems themselves, should not be
+looked upon as a merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost
+every devout admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their
+productions, would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense
+of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable
+delight; on being required to point out the source of this so shadowy
+pleasure, he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in
+general handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct
+to ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+<i>now</i>&mdash;we mean it only as against the poets <i>then</i>. There is a
+growing desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank,
+guileless, sincere and although very learned, still learned without art.
+No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the
+error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein
+Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the
+end&mdash;with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished,
+by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral
+truth&mdash;the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment
+through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete
+failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a
+path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph
+which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of
+the multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley
+is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And
+he was in this but a type of his <i>school</i>&mdash;for we may as well
+designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound
+up in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul&mdash;and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this <i>abandon</i>&mdash;to elevate immeasurably all the energies of
+mind&mdash;but, again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force,
+delicacy, and all good things, with the lowest possible bathos,
+baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a matter of doubt that the
+average results of mind in such a school will be found inferior to those
+results in one (<i>ceteris paribus</i>) more artificial.<br/>
+<br/>
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the <i>school</i>&mdash;but if the intention had been
+merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have been
+considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now
+before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond
+that of their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not
+particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not
+to be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses
+on the Queen of Bohemia"&mdash;that "there are few finer things in our
+language," is untenable and absurd.<br/>
+<br/>
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.<br/>
+<br/>
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers&mdash;a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of <i>Il Penseroso</i>. Speaking of Poesy,
+the author says:
+
+"By the murmur of a spring,<br/>
+Or the least boughs rustleling,<br/>
+By a daisy whose leaves spread,<br/>
+Shut when Titan goes to bed,<br/>
+Or a shady bush or tree,<br/>
+She could more infuse in me<br/>
+Than all Nature's beauties con<br/>
+In some other wiser man.<br/>
+By her help I also now<br/>
+Make this churlish place allow<br/>
+Something that may sweeten gladness<br/>
+In the very gall of sadness&mdash;<br/>
+The dull loneness, the black shade,<br/>
+That these hanging vaults have made<br/>
+The strange music of the waves<br/>
+Beating on these hollow caves,<br/>
+This black den which rocks emboss,<br/>
+Overgrown with eldest moss,<br/>
+The rude portals that give light<br/>
+More to terror than delight,<br/>
+This my chamber of neglect<br/>
+Walled about with disrespect;<br/>
+From all these and this dull air<br/>
+A fit object for despair,<br/>
+She hath taught me by her might<br/>
+To draw comfort and delight."
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer&mdash;not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness&mdash;to anything
+of its species:
+
+"It is a wondrous thing how fleet<br/>
+'Twas on those little silver feet,<br/>
+With what a pretty skipping grace<br/>
+It oft would challenge me the race,<br/>
+And when't had left me far away<br/>
+'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;<br/>
+For it was nimbler much than hinds,<br/>
+And trod as if on the four winds.<br/>
+I have a garden of my own,<br/>
+But so with roses overgrown,<br/>
+And lilies, that you would it guess<br/>
+To be a little wilderness;<br/>
+And all the spring-time of the year<br/>
+It only loved to be there.<br/>
+Among the beds of lilies I<br/>
+Have sought it oft where it should lie,<br/>
+Yet could not, till itself would rise,<br/>
+Find it, although before mine eyes.<br/>
+For in the flaxen lilies shade<br/>
+It like a bank of lilies laid;<br/>
+Upon the roses it would feed<br/>
+Until its lips even seemed to bleed,<br/>
+And then to me 'twould boldly trip,<br/>
+And print those roses on my lip,<br/>
+But all its chief delight was still<br/>
+With roses thus itself to fill,<br/>
+And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br/>
+In whitest sheets of lilies cold,<br/>
+Had it lived long, it would have been<br/>
+Lilies without, roses within."
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words&mdash;over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself&mdash;even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite&mdash;like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and <i>appropriateness</i> of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted&mdash;the <i>wonder</i> of the little maiden at
+the fleetness of her favorite&mdash;the "little silver feet"&mdash;the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again&mdash;can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+"And trod as if on the four winds!" 
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"&mdash;the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"&mdash;the maiden seeking it "where it <i>should</i> lie"&mdash;and
+not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"&mdash;the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"&mdash;the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+"And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br/>
+In whitest sheets of lilies cold," 
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights&mdash;and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+"Had it lived long, it would have been<br/>
+Lilies without, roses within."<br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<a name="f91"></a>Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.<br/>
+<a href="#section8c">return to footnote mark</a><br/>
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works
+by Edgar Allan Poe
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works
+
+Author: Edgar Allan Poe
+
+Release Date: November 10, 2003 [EBook #10031]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Clytie Siddall, Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+                                      THE
+
+
+                            COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
+
+
+                                       OF
+
+
+                                EDGAR ALLAN POE
+
+
+
+
+                               BY JOHN H. INGRAM
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
+published at New York in 1850.
+
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+MEMOIR
+
+POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
+  Dedication
+  Preface
+  The Raven
+  The Bells
+  Ulalume
+  To Helen
+  Annabel Lee
+  A Valentine
+  An Enigma
+  To my Mother
+  For Annie
+  To F----
+  To Frances S. Osgood
+  Eldorado
+  Eulalie
+  A Dream within a Dream
+  To Marie Louise (Shew)
+  To the Same
+  The City in the Sea
+  The Sleeper,
+  Bridal Ballad
+Notes
+
+POEMS OF MANHOOD:
+  Lenore
+  To one in Paradise
+  The Coliseum
+  The Haunted Palace
+  The Conqueror Worm
+  Silence
+  Dreamland
+  To Zante
+  Hymn
+Notes
+
+SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
+Note
+
+POEMS OF YOUTH:
+  Introduction (1831)
+  To Science
+  Al Aaraaf
+  Tamerlane
+  To Helen
+  The Valley of Unrest
+  Israfel
+  To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
+  To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
+  To the River----
+  Song
+  Spirits of the Dead
+  A Dream
+  Romance
+  Fairyland
+  The Lake
+  Evening Star
+  Imitation
+  "The Happiest Day,"
+  Hymn. Translation from the Greek
+  Dreams
+  "In Youth I have known one"
+  A Pæan
+Notes
+
+DOUBTFUL POEMS:
+  Alone
+  To Isadore
+  The Village Street
+  The Forest Reverie
+Notes
+
+PROSE POEMS:
+  The Island of the Fay
+  The Power of Words
+  The Colloquy of Monos and Una
+  The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
+  Shadow--A Parable
+  Silence--A Fable
+
+ESSAYS:
+  The Poetic Principle
+  The Philosophy of Composition
+  Old English Poetry
+
+
+
+
+
+MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
+
+
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
+through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
+author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
+schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
+irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
+destruction a few years ago.
+
+The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says,
+
+  "The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
+  to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
+  bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
+  perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
+  intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
+  involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
+  universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
+  spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siècle de fer!'"_
+
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+
+  "In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+  not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
+
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+
+  "a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+  with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+  school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+  secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+  lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+  exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+  but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+  to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+  proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+
+  "A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+  between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+  champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+  Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+  occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+  Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+  fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+  golden apples."
+
+  "In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+  among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+  fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+  as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+  profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+  more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+  in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+  time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+  level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+
+  "Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+  repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+  of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+  the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+  complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+  have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+  recitation:
+
+    _'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
+    Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
+
+  And
+
+    _'Non ebur neque aureum
+    Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
+
+  "I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+  all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+  favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+  Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+  capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+  impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+  exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+  I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+  aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+  its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+  the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+  had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+  had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+  bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+  boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+  it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+
+  "While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+  to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+  the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+  his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+  so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+  of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+  He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+ --to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+  desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+  the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+  of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+  that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+  passionate youth."
+
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Pæan," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
+loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
+thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
+in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
+again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
+recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+
+  "He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
+  lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
+  of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
+  deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
+  his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
+  at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
+  time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
+  in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
+  regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
+  and have been entitled to diplomas."
+
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+
+  "I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
+  was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
+  melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
+  to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
+  sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
+  or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
+  same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
+  the others more as a task than sport."
+
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+
+
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+
+  "As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
+  at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
+  circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
+  invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
+  December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
+  some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
+  up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
+  I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
+  regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
+  had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
+  estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
+  debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
+  bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
+
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
+enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his 'protégé's' collegiate career with equal
+pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
+successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
+like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
+took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
+shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
+moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
+paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
+ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
+periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
+and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
+to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
+salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
+goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
+desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
+of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
+procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
+irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
+'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
+Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
+merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
+remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
+nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
+rapidly passed through.
+
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
+few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
+editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
+was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
+conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
+was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+
+Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
+columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
+some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
+publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
+it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une espèce de
+trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
+of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
+were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
+avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
+of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
+follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
+Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
+as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
+innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
+the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
+enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
+popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
+attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
+construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
+
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
+and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
+world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
+and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
+drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
+
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+
+  "You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
+  caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
+  than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
+  years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
+  blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
+  her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
+  partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
+  again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
+  and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
+  agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
+  her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
+  But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
+  I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
+  fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
+  how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
+  the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
+  abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
+  _death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
+  the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
+  could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
+
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
+owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
+happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
+became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
+terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
+reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
+Harris's reminiscences.
+
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+
+  "It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
+  evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
+  hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
+  the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
+  surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+  almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
+  lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+  little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+  her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+  sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+  him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
+  her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+
+  "would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
+  the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
+  way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
+  at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
+
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
+the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
+life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
+New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
+latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
+it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
+
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
+
+  "employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
+  resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
+  but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
+  evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
+  genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
+  irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
+  attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
+  difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
+  industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
+  reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
+  to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
+  taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
+  his employment with us."
+
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
+The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
+single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
+more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
+together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
+existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
+and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
+delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
+read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
+Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
+his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
+merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
+rules.
+
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+
+Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
+Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
+prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
+but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
+labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
+unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
+quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
+the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
+having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
+moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
+himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
+
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+
+  "Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
+  bore--
+  Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
+  Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                          POEMS OF LATER LIFE
+
+
+
+
+                                   TO
+
+                        THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
+                            TO THE AUTHOR OF
+                         "THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
+
+                                   TO
+
+                     MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
+
+                                OF ENGLAND,
+
+                          I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
+
+                WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
+                      WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
+
+                1845                                E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.
+
+1845. E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RAVEN.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
+          Only this and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+          Nameless here for evermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
+  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+      This it is and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
+        Darkness there and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
+    fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
+        Merely this and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
+  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
+      'Tis the wind and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
+  Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+      Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+        With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+        Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
+  Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
+      Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
+    door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+      Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
+        _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
+    sent thee
+  Respite--respite aad nepenthé from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthé, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
+  Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+    upstarting--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+      Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+Published, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BELLS,
+
+
+I.
+
+  Hear the sledges with the bells--
+  Silver bells!
+  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
+  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
+  In their icy air of night!
+  While the stars, that oversprinkle
+  All the heavens, seem to twinkle
+  With a crystalline delight;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
+  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+
+II.
+
+  Hear the mellow wedding bells,
+  Golden bells!
+  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
+  Through the balmy air of night
+  How they ring out their delight!
+  From the molten golden-notes,
+  And all in tune,
+  What a liquid ditty floats
+  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
+  On the moon!
+  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
+  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
+  How it swells!
+  How it dwells
+  On the future! how it tells
+  Of the rapture that impels
+  To the swinging and the ringing
+  Of the bells, bells, bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Hear the loud alarum bells--
+  Brazen bells!
+  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
+  In the startled ear of night
+  How they scream out their affright!
+  Too much horrified to speak,
+  They can only shriek, shriek,
+  Out of tune,
+  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
+  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
+  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
+  With a desperate desire,
+  And a resolute endeavor
+  Now--now to sit or never,
+  By the side of the pale-faced moon.
+  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
+  What a tale their terror tells
+  Of Despair!
+  How they clang, and clash, and roar!
+  What a horror they outpour
+  On the bosom of the palpitating air!
+  Yet the ear it fully knows,
+  By the twanging,
+  And the clanging,
+  How the danger ebbs and flows;
+  Yet the ear distinctly tells,
+  In the jangling,
+  And the wrangling,
+  How the danger sinks and swells,
+  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
+  Of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Hear the tolling of the bells--
+  Iron bells!
+  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
+  In the silence of the night,
+  How we shiver with affright
+  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
+  For every sound that floats
+  From the rust within their throats
+     Is a groan.
+  And the people--ah, the people--
+  They that dwell up in the steeple.
+      All alone,
+  And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
+    In that muffled monotone,
+  Feel a glory in so rolling
+    On the human heart a stone--
+  They are neither man nor woman--
+  They are neither brute nor human--
+      They are Ghouls:
+  And their king it is who tolls;
+  And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
+           Rolls
+  A pæan from the bells!
+  And his merry bosom swells
+  With the pæan of the bells!
+  And he dances, and he yells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the pæan of the bells--
+      Of the bells:
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+    To the throbbing of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+    To the sobbing of the bells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+    As he knells, knells, knells,
+  In a happy Runic rhyme,
+  To the rolling of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+  To the tolling of the bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+    Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
+
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ULALUME.
+
+
+  The skies they were ashen and sober;
+    The leaves they were crisped and sere--
+    The leaves they were withering and sere;
+  It was night in the lonesome October
+    Of my most immemorial year;
+  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+    In the misty mid region of Weir--
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+    In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  Here once, through an alley Titanic.
+    Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
+    Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
+  These were days when my heart was volcanic
+    As the scoriac rivers that roll--
+    As the lavas that restlessly roll
+  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
+    In the ultimate climes of the pole--
+  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
+    In the realms of the boreal pole.
+
+  Our talk had been serious and sober,
+    But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
+    Our memories were treacherous and sere--
+  For we knew not the month was October,
+  And we marked not the night of the year--
+    (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
+  We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
+    (Though once we had journeyed down here)--
+  Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
+    Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  And now as the night was senescent
+    And star-dials pointed to morn--
+    As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
+  At the end of our path a liquescent
+    And nebulous lustre was born,
+  Out of which a miraculous crescent
+    Arose with a duplicate horn--
+  Astarte's bediamonded crescent
+    Distinct with its duplicate horn.
+
+  And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
+    She rolls through an ether of sighs--
+    She revels in a region of sighs:
+  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
+    These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
+  And has come past the stars of the Lion
+    To point us the path to the skies--
+    To the Lethean peace of the skies--
+  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
+    To shine on us with her bright eyes--
+  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
+    With love in her luminous eyes."
+
+  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
+    Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
+    Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
+  Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
+    Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
+  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
+    Wings till they trailed in the dust--
+  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
+    Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
+    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
+
+  I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
+    Let us on by this tremulous light!
+    Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
+  Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
+    With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
+    See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
+  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
+    And be sure it will lead us aright--
+  We safely may trust to a gleaming
+    That cannot but guide us aright,
+    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
+
+  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
+    And tempted her out of her gloom--
+    And conquered her scruples and gloom;
+  And we passed to the end of a vista,
+    But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
+    By the door of a legended tomb;
+  And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
+    On the door of this legended tomb?"
+    She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
+    'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
+
+  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
+    As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
+    As the leaves that were withering and sere;
+  And I cried--"It was surely October
+    On _this_ very night of last year
+    That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
+    That I brought a dread burden down here!
+    On this night of all nights in the year,
+    Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
+  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
+    This misty mid region of Weir--
+  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
+    This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
+
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
+  I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
+  It was a July midnight; and from out
+  A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
+  Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
+  There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
+  With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
+  Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
+  Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
+  Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That gave out, in return for the love-light,
+  Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
+  By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
+
+  Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
+  I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
+  And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
+
+  Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
+  Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
+  That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
+  To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
+  No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
+  Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
+  How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
+  Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
+  And in an instant all things disappeared.
+  (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
+  The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
+  The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
+  The happy flowers and the repining trees,
+  Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
+  Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
+  All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
+  Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
+  Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
+  I saw but them--they were the world to me.
+  I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
+  Saw only them until the moon went down.
+  What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
+  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
+  How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
+  How silently serene a sea of pride!
+  How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
+  How fathomless a capacity for love!
+
+  But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
+  Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
+  And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
+  Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
+  They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
+  Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
+  _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
+  They follow me--they lead me through the years.
+
+  They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
+  Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
+  My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
+  And purified in their electric fire,
+  And sanctified in their elysian fire.
+  They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
+  And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
+  In the sad, silent watches of my night;
+  While even in the meridian glare of day
+  I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
+  Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
+
+
+1846.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ANNABEL LEE.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea:
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love--
+    I and my ANNABEL LEE;
+  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went envying her and me--
+  Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
+    In this kingdom by the sea)
+  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
+    Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we--
+    Of many far wiser than we--
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea--
+    In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE.
+
+
+  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
+    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
+  Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
+    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
+  Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
+    Divine--a talisman--an amulet
+  That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
+    The words--the syllables! Do not forget
+  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
+    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
+  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
+    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
+  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
+    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
+  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
+    Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
+  Its letters, although naturally lying
+    Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
+  Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
+    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
+
+
+1846.
+
+[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AN ENIGMA.
+
+
+  "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
+      "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
+    Through all the flimsy things we see at once
+      As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
+      Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
+    Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
+    Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
+      Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
+    And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
+    The general tuckermanities are arrant
+    Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
+      But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
+    Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
+    Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
+
+
+[See note after previous poem.]
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER.
+
+
+  Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
+    The angels, whispering to one another,
+  Can find, among their burning terms of love,
+    None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
+  Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
+    You who are more than mother unto me,
+  And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
+    In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
+  My mother--my own mother, who died early,
+    Was but the mother of myself; but you
+  Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
+    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
+  By that infinity with which my wife
+    Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FOR ANNIE.
+
+
+  Thank Heaven! the crisis--
+    The danger is past,
+  And the lingering illness
+    Is over at last--
+  And the fever called "Living"
+    Is conquered at last.
+
+  Sadly, I know,
+    I am shorn of my strength,
+  And no muscle I move
+    As I lie at full length--
+  But no matter!--I feel
+    I am better at length.
+
+  And I rest so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  That any beholder
+    Might fancy me dead--
+  Might start at beholding me
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  The moaning and groaning,
+    The sighing and sobbing,
+  Are quieted now,
+    With that horrible throbbing
+  At heart:--ah, that horrible,
+    Horrible throbbing!
+
+  The sickness--the nausea--
+    The pitiless pain--
+  Have ceased, with the fever
+    That maddened my brain--
+  With the fever called "Living"
+    That burned in my brain.
+
+  And oh! of all tortures
+    _That_ torture the worst
+  Has abated--the terrible
+    Torture of thirst,
+  For the naphthaline river
+    Of Passion accurst:--
+  I have drank of a water
+    That quenches all thirst:--
+
+  Of a water that flows,
+    With a lullaby sound,
+  From a spring but a very few
+    Feet under ground--
+  From a cavern not very far
+    Down under ground.
+
+  And ah! let it never
+    Be foolishly said
+  That my room it is gloomy
+    And narrow my bed--
+  For man never slept
+    In a different bed;
+  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
+    In just such a bed.
+
+  My tantalized spirit
+    Here blandly reposes,
+  Forgetting, or never
+    Regretting its roses--
+  Its old agitations
+    Of myrtles and roses:
+
+  For now, while so quietly
+    Lying, it fancies
+  A holier odor
+    About it, of pansies--
+  A rosemary odor,
+    Commingled with pansies--
+  With rue and the beautiful
+    Puritan pansies.
+
+  And so it lies happily,
+    Bathing in many
+  A dream of the truth
+    And the beauty of Annie--
+  Drowned in a bath
+    Of the tresses of Annie.
+
+  She tenderly kissed me,
+    She fondly caressed,
+  And then I fell gently
+    To sleep on her breast--
+  Deeply to sleep
+    From the heaven of her breast.
+
+  When the light was extinguished,
+    She covered me warm,
+  And she prayed to the angels
+    To keep me from harm--
+  To the queen of the angels
+    To shield me from harm.
+
+  And I lie so composedly,
+    Now in my bed
+  (Knowing her love)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  And I rest so contentedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (With her love at my breast)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  That you shudder to look at me.
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  But my heart it is brighter
+    Than all of the many
+  Stars in the sky,
+    For it sparkles with Annie--
+  It glows with the light
+    Of the love of my Annie--
+  With the thought of the light
+    Of the eyes of my Annie.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO F--
+
+
+  Beloved! amid the earnest woes
+    That crowd around my earthly path--
+  (Drear path, alas! where grows
+  Not even one lonely rose)--
+    My soul at least a solace hath
+  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
+  An Eden of bland repose.
+
+  And thus thy memory is to me
+    Like some enchanted far-off isle
+  In some tumultuous sea--
+  Some ocean throbbing far and free
+    With storm--but where meanwhile
+  Serenest skies continually
+    Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
+
+
+  Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
+    From its present pathway part not;
+  Being everything which now thou art,
+    Be nothing which thou art not.
+  So with the world thy gentle ways,
+    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
+  Shall be an endless theme of praise.
+    And love a simple duty.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ELDORADO.
+
+
+    Gaily bedight,
+    A gallant knight,
+  In sunshine and in shadow,
+    Had journeyed long,
+    Singing a song,
+  In search of Eldorado.
+    But he grew old--
+    This knight so bold--
+  And o'er his heart a shadow
+    Fell as he found
+    No spot of ground
+  That looked like Eldorado.
+
+  And, as his strength
+    Failed him at length,
+  He met a pilgrim shadow--
+    "Shadow," said he,
+    "Where can it be--
+  This land of Eldorado?"
+
+    "Over the Mountains
+    Of the Moon,
+  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
+    Ride, boldly ride,"
+    The shade replied,
+  "If you seek for Eldorado!"
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EULALIE.
+
+
+               I dwelt alone
+               In a world of moan,
+           And my soul was a stagnant tide,
+  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
+  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
+               Ah, less--less bright
+               The stars of the night
+           Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
+               And never a flake
+               That the vapor can make
+           With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
+  Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
+  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
+    curl.
+               Now Doubt--now Pain
+               Come never again,
+           For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
+               And all day long
+               Shines, bright and strong,
+           Astarté within the sky,
+  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
+  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
+
+
+  Take this kiss upon the brow!
+  And, in parting from you now,
+  Thus much let me avow--
+  You are not wrong, who deem
+  That my days have been a dream:
+  Yet if hope has flown away
+  In a night, or in a day,
+  In a vision or in none,
+  Is it therefore the less _gone_?
+  _All_ that we see or seem
+  Is but a dream within a dream.
+
+  I stand amid the roar
+  Of a surf-tormented shore,
+  And I hold within my hand
+  Grains of the golden sand--
+  How few! yet how they creep
+  Through my fingers to the deep
+  While I weep--while I weep!
+  O God! can I not grasp
+  Them with a tighter clasp?
+  O God! can I not save
+  _One_ from the pitiless wave?
+  Is _all_ that we see or seem
+  But a dream within a dream?
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
+  Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
+  The blotting utterly from out high heaven
+  The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
+  Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
+  For the resurrection of deep buried faith
+  In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
+  Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
+  Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
+  At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
+  At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
+  In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
+  Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
+  Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
+  The truest, the most fervently devoted,
+  And think that these weak lines are written by him--
+  By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
+  His spirit is communing with an angel's.
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
+  In the mad pride of intellectuality,
+  Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
+  A thought arose within the human brain
+  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
+  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
+  Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
+  Italian tones, made only to be murmured
+  By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
+  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
+  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
+  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
+  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
+  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
+  (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
+  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
+  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
+  With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
+  I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
+  Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
+  This standing motionless upon the golden
+  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
+  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
+  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
+  Upon the left, and all the way along,
+  Amid empurpled vapors, far away
+  To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CITY IN THE SEA.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy Heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently--
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
+  Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
+  Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
+  Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine
+  Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas!
+  Along that wilderness of glass--
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea--
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene.
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven.
+  The waves have now a redder glow--
+  The hours are breathing faint and low--
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+
+1835?
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SLEEPER
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  (Her casement open to the skies)
+  Irene, with her Destinies!
+
+  Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
+  This window open to the night!
+  The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
+  Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully--so fearfully--
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
+  Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all-solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  For ever with unopened eye,
+  While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
+
+  My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep;
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold--
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And winged panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
+  Of her grand family funerals--
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood many an idle stone--
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
+  It was the dead who groaned within.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+BRIDAL BALLAD.
+
+
+  The ring is on my hand,
+    And the wreath is on my brow;
+  Satins and jewels grand
+  Are all at my command.
+    And I am happy now.
+
+  And my lord he loves me well;
+    But, when first he breathed his vow,
+  I felt my bosom swell--
+  For the words rang as a knell,
+  And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
+  In the battle down the dell,
+    And who is happy now.
+
+  But he spoke to reassure me,
+    And he kissed my pallid brow,
+  While a reverie came o'er me,
+  And to the churchyard bore me,
+  And I sighed to him before me,
+  Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
+    "Oh, I am happy now!"
+
+  And thus the words were spoken,
+    And thus the plighted vow,
+  And, though my faith be broken,
+  And, though my heart be broken,
+  Behold the golden keys
+    That _proves_ me happy now!
+
+  Would to God I could awaken
+    For I dream I know not how,
+  And my soul is sorely shaken
+  Lest an evil step be taken,--
+  Lest the dead who is forsaken
+    May not be happy now.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+1.   THE RAVEN
+
+
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
+It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
+by N. P. Willis:
+
+  "We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+  number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
+  Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+  'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+  English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+  versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+  'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+  feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
+
+In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
+as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
+suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+
+  ["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
+  strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+  ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+  intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
+  specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+  resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+  sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+  thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+  language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+  power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+  chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+  very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+  Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+  had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+  Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+  in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+  all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+  merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+  in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
+  (stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+  the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+  while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+  any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+  We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+  better understood."
+
+  ED. 'Am. Rev.']
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+2.   THE BELLS
+
+
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+
+
+
+I.
+
+      The bells!--ah the bells!
+      The little silver bells!
+  How fairy-like a melody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their merry little throats--
+          From the silver, tinkling throats
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+II.
+
+      The bells!--ah, the bells!
+      The heavy iron bells!
+  How horrible a monody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their deep-toned throats--
+          From their melancholy throats
+          How I shudder at the notes
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+
+
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
+following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+3.   ULALUME
+
+
+This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
+1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
+the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
+name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
+When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
+Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
+
+
+  Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
+      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
+      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
+  To bar up our path and to ban it
+      From the secret that lies in these wolds--
+  Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
+      From the limbo of lunary souls--
+  This sinfully scintillant planet
+      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+4.   TO HELEN
+
+
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
+desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
+coupling those two words".
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+5.   ANNABEL LEE
+
+
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
+published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
+any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+6.   A VALENTINE
+
+
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+7.   AN ENIGMA
+
+
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+8.   TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
+to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
+the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+9.   FOR ANNIE
+
+
+"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the 'Home Journal'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+10.   TO F----
+
+
+"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
+for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
+"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
+subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
+Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+11.   TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
+
+
+"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
+earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
+addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
+the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
+as "To----."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+12.   ELDORADO
+
+
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+13.   EULALIE
+
+
+"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
+1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+14.   A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
+
+
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+15   TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+16.  (2)  TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
+was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
+named posthumous collection.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+17.   THE CITY IN THE SEA
+
+
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
+whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
+Review' for April, 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+18.   THE SLEEPER
+
+
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
+and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+19.   THE BRIDAL BALLAD
+
+
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
+form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                         POEMS OF MANHOOD.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+LENORE.
+
+
+  Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
+  Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
+  And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
+  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
+  Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
+  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
+  A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
+
+  "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
+  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
+  How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
+  By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
+  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
+
+  _Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
+  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
+  The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
+  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
+  For her, the fair and _débonnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
+  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
+  The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
+
+  "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
+  But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
+  Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
+  Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
+  To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
+  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
+  From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
+
+
+1844.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ONE IN PARADISE,
+
+
+  Thou wast that all to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine--
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine,
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+  And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast!
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  "No more--no more--no more"--
+  (Such language holds the solemn sea
+    To the sands upon the shore)
+  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+    Or the stricken eagle soar!
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy dark eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams!
+
+  Alas! for that accursed time
+    They bore thee o'er the billow,
+  From love to titled age and crime,
+    And an unholy pillow!
+  From me, and from our misty clime,
+    Where weeps the silver willow!
+
+
+1835
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLISEUM.
+
+
+  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
+  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
+  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
+  At length--at length--after so many days
+  Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
+  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
+  I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
+  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
+  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
+
+  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
+  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
+  I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
+  O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
+  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
+  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
+  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
+
+  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
+  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
+  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
+  Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
+  Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
+  Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
+  Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
+  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
+  The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
+
+  But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
+  These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
+  These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
+  These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
+  These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
+  All of the famed, and the colossal left
+  By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
+
+  "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
+  Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
+  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
+  As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
+  We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
+  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
+  We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
+  Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
+  Not all the magic of our high renown--
+  Not all the wonder that encircles us--
+  Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
+  Not all the memories that hang upon
+  And cling around about us as a garment,
+  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED PALACE.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion--
+    It stood there!
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair!
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A winged odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley,
+    Through two luminous windows, saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tunëd law,
+  Bound about a throne where, sitting
+    (Porphyrogene!)
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate.
+  (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed,
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers, now, within that valley,
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms, that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody,
+    While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONQUEROR WORM.
+
+
+  Lo! 'tis a gala night
+    Within the lonesome latter years!
+  An angel throng, 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.
+
+  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
+    That shift the scenery to and fro,
+  Flapping from out their Condor wings
+    Invisible Wo!
+
+  That motley drama--oh, be sure
+    It shall not be forgot!
+  With its Phantom chased for evermore,
+    By a crowd that seize it not,
+  Through a circle that ever returneth in
+    To the self-same spot,
+  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
+    And Horror the soul of the plot.
+
+  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 the angels sob at vermin 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,
+  And the angels, all pallid and wan,
+    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
+  That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
+    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
+
+
+1838
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.
+
+
+  There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
+    That have a double life, which thus is made
+  A type of that twin entity which springs
+    From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
+  There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
+    Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
+    Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
+  Some human memories and tearful lore,
+  Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
+  He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
+    No power hath he of evil in himself;
+  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
+    Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
+  That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
+  No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
+
+
+1840
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMLAND.
+
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have reached these lands but newly
+  From an ultimate dim Thule--
+  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
+    Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
+
+  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
+  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
+  With forms that no man can discover
+  For the dews that drip all over;
+  Mountains toppling evermore
+  Into seas without a shore;
+  Seas that restlessly aspire,
+  Surging, unto skies of fire;
+  Lakes that endlessly outspread
+  Their lone waters--lone and dead,
+  Their still waters--still and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily.
+
+  By the lakes that thus outspread
+  Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
+  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily,--
+
+  By the mountains--near the river
+  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
+  By the gray woods,--by the swamp
+  Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
+  By the dismal tarns and pools
+    Where dwell the Ghouls,--
+  By each spot the most unholy--
+  In each nook most melancholy,--
+
+  There the traveller meets aghast
+  Sheeted Memories of the past--
+  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
+  As they pass the wanderer by--
+  White-robed forms of friends long given,
+  In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
+
+  For the heart whose woes are legion
+  'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
+  For the spirit that walks in shadow
+  'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
+  But the traveller, travelling through it,
+  May not--dare not openly view it;
+  Never its mysteries are exposed
+  To the weak human eye unclosed;
+  So wills its King, who hath forbid
+  The uplifting of the fringed lid;
+  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
+  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only.
+
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have wandered home but newly
+  From this ultimate dim Thule.
+
+
+1844
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ZANTE.
+
+
+  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
+    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
+  How many memories of what radiant hours
+    At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
+  How many scenes of what departed bliss!
+    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
+  How many visions of a maiden that is
+    No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
+
+  _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
+    Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
+  Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
+    Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
+  O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
+    "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
+
+
+1887.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+HYMN.
+
+
+  At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
+  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
+  In joy and wo--in good and ill--
+  Mother of God, be with me still!
+  When the Hours flew brightly by,
+  And not a cloud obscured the sky,
+  My soul, lest it should truant be,
+  Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
+  Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
+  Darkly my Present and my Past,
+  Let my future radiant shine
+  With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
+
+
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+
+20.   LENORE
+
+
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
+Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"--now first
+published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+21.   TO ONE IN PARADISE
+
+
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
+time, to the piece.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+22.   THE COLISEUM
+
+
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
+1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
+August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+23.   THE HAUNTED PALACE
+
+
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
+Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
+tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
+'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
+separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+24.   THE CONQUEROR WORM
+
+
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
+separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+25.   SILENCE
+
+
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for April, 1840.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+26.   DREAMLAND
+
+
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
+for June, 1844.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+37.   TO ZANTE
+
+
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+28.   HYMN
+
+
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
+1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
+first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                        SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
+
+                         AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
+
+
+I.
+
+ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
+
+_Alessandra_.     Thou art sad, Castiglione.
+
+_Castiglione_.    Sad!--not I.
+                  Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
+                  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
+                  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
+
+_Aless_.          Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
+                  Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
+                  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
+
+_Cas_.            Did I sigh?
+                  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
+                  A silly--a most silly fashion I have
+                  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
+
+_Aless_.          Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
+                  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
+                  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
+                  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
+                  Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
+                  The constitution as late hours and wine.
+
+_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
+                  Not even deep sorrow--
+                  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
+                  I will amend.
+
+_Aless_.          Do it! I would have thee drop
+                  Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
+                  Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
+                  And Alessandra's husband.
+
+_Cas_.            I will drop them.
+
+_Aless_.          Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
+                  To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
+                  For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
+                  Upon appearances.
+
+_Cas_.            I'll see to it.
+
+_Aless_.          Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
+                  To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
+                  In dignity.
+
+_Cas_.            Much, much, oh, much I want
+                  In proper dignity.
+
+_Aless.
+(haughtily_).     Thou mockest me, sir!
+
+_Cos.
+(abstractedly_).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!
+
+_Aless_.          Heard I aright?
+                  I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
+                  Sir Count!
+         (_places her hand on his shoulder_)
+                             what art thou dreaming?
+                  He's not well!
+                  What ails thee, sir?
+
+_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
+                  I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
+                  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
+                  This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
+
+_Enter Di Broglio_.
+
+_Di Broglio_.     My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
+                 --what's the matter?
+          (_observing Alessandra_).
+                  I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
+                  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
+                  I've news for you both. Politian is expected
+                  Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
+                  To the imperial city.
+
+_Aless_.          What! Politian
+                  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
+
+_Di Brog_.        The same, my love.
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
+                  In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
+                  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
+                  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
+                  And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
+
+_Aless_.          I have heard much of this Politian.
+                  Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
+                  And little given to thinking?
+
+_Di Brog_.        Far from it, love.
+                  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
+                  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
+                  Learned as few are learned.
+
+_Aless_.          'Tis very strange!
+                  I have known men have seen Politian
+                  And sought his company. They speak of him
+                  As of one who entered madly into life,
+                  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
+
+_Cas_.            Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
+                  And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
+                  He is a dreamer, and shut out
+                  From common passions.
+
+_Di Brog_.        Children, we disagree.
+                  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
+                  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
+                  Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
+
+                  (_Exeunt._)
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
+LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
+a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
+carelessly upon a chair.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         Jacinta! is it thou?
+
+_Jacinta
+(pertly_).        Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
+
+_Lal_.            I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
+                  Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
+                  Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
+
+_Jac. (aside_).   'Tis time.
+
+(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
+her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
+look. Lalage continues to read._)
+
+_Lal_.            "It in another climate, so he said,
+                  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
+
+           (_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
+
+                  "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
+                  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
+                  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
+                  Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
+                  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
+                  O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
+                  O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
+                  Jacinta!
+
+          (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
+
+                  Again!--a similar tale
+                  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
+                  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
+                  "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
+                  "I think not so--her infelicity
+                  Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
+                  Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
+                  Here's a far sterner story--
+                  But like--oh, very like in its despair--
+                  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
+                  A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
+                  She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
+                  Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
+                  With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
+                  Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
+
+_Jac_.
+(_pettishly_).    Madam, what is it?
+
+_Lal_.            Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
+                  As go down in the library and bring me
+                  The Holy Evangelists?
+
+_Jac_.            Pshaw!
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+_Lal_.            If there be balm
+                  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
+                  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
+                  Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
+                  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
+
+(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
+
+                  There, ma'am, 's the book.
+   (_aside_.)     Indeed she is very troublesome.
+
+_Lal_.
+(_astonished_).   What didst thou say, Jacinta?
+                  Have I done aught
+                  To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
+                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
+                  Trustworthy and respectful.
+              (_resumes her reading_.)
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
+                  She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
+
+_Lal_.            What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
+                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
+                  How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
+                  Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
+                  Thou needest, Jacinta?
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
+                  That's meant for me.  I'm sure, madam, you need not
+                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
+
+_Lal_.            Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
+                  I thought not of the jewels.
+
+_Jac_.            Oh, perhaps not!
+                  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
+                  There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
+                  For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
+                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
+                  And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
+                  Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
+short pause raises it_.)
+
+_Lal_.            Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
+                  Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
+                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
+                  (_taking up the mirror_)
+                  Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
+                  In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
+                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
+                  A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
+                  Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
+                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
+                  And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
+                  Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
+                  Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
+                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
+                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
+                  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
+                  _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
+                  Castiglione lied who said he loved----
+                  Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
+
+(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved_)
+
+_Monk_.           Refuge thou hast,
+                  Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
+                  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
+
+_Lal.
+(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
+                  The frightful sounds of merriment below;
+                  Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
+                  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
+                  Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
+                  Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
+                  With horror and awe!
+
+_Monk_.           Think of thy precious soul!
+
+_Lal_.            Think of my early days!--think of my father
+                  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
+                  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
+                  Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
+                  And think of me!--think of my trusting love
+                  And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
+                  Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
+                  Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
+                  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
+                  And vows before the throne?
+
+_Monk_.           I did.
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis well.
+                  There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
+                  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
+                  A solemn vow!
+
+_Monk_.           Daughter, this zeal is well!
+
+_Lal_.            Father, this zeal is anything but well!
+                  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
+                  A crucifix whereon to register
+                  This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
+                  Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
+                  Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
+                  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
+                  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
+                  _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
+                  The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
+                  And the deed's register should tally, father!
+         (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
+                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
+                  Is written in heaven!
+
+_Monk_.           Thy words are madness, daughter,
+                  And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
+                  Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
+                  Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
+                  Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis sworn!
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
+
+
+_Baldazzar_.      Arouse thee now, Politian!
+                  Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
+                  Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
+                  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
+                  And live, for now thou diest!
+
+_Politian_.       Not so, Baldazzar!
+                  _Surely_ I live.
+
+_Bal_.            Politian, it doth grieve me
+                  To see thee thus!
+
+_Pol_.            Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
+                  To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
+                  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
+                  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
+                  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
+                  Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
+                  And be no more Politian, but some other.
+                  Command me, sir!
+
+_Bal_.            To the field then--to the field--
+                  To the senate or the field.
+
+_Pol_.            Alas! alas!
+                  There is an imp would follow me even there!
+                  There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
+                  There is--what voice was that?
+
+_Bal_.            I heard it not.
+                  I heard not any voice except thine own,
+                  And the echo of thine own.
+
+_Pol_.            Then I but dreamed.
+
+_Bal_.            Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
+                  Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
+                  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
+                  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
+                  And phantom voices.
+
+_Pol_.            It _is_ a phantom voice!
+                  Didst thou not hear it _then_?
+
+_Bal_             I heard it not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
+                  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
+                  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
+                  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
+                  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
+                  We have been boys together--school-fellows--
+                  And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
+                  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
+                  A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
+                  A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
+                  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
+                  Unto thy friend.
+
+_Bal_.            Thou speakest a fearful riddle
+                  I _will_ not understand.
+
+_Pol_.            Yet now as Fate
+                  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
+                  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
+                  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
+                  I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
+                  So keen a relish for the beautiful
+                  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
+                  Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
+                  Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
+                  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
+                  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
+                  Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
+                  Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
+
+_Bal_.            Indeed I hear not.
+
+_Pol_.            Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
+                  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
+                  A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
+                  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
+                  Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
+                  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
+                  Surely I never heard--yet it were well
+                  Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
+                  In earlier days!
+
+_Bal_.            I myself hear it now.
+                  Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
+                  Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
+                  Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
+                  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
+                  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
+                  The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
+                  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
+                  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
+                  His son and heir.
+
+_Pol_.            Be still!--it comes again!
+
+_Voice_
+(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+
+_Bal_.            The song is English, and I oft have heard it
+                  In merry England--never so plaintively--
+                  Hist! hist! it comes again!
+
+_Voice
+(more loudly_).   "Is it so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            'Tis hushed and all is still!
+
+_Pol_.            All _is not_ still.
+
+_Bal_.            Let us go down.
+
+_Pol_.            Go down, Baldazzar, go!
+
+_Bal_.            The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
+                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
+                  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
+
+_Voice_
+(_distinctly_).   "Who have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among,
+                  And is thy heart so strong?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
+                  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
+                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
+                  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
+
+_Pol_.            Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
+               (_going_).
+                  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
+                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
+                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
+                  "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
+                  Once more that silent tongue."
+
+_Bal_.            Let me beg you, sir,
+                  Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
+                  Let us go down, I pray you.
+
+_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
+                     the voice
+                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
+             (_Approaching the window_)
+                  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
+                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
+                  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
+                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
+                  I go not down to-night.
+
+_Bal_.            Your lordship's pleasure
+                  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
+
+_Pol_.            Good-night, my friend, good-night.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         And dost thou speak of love
+                  To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
+                  To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
+                  This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
+
+_Politian_.       Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
+                  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
+                  Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
+                  And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
+                  And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
+                  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
+                  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
+                  Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
+                  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
+                  Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
+                  Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
+                  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
+                  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
+                  Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
+                  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
+                  Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
+               (_arising_.)
+                  Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
+                  Thy beauty and thy woes.
+
+_Lal_.            Alas, proud Earl,
+                  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
+                  How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
+                  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
+                  Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
+                  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
+                  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
+                  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
+                  And with thy glory?
+
+_Pol_.            Speak not to me of glory!
+                  I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
+                  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
+                  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
+                  Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
+                  What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
+                  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
+                  By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
+                  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
+                  There is no deed I would more glory in,
+                  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
+                  And trample it under foot. What matters it--
+                  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
+                  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
+                  Into the dust--so we descend together?
+                  Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And then perchance
+                  _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
+                  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
+                  And still--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And still _together_--_together_.
+
+_Lal_.            Now, Earl of Leicester!
+                  Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
+                  I feel thou lovest me truly.
+
+_Pol_.            O Lalage!
+               (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
+                  And lovest thou _me_?
+
+_Lal_.            Hist! hush! within the gloom
+                  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
+                  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
+                  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
+               (_walks across and returns_.)
+                  I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
+                  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
+
+_Pol_.            My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
+                  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
+                  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
+                  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
+                  Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
+                  Throw over all things a gloom.
+
+_Lal_.            Politian!
+                  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
+                  With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
+                  Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
+                  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
+                  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
+                  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
+                  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
+                  Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
+                  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
+                  In days that are to come?
+
+_Pol_.            Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
+                  Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
+                  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
+                  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
+                  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
+                  For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
+                  No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
+                  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
+                  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
+                  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
+                  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
+                  My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
+                  Fly thither with me?
+
+_Lal_.            A deed is to be done--
+                  Castiglione lives!
+
+_Pol_.            And he shall die!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Lal_.
+(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
+                  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
+                  Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
+                  Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
+                  I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
+                  Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
+                  With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
+                  And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
+                  To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
+                  To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
+                  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
+                  Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
+                  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
+                  Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
+                  And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
+                  Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
+                  So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
+                  'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
+
+
+_Politian_.       This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
+                  And much I fear me ill--it will not do
+                  To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
+                  O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
+                  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
+                  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
+                  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
+                  Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
+                  'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
+                  Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
+
+              _Enter Baldazzar_.
+
+_Baldazzar_.      That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
+                  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
+                  He doth decline your cartel.
+
+_Pol_.            _What_ didst thou say?
+                  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
+                  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
+                  Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
+                  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
+                  No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
+
+_Bal_.            That he, Castiglione, not being aware
+                  Of any feud existing, or any cause
+                  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
+                  Cannot accept the challenge.
+
+_Pol_.            It is most true--
+                  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
+                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
+                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
+                  A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
+                  From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
+
+_Bal_.            No more, my lord, than I have told you:
+                  The Count Castiglione will not fight.
+                  Having no cause for quarrel.
+
+_Pol_.            Now this is true--
+                  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
+                  And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
+                  A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
+                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
+                  Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
+                  Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
+                  He should have cause for quarrel.
+
+_Bal_.            My lord!--my friend!--
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
+       (_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
+                  I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
+                  Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
+                  Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
+                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
+                  I would adjust.
+
+_Bal_.            I go--to-morrow we meet,
+                  Do we not?--at the Vatican.
+
+_Pol_.            At the Vatican.
+
+                  (_Exit Bal_.)
+
+                  _Enter Castiglione_.
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl of Leicester here!
+
+_Pol_.            I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
+                  Dost thou not, that I am here?
+
+_Cas_.            My lord, some strange,
+                  Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
+                  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
+                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
+                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
+                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
+                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
+                  Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
+                  'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
+                  Do err at times.
+
+_Pol_.            Draw, villain, and prate no more!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
+                  Proud Earl!
+               (_Draws._)
+
+_Pol_.
+(_drawing_.)      Thus to the expiatory tomb,
+                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
+                  In the name of Lalage!
+
+_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
+         stage_.)
+                  Of Lalage!
+                  Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
+                  Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
+                  Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
+                  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
+
+_Cas_.            I dare not--dare not--
+                  Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
+                  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
+                  I cannot--dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Now, by my halidom,
+                  I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
+(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
+the Earl._)
+                  Alas! my lord,
+                  It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
+                  I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
+
+_Pol.
+(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
+
+_Cas_.            And Lalage--
+
+_Pol_.            _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
+
+_Cas_.            It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
+                  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
+                  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
+                  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
+                  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
+               (_baring his bosom_.)
+                  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
+                  Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
+
+_Pol_.            Now's Death and Hell!
+                  Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
+                  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
+                  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
+                  For public insult in the streets--before
+                  The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
+                  Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
+                  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
+                  Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
+                    thee,
+                  Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
+                  Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Cas_.            Now this indeed is just!
+                  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTE ON POLITIAN
+
+20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.
+
+
+
+_Duke_.           Why do you laugh?
+
+_Castiglione_.    Indeed.
+                  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
+                  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
+                  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
+                  Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
+                  We were walking in the garden.
+
+_Duke_.           Perfectly.
+                  I do remember it--what of it--what then?
+
+_Cas_.            O nothing--nothing at all.
+
+_Duke_.           Nothing at all!
+                  It is most singular that you should laugh
+                  At nothing at all!
+
+_Cas_.            Most singular--singular!
+
+_Duke_.           Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
+                  As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
+                  What are you talking of?
+
+_Cas_.            Was it not so?
+                  We differed in opinion touching him.
+
+_Duke_.           Him!--Whom?
+
+_Cas_.            Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
+
+_Duke_.           The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
+                  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
+                  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
+                  Was neither learned nor mirthful.
+
+_Cas_.            Ha! ha!--now did I?
+
+_Duke_.           That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
+                  You were wrong, it being not the character
+                  Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
+                  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
+                  Too positive again.
+
+_Cas_.            'Tis singular!
+                  Most singular! I could not think it possible
+                  So little time could so much alter one!
+                  To say the truth about an hour ago,
+                  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
+                  All arm in arm, we met this very man
+                  The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
+                  Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
+                  Such an account he gave me of his journey!
+                  'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
+                    told
+                  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
+                  Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
+                  Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
+                  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
+                  Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
+                  Was gravity itself--
+
+_Duke_.           Did I not tell you?
+
+_Cas_.            You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
+                  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
+                  The Earl a gloomy man.
+
+_Duke_.           So, so, you see!
+                  Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
+                  It cannot be the Earl?
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl! Oh no!
+                  Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
+                  Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
+                  (_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
+                  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
+                  To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
+                  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
+                  Of Leicester in Great Britain.
+                  [_Politian bows haughtily_.]
+                  That, his friend
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
+                  So please you, for Your Grace.
+
+_Duke_.           Ha! ha! Most welcome
+                  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
+                  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
+                  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
+                  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
+                  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
+                  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
+                  Most seasonable. The wedding--
+
+_Politian_.       Touching those letters, sir,
+                  Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
+                  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
+                  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
+                  Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
+                  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
+
+_Duke_.           Retire!--so soon?
+
+_Cas_.            What ho! Benito! Rupert!
+                  His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
+                  His lordship is unwell.
+
+             (_Enter Benito_.)
+
+_Ben_.            This way, my lord!
+
+             (_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
+
+_Duke_.           Retire! Unwell!
+
+_Bal_.            So please you, sir. I fear me
+                  'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
+                  The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
+                  Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
+                  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
+                  I will return anon.
+
+_Duke_.           Return anon!
+                  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
+                  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
+                  You surely were mistaken in what you said
+                  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
+                  Politian was a melancholy man?
+
+                 (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                           POEMS OF YOUTH
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
+
+
+LETTER TO MR. B--.
+
+"WEST POINT, 1831
+
+"DEAR B--
+
+...
+
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
+
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
+poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
+the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
+but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
+good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
+observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
+yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
+judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
+'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
+theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
+write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
+it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
+the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
+step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
+more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
+understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
+sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
+superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
+discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
+fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
+own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
+so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
+summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
+pinnacle.
+
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.
+
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.
+
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
+
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.
+
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.
+
+"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
+his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
+pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
+means of obtaining.
+
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.
+
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
+passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
+with the passions--or age with poetry.
+
+  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
+  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.
+
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
+Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
+treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
+of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
+contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
+it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
+surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
+useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
+
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
+Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
+glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
+that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
+glacier.
+
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.
+
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
+done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
+unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
+the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
+comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
+
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. 'Tantæne animis?' Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see
+what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,
+  And now she's at the pony's head,
+  On that side now, and now on this;
+  And, almost stifled with her bliss,
+  A few sad tears does Betty shed....
+  She pats the pony, where or when
+  She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
+  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
+
+"Secondly:
+
+  "'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
+  I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
+  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
+  A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
+  No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
+  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+  if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
+  will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
+  ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
+  be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
+  been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
+
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+  '_J'ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+  bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+  nient_;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
+the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
+think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
+Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
+man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
+from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
+light that are weltering below.
+
+"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
+Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
+of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
+Titania!
+
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
+its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
+poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
+perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
+to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
+sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
+pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
+the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
+
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?
+
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+  "'No Indian prince has to his palace
+  More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
+
+
+  SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
+    Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
+  Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
+    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
+  How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
+    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
+  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
+    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
+  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
+    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
+  To seek a shelter in some happier star?
+    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
+  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
+  The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
+the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
+acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
+that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AL AARAAF. [1]
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+  O! nothing earthly save the ray
+  (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
+  As in those gardens where the day
+  Springs from the gems of Circassy--
+  O! nothing earthly save the thrill
+  Of melody in woodland rill--
+  Or (music of the passion-hearted)
+  Joy's voice so peacefully departed
+  That like the murmur in the shell,
+  Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
+  O! nothing of the dross of ours--
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
+  Adorn yon world afar, afar--
+  The wandering star.
+
+  'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
+  Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
+  Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
+  An oasis in desert of the blest.
+  Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
+  Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
+  The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
+  Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
+  To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
+  And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
+  But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
+  She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
+  And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
+  Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
+
+  Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
+  Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
+  (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
+  Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
+  It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
+  She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
+  Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
+  Fit emblems of the model of her world--
+  Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
+  Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
+  A wreath that twined each starry form around,
+  And all the opal'd air in color bound.
+
+  All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
+  Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
+  On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
+  So eagerly around about to hang
+  Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
+  Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
+  The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
+  Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
+  And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
+  Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
+  All other loveliness: its honied dew
+  (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
+  Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
+  And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
+  In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
+  So like its own above that, to this hour,
+  It still remaineth, torturing the bee
+  With madness, and unwonted reverie:
+  In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
+  And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
+  Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
+  Repenting follies that full long have fled,
+  Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
+  Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
+  Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
+  She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
+  And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
+  While pettish tears adown her petals run:
+  And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
+  And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
+  Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
+  Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
+  And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
+  From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
+  And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
+  Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
+  And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
+  With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
+  Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
+  To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
+
+    "Spirit! that dwellest where,
+      In the deep sky,
+    The terrible and fair,
+      In beauty vie!
+    Beyond the line of blue--
+      The boundary of the star
+    Which turneth at the view
+      Of thy barrier and thy bar--
+    Of the barrier overgone
+      By the comets who were cast
+    From their pride, and from their throne
+      To be drudges till the last--
+    To be carriers of fire
+      (The red fire of their heart)
+    With speed that may not tire
+      And with pain that shall not part--
+    Who livest--_that_ we know--
+      In Eternity--we feel--
+    But the shadow of whose brow
+      What spirit shall reveal?
+    Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
+      Thy messenger hath known
+    Have dream'd for thy Infinity
+      A model of their own [11]--
+    Thy will is done, O God!
+      The star hath ridden high
+    Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
+      Beneath thy burning eye;
+    And here, in thought, to thee--
+      In thought that can alone
+    Ascend thy empire and so be
+      A partner of thy throne--
+    By winged Fantasy [12],
+       My embassy is given,
+    Till secrecy shall knowledge be
+      In the environs of Heaven."
+
+  She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
+  Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
+  A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
+  For the stars trembled at the Deity.
+  She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
+  How solemnly pervading the calm air!
+  A sound of silence on the startled ear
+  Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
+  Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
+  "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
+
+  All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
+  Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
+  But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
+  The eternal voice of God is passing by,
+  And the red winds are withering in the sky!
+  "What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
+  Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
+  Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
+  Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
+  The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
+  (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
+  What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
+  The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
+  Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
+  To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
+  Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
+  With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
+  Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
+  And wing to other worlds another light!
+  Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
+  To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
+  To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
+  Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
+
+   Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
+  The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
+  Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
+  The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
+  As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
+  Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
+  And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
+  Her way--but left not yet her Therasæan reign [15].
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+  High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
+  Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
+  Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
+  Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
+  With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
+  What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
+  Of rosy head, that towering far away
+  Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
+  Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
+  While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
+  Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
+  Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
+  Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
+  Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
+  And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
+  Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
+  Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
+  Of their own dissolution, while they die--
+  Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
+  A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
+  Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
+  A window of one circular diamond, there,
+  Look'd out above into the purple air
+  And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
+  And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
+  Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
+  Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
+  But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
+  The dimness of this world: that grayish green
+  That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
+  Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
+  And every sculptured cherub thereabout
+  That from his marble dwelling peered out,
+  Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
+  Achaian statues in a world so rich?
+  Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
+  From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
+  Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
+  Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
+  Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
+  Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
+  That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
+  Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
+  That stealeth ever on the ear of him
+  Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
+  And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
+  Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?  [20]
+   But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
+  A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
+  A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
+  And Nesace is in her halls again.
+  From the wild energy of wanton haste
+  Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
+  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
+  Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
+  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
+  She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
+  The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
+  And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
+
+  Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
+  To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
+  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
+  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
+  Yet silence came upon material things--
+  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
+  And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
+  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
+
+    "Neath blue-bell or streamer--
+      Or tufted wild spray
+    That keeps, from the dreamer,
+      The moonbeam away--[22]
+    Bright beings! that ponder,
+      With half-closing eyes,
+    On the stars which your wonder
+      Hath drawn from the skies,
+    Till they glance thro' the shade, and
+      Come down to your brow
+    Like--eyes of the maiden
+      Who calls on you now--
+    Arise! from your dreaming
+      In violet bowers,
+    To duty beseeming
+      These star-litten hours--
+    And shake from your tresses
+      Encumber'd with dew
+
+    The breath of those kisses
+      That cumber them too--
+    (O! how, without you, Love!
+      Could angels be blest?)
+    Those kisses of true love
+      That lull'd ye to rest!
+    Up! shake from your wing
+      Each hindering thing:
+    The dew of the night--
+      It would weigh down your flight;
+    And true love caresses--
+      O! leave them apart!
+    They are light on the tresses,
+      But lead on the heart.
+
+    Ligeia! Ligeia!
+      My beautiful one!
+    Whose harshest idea
+      Will to melody run,
+    O! is it thy will
+      On the breezes to toss?
+    Or, capriciously still,
+      Like the lone Albatross, [23]
+    Incumbent on night
+      (As she on the air)
+    To keep watch with delight
+      On the harmony there?
+
+    Ligeia! wherever
+      Thy image may be,
+    No magic shall sever
+      Thy music from thee.
+    Thou hast bound many eyes
+      In a dreamy sleep--
+    But the strains still arise
+      Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
+
+    The sound of the rain
+      Which leaps down to the flower,
+    And dances again
+      In the rhythm of the shower--
+    The murmur that springs [24]
+      From the growing of grass
+    Are the music of things--
+      But are modell'd, alas!
+    Away, then, my dearest,
+      O! hie thee away
+    To springs that lie clearest
+      Beneath the moon-ray--
+    To lone lake that smiles,
+      In its dream of deep rest,
+    At the many star-isles
+    That enjewel its breast--
+    Where wild flowers, creeping,
+      Have mingled their shade,
+    On its margin is sleeping
+      Full many a maid--
+    Some have left the cool glade, and
+      Have slept with the bee--[25]
+    Arouse them, my maiden,
+      On moorland and lea--
+
+    Go! breathe on their slumber,
+      All softly in ear,
+    The musical number
+      They slumber'd to hear--
+    For what can awaken
+      An angel so soon
+    Whose sleep hath been taken
+      Beneath the cold moon,
+    As the spell which no slumber
+      Of witchery may test,
+    The rhythmical number
+      Which lull'd him to rest?"
+
+  Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
+  A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
+  Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
+  Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
+  That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
+  O death! from eye of God upon that star;
+  Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
+  Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
+  Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
+  To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
+  For what (to them) availeth it to know
+  That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
+  Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
+  With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
+  Beyond that death no immortality--
+  But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
+  And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
+  Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
+
+  What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
+  Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
+  But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
+  To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
+  A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
+  O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
+  Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
+  Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
+
+  He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
+  A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
+  A gazer on the lights that shine above--
+  A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
+  What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
+  And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
+  And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
+  To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
+  The night had found (to him a night of wo)
+  Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
+  Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
+  And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
+  Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
+  With eagle gaze along the firmament:
+  Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
+  It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
+
+  "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
+  How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
+  She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
+  I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
+  That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
+  The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
+  On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
+  Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
+  And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
+  How drowsily it weighed them into night!
+  On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
+  With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
+  But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
+  Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
+  So softly that no single silken hair
+  Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
+
+  "The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
+  Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
+  More beauty clung around her columned wall
+  Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
+  And when old Time my wing did disenthral
+  Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
+  And years I left behind me in an hour.
+  What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
+  One half the garden of her globe was flung
+  Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
+  Tenantless cities of the desert too!
+  Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
+  And half I wished to be again of men."
+
+  "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
+  A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
+  And greener fields than in yon world above,
+  And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
+  "But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
+  Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
+  Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
+  I left so late was into chaos hurled,
+  Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
+  And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
+  Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
+  And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
+  But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
+  Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
+  Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
+  For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
+  Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
+  A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
+
+  "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
+  Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
+  We came, my love; around, above, below,
+  Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
+  Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
+  _She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
+  But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
+  Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
+  Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
+  Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
+  When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
+  Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
+  But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
+  As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
+  We paused before the heritage of men,
+  And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
+
+  Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
+  The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
+  They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
+  Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
+
+
+1839.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
+
+
+[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
+
+
+[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
+them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.]
+
+
+[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
+
+
+[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.]
+
+
+[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
+
+
+[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
+fol. edit.
+
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
+
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
+
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+
+  Dicite sacrorum præesides nemorum Dese, etc.,
+  Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
+  Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
+  Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
+  Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+--And afterwards,
+
+  Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
+  Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 12:
+
+  Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
+  Seinem Schosskinde
+  Der Phantasie.
+
+'Goethe'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.]
+
+
+[Footnote 15: Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.]
+
+
+[Footnote 16:
+
+  Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
+  Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+  "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
+  érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles--peut-il être un chef
+  d'oeuvre des arts!"]
+
+
+[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
+by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
+argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
+"Asphaltites."]
+
+
+[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
+
+
+[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
+
+
+[Footnote 21:
+
+  Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+  "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.]
+
+
+[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
+
+
+[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+  "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+  musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+  do make when they growe."]
+
+
+[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+  O! were there an island,
+    Tho' ever so wild,
+  Where woman might smile, and
+    No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
+
+
+[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+  Un no rompido sueno--
+  Un dia puro--allegre--libre
+  Quiera--
+  Libre de amor--de zelo--
+  De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
+
+'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
+
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.
+
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.]
+
+
+[Footnote 27:
+
+  There be tears of perfect moan
+  Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
+
+
+[Footnote 29:
+
+  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
+  Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+'Marlowe.']
+
+
+[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TAMERLANE.
+
+
+  Kind solace in a dying hour!
+  Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
+  I will not madly deem that power
+  Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
+  Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
+  I have no time to dote or dream:
+  You call it hope--that fire of fire!
+  It is but agony of desire:
+  If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
+  Its fount is holier--more divine--
+  I would not call thee fool, old man,
+  But such is not a gift of thine.
+
+  Know thou the secret of a spirit
+  Bowed from its wild pride into shame
+  O yearning heart! I did inherit
+  Thy withering portion with the fame,
+  The searing glory which hath shone
+  Amid the Jewels of my throne,
+  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
+  Not Hell shall make me fear again--
+  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
+  And sunshine of my summer hours!
+  The undying voice of that dead time,
+  With its interminable chime,
+  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
+  Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
+
+  I have not always been as now:
+  The fevered diadem on my brow
+  I claimed and won usurpingly--
+  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
+  Rome to the Cæsar--this to me?
+  The heritage of a kingly mind,
+  And a proud spirit which hath striven
+  Triumphantly with human kind.
+  On mountain soil I first drew life:
+  The mists of the Taglay have shed
+  Nightly their dews upon my head,
+  And, I believe, the winged strife
+  And tumult of the headlong air
+  Have nestled in my very hair.
+
+  So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
+  ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
+  Upon me with the touch of Hell,
+  While the red flashing of the light
+  From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
+  Appeared to my half-closing eye
+  The pageantry of monarchy;
+  And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
+  Came hurriedly upon me, telling
+  Of human battle, where my voice,
+  My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
+  (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
+  And leap within me at the cry)
+  The battle-cry of Victory!
+
+  The rain came down upon my head
+  Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
+  Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
+  It was but man, I thought, who shed
+  Laurels upon me: and the rush--
+  The torrent of the chilly air
+  Gurgled within my ear the crush
+  Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
+  The hum of suitors--and the tone
+  Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
+
+  My passions, from that hapless hour,
+  Usurped a tyranny which men
+  Have deemed since I have reached to power,
+  My innate nature--be it so:
+  But, father, there lived one who, then,
+  Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
+  Burned with a still intenser glow
+  (For passion must, with youth, expire)
+  E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
+  In woman's weakness had a part.
+
+  I have no words--alas!--to tell
+  The loveliness of loving well!
+  Nor would I now attempt to trace
+  The more than beauty of a face
+  Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
+  Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
+  Thus I remember having dwelt
+  Some page of early lore upon,
+  With loitering eye, till I have felt
+  The letters--with their meaning--melt
+  To fantasies--with none.
+
+  O, she was worthy of all love!
+  Love as in infancy was mine--
+  'Twas such as angel minds above
+  Might envy; her young heart the shrine
+  On which my every hope and thought
+  Were incense--then a goodly gift,
+  For they were childish and upright--
+  Pure--as her young example taught:
+  Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
+  Trust to the fire within, for light?
+
+  We grew in age--and love--together--
+  Roaming the forest, and the wild;
+  My breast her shield in wintry weather--
+  And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
+  And she would mark the opening skies,
+  _I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
+  Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
+  For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
+  When, from our little cares apart,
+  And laughing at her girlish wiles,
+  I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
+  And pour my spirit out in tears--
+  There was no need to speak the rest--
+  No need to quiet any fears
+  Of her--who asked no reason why,
+  But turned on me her quiet eye!
+
+  Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
+  My spirit struggled with, and strove
+  When, on the mountain peak, alone,
+  Ambition lent it a new tone--
+  I had no being--but in thee:
+  The world, and all it did contain
+  In the earth--the air--the sea--
+  Its joy--its little lot of pain
+  That was new pleasure--the ideal,
+  Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
+  And dimmer nothings which were real--
+  (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
+  Parted upon their misty wings,
+  And, so, confusedly, became
+  Thine image and--a name--a name!
+  Two separate--yet most intimate things.
+
+  I was ambitious--have you known
+  The passion, father? You have not:
+  A cottager, I marked a throne
+  Of half the world as all my own,
+  And murmured at such lowly lot--
+  But, just like any other dream,
+  Upon the vapor of the dew
+  My own had past, did not the beam
+  Of beauty which did while it thro'
+  The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
+  My mind with double loveliness.
+
+  We walked together on the crown
+  Of a high mountain which looked down
+  Afar from its proud natural towers
+  Of rock and forest, on the hills--
+  The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
+  And shouting with a thousand rills.
+
+  I spoke to her of power and pride,
+  But mystically--in such guise
+  That she might deem it nought beside
+  The moment's converse; in her eyes
+  I read, perhaps too carelessly--
+  A mingled feeling with my own--
+  The flush on her bright cheek, to me
+  Seemed to become a queenly throne
+  Too well that I should let it be
+  Light in the wilderness alone.
+
+  I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
+  And donned a visionary crown--
+  Yet it was not that Fantasy
+  Had thrown her mantle over me--
+  But that, among the rabble--men,
+  Lion ambition is chained down--
+  And crouches to a keeper's hand--
+  Not so in deserts where the grand--
+  The wild--the terrible conspire
+  With their own breath to fan his fire.
+
+  Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
+  Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
+  Above all cities? in her hand
+  Their destinies? in all beside
+  Of glory which the world hath known
+  Stands she not nobly and alone?
+  Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
+  Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
+  And who her sovereign? Timour--he
+  Whom the astonished people saw
+  Striding o'er empires haughtily
+  A diademed outlaw!
+
+  O, human love! thou spirit given,
+  On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
+  Which fall'st into the soul like rain
+  Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
+  And, failing in thy power to bless,
+  But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
+  Idea! which bindest life around
+  With music of so strange a sound
+  And beauty of so wild a birth--
+  Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
+
+  When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
+  No cliff beyond him in the sky,
+  His pinions were bent droopingly--
+  And homeward turned his softened eye.
+  'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
+  There comes a sullenness of heart
+  To him who still would look upon
+  The glory of the summer sun.
+  That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
+  So often lovely, and will list
+  To the sound of the coming darkness (known
+  To those whose spirits hearken) as one
+  Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
+  But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
+
+  What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
+  Shed all the splendor of her noon,
+  _Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
+  In that time of dreariness, will seem
+  (So like you gather in your breath)
+  A portrait taken after death.
+  And boyhood is a summer sun
+  Whose waning is the dreariest one--
+  For all we live to know is known,
+  And all we seek to keep hath flown--
+  Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
+  With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
+  I reached my home--my home no more--
+  For all had flown who made it so.
+  I passed from out its mossy door,
+  And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
+  A voice came from the threshold stone
+  Of one whom I had earlier known--
+  O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
+  On beds of fire that burn below,
+  An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
+
+  Father, I firmly do believe--
+  I _know_--for Death who comes for me
+  From regions of the blest afar,
+  Where there is nothing to deceive,
+  Hath left his iron gate ajar.
+  And rays of truth you cannot see
+  Are flashing thro' Eternity----
+  I do believe that Eblis hath
+  A snare in every human path--
+  Else how, when in the holy grove
+  I wandered of the idol, Love,--
+  Who daily scents his snowy wings
+  With incense of burnt-offerings
+  From the most unpolluted things,
+  Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
+  Above with trellised rays from Heaven
+  No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
+  The light'ning of his eagle eye--
+  How was it that Ambition crept,
+  Unseen, amid the revels there,
+  Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
+  In the tangles of Love's very hair!
+
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece,
+  To the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
+
+
+  _Once_ it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sun-light lazily lay,
+  _Now_ each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless--
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Unceasingly, from morn till even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye--
+  Over the lilies that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ISRAFEL. [1]
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamoured Moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven),
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty--
+  Where Love's a grow-up God--
+    Where the Houri glances are
+  Imbued with all the beauty
+    Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore, thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest!
+  Merrily live and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit--
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute--
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+    Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+
+1836.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+  sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+'Koran'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  I heed not that my earthly lot
+    Hath--little of Earth in it--
+  That years of love have been forgot
+    In the hatred of a minute:--
+  I mourn not that the desolate
+    Are happier, sweet, than I,
+  But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
+    Who am a passer-by.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
+    The wantonest singing birds,
+
+  Are lips--and all thy melody
+    Of lip-begotten words--
+
+  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
+    Then desolately fall,
+  O God! on my funereal mind
+    Like starlight on a pall--
+
+  Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
+    And sleep to dream till day
+  Of the truth that gold can never buy--
+    Of the baubles that it may.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIVER
+
+
+  Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
+    Of crystal, wandering water,
+  Thou art an emblem of the glow
+        Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
+        The playful maziness of art
+    In old Alberto's daughter;
+
+  But when within thy wave she looks--
+    Which glistens then, and trembles--
+  Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
+    Her worshipper resembles;
+  For in his heart, as in thy stream,
+    Her image deeply lies--
+  His heart which trembles at the beam
+    Of her soul-searching eyes.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONG.
+
+
+  I saw thee on thy bridal day--
+    When a burning blush came o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee:
+
+  And in thine eye a kindling light
+    (Whatever it might be)
+  Was all on Earth my aching sight
+    Of Loveliness could see.
+
+  That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
+    As such it well may pass--
+  Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
+    In the breast of him, alas!
+
+  Who saw thee on that bridal day,
+    When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
+
+
+  Thy soul shall find itself alone
+  'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
+  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--tho' 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 forever.
+  Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
+  Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
+  From thy spirit shall they pass
+  No more--like dew-drops 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!
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM.
+
+
+  In visions of the dark night
+    I have dreamed of joy departed--
+  But a waking dream of life and light
+    Hath left me broken-hearted.
+
+  Ah! what is not a dream by day
+    To him whose eyes are cast
+  On things around him with a ray
+    Turned back upon the past?
+
+  That holy dream--that holy dream,
+    While all the world were chiding,
+  Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
+    A lonely spirit guiding.
+
+  What though that light, thro' storm and night,
+    So trembled from afar--
+  What could there be more purely bright
+    In Truth's day star?
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE.
+
+
+  Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
+  With drowsy head and folded wing,
+  Among the green leaves as they shake
+  Far down within some shadowy lake,
+  To me a painted paroquet
+  Hath been--a most familiar bird--
+  Taught me my alphabet to say--
+  To lisp my very earliest word
+  While in the wild wood I did lie,
+  A child--with a most knowing eye.
+
+  Of late, eternal Condor years
+  So shake the very Heaven on high
+  With tumult as they thunder by,
+  I have no time for idle cares
+  Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
+  And when an hour with calmer wings
+  Its down upon my spirit flings--
+  That little time with lyre and rhyme
+  To while away--forbidden things!
+  My heart would feel to be a crime
+  Unless it trembled with the strings.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FAIRYLAND.
+
+
+  Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
+  And cloudy-looking woods,
+  Whose forms we can't discover
+  For the tears that drip all over
+  Huge moons there wax and wane--
+  Again--again--again--
+  Every moment of the night--
+  Forever changing places--
+  And they put out the star-light
+  With the breath from their pale faces.
+  About twelve by the moon-dial
+  One more filmy than the rest
+  (A kind which, upon trial,
+  They have found to be the best)
+  Comes down--still down--and down
+  With its centre on the crown
+  Of a mountain's eminence,
+  While its wide circumference
+  In easy drapery falls
+  Over hamlets, over halls,
+  Wherever they may be--
+  O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
+  Over spirits on the wing--
+  Over every drowsy thing--
+  And buries them up quite
+  In a labyrinth of light--
+  And then, how deep!--O, deep!
+  Is the passion of their sleep.
+  In the morning they arise,
+  And their moony covering
+  Is soaring in the skies,
+  With the tempests as they toss,
+  Like--almost any thing--
+  Or a yellow Albatross.
+  They use that moon no more
+  For the same end as before--
+  Videlicet a tent--
+  Which I think extravagant:
+  Its atomies, however,
+  Into a shower dissever,
+  Of which those butterflies,
+  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
+  And so come down again
+  (Never-contented thing!)
+  Have brought a specimen
+  Upon their quivering wings.
+
+
+1831
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAKE.
+
+
+  In spring of youth it was my lot
+  To haunt of the wide world a spot
+  The which I could not love the less--
+  So lovely was the loneliness
+  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
+  And the tall pines that towered around.
+
+  But when the Night had thrown her pall
+  Upon the spot, as upon all,
+  And the mystic wind went by
+  Murmuring in melody--
+  Then--ah, then, I would awake
+  To the terror of the lone lake.
+
+  Yet that terror was not fright,
+  But a tremulous delight--
+  A feeling not the jewelled mine
+  Could teach or bribe me to define--
+  Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
+
+  Death was in that poisonous wave,
+  And in its gulf a fitting grave
+  For him who thence could solace bring
+  To his lone imagining--
+  Whose solitary soul could make
+  An Eden of that dim lake.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EVENING STAR.
+
+
+  'Twas noontide of summer,
+    And midtime of night,
+  And stars, in their orbits,
+    Shone pale, through the light
+  Of the brighter, cold moon.
+    'Mid planets her slaves,
+  Herself in the Heavens,
+    Her beam on the waves.
+
+    I gazed awhile
+    On her cold smile;
+  Too cold--too cold for me--
+    There passed, as a shroud,
+    A fleecy cloud,
+  And I turned away to thee,
+    Proud Evening Star,
+    In thy glory afar
+  And dearer thy beam shall be;
+    For joy to my heart
+    Is the proud part
+  Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
+    And more I admire
+    Thy distant fire,
+  Than that colder, lowly light.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+IMITATION.
+
+
+  A dark unfathomed tide
+  Of interminable pride--
+  A mystery, and a dream,
+  Should my early life seem;
+  I say that dream was fraught
+  With a wild and waking thought
+  Of beings that have been,
+  Which my spirit hath not seen,
+  Had I let them pass me by,
+  With a dreaming eye!
+  Let none of earth inherit
+  That vision on my spirit;
+  Those thoughts I would control,
+  As a spell upon his soul:
+  For that bright hope at last
+  And that light time have past,
+  And my wordly rest hath gone
+  With a sigh as it passed on:
+  I care not though it perish
+  With a thought I then did cherish.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
+
+
+     I.       The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                My seared and blighted heart hath known,
+              The highest hope of pride and power,
+                I feel hath flown.
+
+
+     II.      Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
+                But they have vanished long, alas!
+              The visions of my youth have been--
+                But let them pass.
+
+
+     III.     And pride, what have I now with thee?
+                Another brow may ev'n inherit
+              The venom thou hast poured on me--
+                Be still my spirit!
+
+
+     IV.      The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
+              The brightest glance of pride and power
+                I feel have been:
+
+
+     V.       But were that hope of pride and power
+                Now offered with the pain
+              Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
+                I would not live again:
+
+     VI.      For on its wing was dark alloy
+                And as it fluttered--fell
+              An essence--powerful to destroy
+                A soul that knew it well.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Translation from the Greek.
+
+
+HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
+
+
+  I.      Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
+            Like those champions devoted and brave,
+          When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
+            And to Athens deliverance gave.
+
+  II.     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
+            In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
+          Where the mighty of old have their home--
+            Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
+
+  III.    In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
+            Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
+          When he made at the tutelar shrine
+            A libation of Tyranny's blood.
+
+  IV.     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
+            Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
+          Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
+            Embalmed in their echoing songs!
+
+1827
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMS.
+
+
+  Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
+  My spirit not awakening, till the beam
+  Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
+  Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
+  'Twere better than the cold reality
+  Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
+  And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
+  A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
+  But should it be--that dream eternally
+  Continuing--as dreams have been to me
+  In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
+  'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
+  For I have revelled when the sun was bright
+  I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
+  And loveliness,--have left my very heart
+  Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
+  From mine own home, with beings that have been
+  Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
+  'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
+  From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
+  Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
+  Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
+  Its image on my spirit--or the moon
+  Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
+  Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
+  That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
+  _I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
+  I have been happy--and I love the theme:
+  Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
+  As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
+  Of semblance with reality which brings
+  To the delirious eye, more lovely things
+  Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
+  Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
+
+
+          _How often we forget all time, when lone
+          Admiring Nature's universal throne;
+          Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
+          Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
+
+
+I.        In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
+            In secret communing held--as he with it,
+          In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
+            Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
+          From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
+            A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
+          And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
+            Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
+
+
+II.       Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
+            To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
+          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
+            With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
+          Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
+            The unembodied essence, and no more
+          That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
+            As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
+
+
+III.      Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
+            To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
+          Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
+            And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
+          From us in life--but common--which doth lie
+            Each hour before us--but then only bid
+          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
+            T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
+
+
+IV.       Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
+            In beauty by our God, to those alone
+          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
+            Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
+          That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
+            Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
+          With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
+            Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A PÆAN.
+
+
+
+I.        How shall the burial rite be read?
+            The solemn song be sung?
+          The requiem for the loveliest dead,
+            That ever died so young?
+
+
+II.       Her friends are gazing on her,
+            And on her gaudy bier,
+          And weep!--oh! to dishonor
+            Dead beauty with a tear!
+
+
+III.     They loved her for her wealth--
+           And they hated her for her pride--
+          But she grew in feeble health,
+            And they _love_ her--that she died.
+
+
+IV.      They tell me (while they speak
+           Of her "costly broider'd pall")
+         That my voice is growing weak--
+           That I should not sing at all--
+
+
+V.       Or that my tone should be
+           Tun'd to such solemn song
+         So mournfully--so mournfully,
+           That the dead may feel no wrong.
+
+
+VI.      But she is gone above,
+           With young Hope at her side,
+         And I am drunk with love
+           Of the dead, who is my bride.--
+
+VII.     Of the dead--dead who lies
+           All perfum'd there,
+         With the death upon her eyes.
+           And the life upon her hair.
+
+
+VIII.    Thus on the coffin loud and long
+           I strike--the murmur sent
+         Through the gray chambers to my song,
+           Shall be the accompaniment.
+
+
+IX.      Thou diedst in thy life's June--
+           But thou didst not die too fair:
+         Thou didst not die too soon,
+           Nor with too calm an air.
+
+
+X.       From more than friends on earth,
+           Thy life and love are riven,
+         To join the untainted mirth
+           Of more than thrones in heaven.--
+
+
+XI.      Therefore, to thee this night
+           I will no requiem raise,
+         But waft thee on thy flight,
+           With a Pæan of old days.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+
+AL AARAAF.
+
+
+  Mysterious star!
+  Thou wert my dream
+  All a long summer night--
+  Be now my theme!
+  By this clear stream,
+  Of thee will I write;
+  Meantime from afar
+  Bathe me in light!
+
+  Thy world has not the dross of ours,
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our love or deck our bowers
+  In dreamy gardens, where do lie
+  Dreamy maidens all the day;
+  While the silver winds of Circassy
+  On violet couches faint away.
+  Little--oh! little dwells in thee
+  Like unto what on earth we see:
+  Beauty's eye is here the bluest
+  In the falsest and untruest--
+  On the sweetest air doth float
+  The most sad and solemn note--
+  If with thee be broken hearts,
+  Joy so peacefully departs,
+  That its echo still doth dwell,
+  Like the murmur in the shell.
+  Thou! thy truest type of grief
+  Is the gently falling leaf--
+  Thou! thy framing is so holy
+  Sorrow is not melancholy.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+
+  Succeeding years, too wild for song,
+  Then rolled like tropic storms along,
+  Where, though the garish lights that fly
+  Dying along the troubled sky,
+  Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
+  The blackness of the general Heaven,
+  That very blackness yet doth fling
+  Light on the lightning's silver wing.
+
+  For being an idle boy lang syne,
+  Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
+  I early found Anacreon rhymes
+  Were almost passionate sometimes--
+  And by strange alchemy of brain
+  His pleasures always turned to pain--
+  His naïveté to wild desire--
+  His wit to love--his wine to fire--
+  And so, being young and dipt in folly,
+  I fell in love with melancholy.
+
+  And used to throw my earthly rest
+  And quiet all away in jest--
+  I could not love except where Death
+  Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
+  Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
+  Were stalking between her and me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
+  Gone are the glory and the gloom--
+  The black hath mellow'd into gray,
+  And all the fires are fading away.
+
+  My draught of passion hath been deep--
+  I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
+  And after drunkenness of soul
+  Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
+  An idle longing night and day
+  To dream my very life away.
+
+  But dreams--of those who dream as I,
+  Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
+  Yet should I swear I mean alone,
+  By notes so very shrilly blown,
+  To break upon Time's monotone,
+  While yet my vapid joy and grief
+  Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
+  Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
+  Will shake his shadow in my path--
+  And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
+  Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                 DOUBTFUL POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ALONE.
+
+
+  From childhood's hour I have not been
+  As others were--I have not seen
+  As others saw--I could not bring
+  My passions from a common spring--
+  From the same source I have not taken
+  My sorrow--I could not awaken
+  My heart to joy at the same tone--
+  And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
+  _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
+  Of a most stormy life--was drawn
+  From every depth of good and ill
+  The mystery which binds me still--
+  From the torrent, or the fountain--
+  From the red cliff of the mountain--
+  From the sun that round me roll'd
+  In its autumn tint of gold--
+  From the lightning in the sky
+  As it passed me flying by--
+  From the thunder and the storm--
+  And the cloud that took the form
+  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
+  Of a demon in my view.
+
+
+March 17, 1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ISADORE.
+
+
+I.       Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
+             Whose shadows fall before
+             Thy lowly cottage door--
+         Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
+         Within thy snowy clasped hand
+             The purple flowers it bore.
+         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
+         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
+         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
+             Most beauteous Isadore!
+
+
+II.      And when I bade the dream
+             Upon thy spirit flee,
+             Thy violet eyes to me
+         Upturned, did overflowing seem
+         With the deep, untold delight
+             Of Love's serenity;
+         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
+         And pale as the Imperial Night
+         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
+             Enthralled my soul to thee!
+
+
+III.     Ah! ever I behold
+             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
+             Blue as the languid skies
+         Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
+         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
+             And olden memories
+         Are startled from their long repose
+         Like shadows on the silent snows
+         When suddenly the night-wind blows
+             Where quiet moonlight lies.
+
+
+IV.      Like music heard in dreams,
+             Like strains of harps unknown,
+             Of birds for ever flown,--
+         Audible as the voice of streams
+         That murmur in some leafy dell,
+             I hear thy gentlest tone,
+         And Silence cometh with her spell
+         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
+         When tremulous in dreams I tell
+             My love to thee alone!
+
+V.       In every valley heard,
+             Floating from tree to tree,
+             Less beautiful to me,
+         The music of the radiant bird,
+         Than artless accents such as thine
+             Whose echoes never flee!
+         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
+         For uttered in thy tones benign
+         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
+             Doth seem a melody!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE STREET.
+
+
+  In these rapid, restless shadows,
+    Once I walked at eventide,
+  When a gentle, silent maiden,
+    Walked in beauty at my side.
+  She alone there walked beside me
+  All in beauty, like a bride.
+
+  Pallidly the moon was shining
+    On the dewy meadows nigh;
+  On the silvery, silent rivers,
+    On the mountains far and high,--
+  On the ocean's star-lit waters,
+    Where the winds a-weary die.
+
+  Slowly, silently we wandered
+    From the open cottage door,
+  Underneath the elm's long branches
+    To the pavement bending o'er;
+  Underneath the mossy willow
+    And the dying sycamore.
+
+  With the myriad stars in beauty
+    All bedight, the heavens were seen,
+  Radiant hopes were bright around me,
+    Like the light of stars serene;
+  Like the mellow midnight splendor
+    Of the Night's irradiate queen.
+
+  Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
+    Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
+  Like the distant murmured music
+    Of unquiet, lovely seas;
+  While the winds were hushed in slumber
+    In the fragrant flowers and trees.
+
+  Wondrous and unwonted beauty
+    Still adorning all did seem,
+  While I told my love in fables
+    'Neath the willows by the stream;
+  Would the heart have kept unspoken
+    Love that was its rarest dream!
+
+  Instantly away we wandered
+    In the shadowy twilight tide,
+  She, the silent, scornful maiden,
+    Walking calmly at my side,
+  With a step serene and stately,
+    All in beauty, all in pride.
+
+  Vacantly I walked beside her.
+    On the earth mine eyes were cast;
+  Swift and keen there came unto me
+    Bitter memories of the past--
+  On me, like the rain in Autumn
+    On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
+
+  Underneath the elms we parted,
+    By the lowly cottage door;
+  One brief word alone was uttered--
+    Never on our lips before;
+  And away I walked forlornly,
+  Broken-hearted evermore.
+
+  Slowly, silently I loitered,
+    Homeward, in the night, alone;
+  Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
+    That my youth had never known;
+  Wild unrest, like that which cometh
+    When the Night's first dream hath flown.
+
+  Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
+    Mad, discordant melodies,
+  And keen melodies like shadows
+    Haunt the moaning willow trees,
+  And the sycamores with laughter
+    Mock me in the nightly breeze.
+
+  Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
+    Through the sighing foliage streams;
+  And each morning, midnight shadow,
+    Shadow of my sorrow seems;
+  Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
+    And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE FOREST REVERIE.
+
+
+      'Tis said that when
+      The hands of men
+    Tamed this primeval wood,
+  And hoary trees with groans of wo,
+  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
+    Were in their strength subdued,
+      The virgin Earth
+      Gave instant birth
+    To springs that ne'er did flow--
+      That in the sun
+      Did rivulets run,
+  And all around rare flowers did blow--
+      The wild rose pale
+      Perfumed the gale,
+  And the queenly lily adown the dale
+      (Whom the sun and the dew
+      And the winds did woo),
+  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
+
+      So when in tears
+      The love of years
+    Is wasted like the snow,
+  And the fine fibrils of its life
+  By the rude wrong of instant strife
+    Are broken at a blow--
+      Within the heart
+      Do springs upstart
+    Of which it doth now know,
+      And strange, sweet dreams,
+      Like silent streams
+  That from new fountains overflow,
+      With the earlier tide
+      Of rivers glide
+  Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
+  Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
+    Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
+      Sweet flowers, ere long,--
+    The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
+had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
+publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
+of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
+publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
+adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
+guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
+a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
+'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
+If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
+from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
+the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
+the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
+The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
+his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
+qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
+claimed for them."
+
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
+Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
+no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
+questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
+were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
+'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
+them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
+to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
+works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
+whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
+is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
+be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
+elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
+assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
+so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
+by the author of "The Raven."
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                              PROSE POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
+
+
+    "Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
+
+    _Servius_.
+
+
+"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
+our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
+mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
+de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
+the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
+them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
+complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
+exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
+_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
+_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
+its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
+tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
+estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
+will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
+for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
+of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
+does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
+experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
+who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
+behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
+but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
+upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
+war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
+valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
+forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
+that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
+colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
+form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
+whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
+moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
+thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
+are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
+own cognizance of the _animalculæ_ which infest the brain, a being which
+we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
+same manner as these _animalculæ_ must thus regard us.
+
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
+[2].
+
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
+in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
+une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
+est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
+is a thing that does not exist.
+
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
+
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.
+
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+  So blended bank and shadow there,
+  That each seemed pendulous in air--
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings [4].
+
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
+wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
+conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
+deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
+and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
+and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
+not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
+clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
+seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
+with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
+and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
+and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
+momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
+entombed.
+
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
+
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."
+
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
+at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
+"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+'De Sitû Orbis', says,
+
+  "Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4:
+
+  "Florem putares nare per liquidum æthera."
+
+'P. Commire'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POWER OF WORDS.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
+  immortality!
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+  Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
+  the angels freely, that it may be given!
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+  all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+  knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+  all, were the curse of a fiend.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But does not The Most High know all?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  _That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
+  unknown even to HIM.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
+  be known?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
+  the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+  thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+  points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
+  walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+  appeared to blend into unity?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
+  infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
+  at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
+  unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
+  soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
+  Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
+  swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
+  where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
+  triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
+  earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+  now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+  accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+  not God?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Explain!
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+  throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+  be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+  immediate results of the Divine creative power.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+  extreme.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
+  Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+  to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
+  final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
+  successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
+  denominate the creation of animalculæ.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+  creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
+  since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+  hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
+  immediate handiwork of the King?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+  conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+  perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+  example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+  vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+  indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+  earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
+  one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
+  well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
+  by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
+  became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+  extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+  atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+  a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+  the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+  of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
+  portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+  of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
+  retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+  analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+  progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+  applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+  applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+  deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+  understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
+  lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
+  given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
+  consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+  demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
+  end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
+  universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
+  we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
+  impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+  particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
+  modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
+  new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
+  the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
+  but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
+  these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
+  inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+  analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+  power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
+  faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
+  causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
+  variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
+  itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+  proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
+  pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+  _creation_.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+  motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  God.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+  lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  You did.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+  the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
+  air?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+  we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
+  terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+  flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
+  passions of a turbulent heart.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
+  since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
+  beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
+  brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
+  raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
+  unhallowed of hearts!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
+
+
+  [Greek: Mellonta  sauta']
+
+  These things are in the future.
+
+  _Sophocles_--'Antig.'
+
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  "Born again?"
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+  upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+  explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+  secret.
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Death!
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+  vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+  confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+  Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+  which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+  upon all pleasures!
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+  we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+  did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+  no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+  within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+  in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+  strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+  evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+  became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+  say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+  incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+  be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+  begin?
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  At what point?
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  You have said.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+  of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+  the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
+  instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+  breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+  eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+  epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+  forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
+  ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+  to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+  five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+  some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+  truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+  --principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+  guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+  long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+  in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+  Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
+  have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
+  of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+  _analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
+  the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
+  intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
+  the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
+  of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
+  intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
+  of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
+  scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
+  themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
+  scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
+  upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
+  enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
+  solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
+  blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
+  solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
+  exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
+  opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+  days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
+  diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
+  and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+  them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+  of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+  still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+  God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+  be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+  system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+  Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+  in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
+  voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
+  Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+  made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+  Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+  cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+  of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+  of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+  slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+  arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+  destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
+  neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
+  crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
+  between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
+  have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
+  gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
+  contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
+  [Greek: mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+  education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
+  desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
+  [1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+  truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se réduit à céder au
+  sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+  natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+  over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+  not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+  age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+  living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+  myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+  the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+  Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+  the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+  either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+  regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+  artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+  and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+  but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+  save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+  that he must be "_born again._"
+
+  And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+  daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+  days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+  undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+  obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+  mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+  length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
+  man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+  no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+  but still for the _material_, man.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+  the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+  corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+  and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+  grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+  the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+  together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+  of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+  the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+  had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+  fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+  replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+  pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
+  days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+  torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
+
+  Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+  It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+  him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+  fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+  consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+  being awakened by external disturbances.
+
+  I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+  beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+  unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
+  other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+  confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+  rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+  last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
+  far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+  have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+  offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+  the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
+  range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+  distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+  the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+  struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+  this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+  _sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+  themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
+  in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+  was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
+  extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+  undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+  received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+  highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+  upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+  long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+  immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
+  purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+  senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+  understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+  much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+  floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+  appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+  musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+  intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+  constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+  heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+  alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
+  spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
+  loud cries.
+
+  They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
+  flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+  vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
+  images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+  dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+  in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
+
+  The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+  vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+  sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
+  solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+  dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+  oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+  palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+  reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+  first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+  lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+  forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+  but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+  great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+  there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+  melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+  which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+  from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+  tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+  sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+  sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+  to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+  pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+  faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+  purely sensual pleasure as before.
+
+  And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+  appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+  exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
+  inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+  frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+  artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+  _that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
+  even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
+  pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
+  _Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
+  this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
+  By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
+  and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
+  to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
+  these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
+  abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
+  no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
+  accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
+  mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
+  this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
+  sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
+  exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
+  sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
+  obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
+  the temporal eternity.
+
+  It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+  from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+  lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+  monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+  distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+  nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+  of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+  of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+  the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+  the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+  duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+  the deadly _Decay_.
+
+  Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+  sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+  intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+  flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+  of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+  sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+  not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+  which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+  hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+  heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+  and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
+
+  And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+  rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+  each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+  flight--without effort and without object.
+
+  A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
+  indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
+  its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
+  _place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
+  body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
+  happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
+  imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
+  slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
+  yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
+  of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
+  startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
+  which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
+  bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
+  That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
+  vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
+  had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
+  had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
+  instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
+  and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
+  form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
+  sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+  portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+  grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+  which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+  may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+  _music_ for the soul."
+
+Repub. lib. 2.
+
+  "For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+  causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+  taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
+  the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
+  beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
+  and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
+
+Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
+in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
+the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
+the true.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
+
+
+  I will bring fire to thee.
+
+  _Euripides_.--'Androm'.
+
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Why do you call me Eiros?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
+  earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  This is indeed no dream!
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+  see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+  already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+  allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+  induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
+  terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+  rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+  senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+  of _the new_.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
+  feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+  undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+  suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  In Aidenn?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  In Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+  things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
+  the august and certain Present.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+  Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+  of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
+  burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+  which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+  things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+  fearfully perished.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+  cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+  of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+  mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
+  remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+  unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+  philosophy of the day.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+  analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+  astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+  left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+  writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+  having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+  immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+  epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+  the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+  been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+  satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+  either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+  had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+  tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+  substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+  in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+  accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
+  the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
+  inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
+  strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
+  the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
+  by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
+  received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
+
+  The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+  was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+  would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+  two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+  that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+  effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+  would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+  among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+  truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+  understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+  astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+  approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+  very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+  perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+  in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+  Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+  absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+  respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+  their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
+  gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
+  fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
+  for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
+  in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
+  bowed down and adored.
+
+  That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+  from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+  among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+  reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+  density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
+  gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+  satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+  served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+  fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+  to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+  instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+  be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+  enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+  nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+  great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+  It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+  regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
+  every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
+  some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+  from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+  excessive interest.
+
+  What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+  question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+  probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+  possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+  or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+  discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+  larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+  grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
+
+  There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+  comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+  previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+  lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+  certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+  hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+  A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+  sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+  orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
+  disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
+  saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
+  incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
+  with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
+  rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
+
+  Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+  were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+  felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+  exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+  heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+  vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+  predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+  luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+  vegetable thing.
+
+  Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+  evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+  over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
+  general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+  rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+  dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+  radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+  possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+  topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+  thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
+
+  It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+  of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+  of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+  atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+  vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+  life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+  Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+  life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+  ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+  latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+  which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
+  extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
+  omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
+  minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
+  denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
+
+  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+  That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+  was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+  gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+  Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
+  Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+  bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+  possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+  threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+  of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+  I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+  moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+  all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+  majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
+  sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
+  mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+  intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+  even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+  Thus ended all.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
+
+
+    Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
+
+    'Psalm of David'.
+
+
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
+
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.
+
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
+heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
+all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
+the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
+thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
+limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
+drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
+save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
+Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
+burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
+formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
+assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
+glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
+merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
+Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
+reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
+the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
+enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
+portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
+plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
+of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
+the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
+although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
+still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
+expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
+mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
+Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
+off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
+undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.--A FABLE.
+
+
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
+
+"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
+"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
+of the river Zäire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
+
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.
+
+"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zäire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.
+
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.
+
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
+
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
+
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zäire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
+down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
+the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.
+
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
+the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
+more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
+SILENCE.
+
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
+
+...
+
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                   ESSAYS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
+
+
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
+
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
+
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
+commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
+
+In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
+very long poem will ever be popular again.
+
+That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
+its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
+sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
+Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
+considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
+concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
+saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
+physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
+the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
+material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
+instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
+_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
+the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
+about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
+gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
+effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
+praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
+sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
+rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
+the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
+effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
+fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
+can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
+proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
+as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
+falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
+
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
+while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
+profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.
+
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+
+  I arise from dreams of thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night
+  When the winds are breathing low,
+    And the stars are shining bright.
+  I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+  Has led me--who knows how?--
+    To thy chamber-window, sweet!
+
+  The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark the silent stream--
+  The champak odors fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+  The nightingale's complaint,
+    It dies upon her heart,
+  As I must die on thine,
+    O, beloved as thou art!
+
+  O, lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+  Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+  My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast:
+  O, press it close to thine again,
+    Where it will break at last!
+
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
+
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
+    Walk'd spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
+    And honor charm'd the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true--
+  For heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo--
+  But honor'd well her charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail--
+  Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
+    And nothing could avail.
+
+  No mercy now can clear her brow
+    From this world's peace to pray,
+  For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
+    Her woman's heart gave way!--
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
+    By man is cursed alway!
+
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.
+
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
+has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
+the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
+should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
+work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
+idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
+have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
+sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
+confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
+force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
+look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
+the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
+dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
+se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
+solely for the poem's sake.
+
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
+with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
+flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
+truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
+simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
+we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
+converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
+perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
+poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
+who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
+reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
+
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
+
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
+those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
+_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
+
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
+which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
+feel_ as poetic.
+
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
+in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
+that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
+unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
+union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
+widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
+had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
+own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
+
+To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
+Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
+Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
+Truth.
+
+A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
+the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
+maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
+of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
+elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
+Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
+satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
+the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
+sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
+obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
+possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
+deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
+attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
+incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
+Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
+may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
+work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
+proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.
+
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
+    That my soul cannot resist;
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day,
+  Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+
+           --the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+  Down the corridors of Time.
+
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
+of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
+sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
+"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
+to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
+attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
+should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
+writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
+in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
+adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
+author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
+upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
+occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
+considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
+sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
+
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+
+  There, through the long, long summer hours,
+    The golden light should lie,
+  And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
+    Stand in their beauty by.
+  The oriole should build and tell
+  His love-tale, close beside my cell;
+    The idle butterfly
+  Should rest him there, and there be heard
+  The housewife-bee and humming bird.
+
+  And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
+    Come, from the village sent,
+  Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
+    With fairy laughter blent?
+  And what if, in the evening light,
+  Betrothed lovers walk in sight
+    Of my low monument?
+  I would the lovely scene around
+  Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
+
+  I know, I know I should not see
+    The season's glorious show,
+  Nor would its brightness shine for me;
+    Nor its wild music flow;
+
+  But if, around my place of sleep,
+  The friends I love should come to weep,
+    They might not haste to go.
+  Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
+  Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
+
+  These to their soften'd hearts should bear
+    The thought of what has been,
+  And speak of one who cannot share
+    The gladness of the scene;
+  Whose part in all the pomp that fills
+  The circuit of the summer hills,
+    Is--that his grave is green;
+  And deeply would their hearts rejoice
+  To hear again his living voice.
+
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+
+  I fill this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon;
+  To whom the better elements
+    And kindly stars have given
+  A form so fair, that like the air,
+    'Tis less of earth than heaven.
+
+  Her every tone is music's own,
+    Like those of morning birds,
+  And something more than melody
+    Dwells ever in her words;
+  The coinage of her heart are they,
+    And from her lips each flows
+  As one may see the burden'd bee
+    Forth issue from the rose.
+
+  Affections are as thoughts to her,
+    The measures of her hours;
+  Her feelings have the fragrancy,
+    The freshness of young flowers;
+  And lovely passions, changing oft,
+    So fill her, she appears
+  The image of themselves by turns,--
+    The idol of past years!
+
+  Of her bright face one glance will trace
+    A picture on the brain,
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain;
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When death is nigh my latest sigh
+    Will not be life's, but hers.
+
+  I fill'd this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon--
+  Her health! and would on earth there stood,
+    Some more of such a frame,
+  That life might be all poetry,
+    And weariness a name.
+
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
+especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
+refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
+hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
+
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
+of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
+Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
+once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
+book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
+replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
+Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
+the chaff_ for his reward.
+
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
+_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
+point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
+they are _not_ merits altogether.
+
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
+which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
+human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
+
+
+  Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
+  Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
+  Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
+  And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
+
+  Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
+  Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
+  I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
+  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
+
+  Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
+  And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
+  Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
+  And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
+
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
+greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
+In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
+profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
+lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
+composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
+
+One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+
+  O saw ye not fair Ines?
+    She's gone into the West,
+  To dazzle when the sun is down
+    And rob the world of rest
+  She took our daylight with her,
+    The smiles that we love best,
+  With morning blushes on her cheek,
+    And pearls upon her breast.
+
+  O turn again, fair Ines,
+    Before the fall of night,
+  For fear the moon should shine alone,
+    And stars unrivall'd bright;
+  And blessed will the lover be
+    That walks beneath their light,
+  And breathes the love against thy cheek
+    I dare not even write!
+
+  Would I had been, fair Ines,
+    That gallant cavalier,
+  Who rode so gaily by thy side,
+    And whisper'd thee so near!
+  Were there no bonny dames at home,
+    Or no true lovers here,
+  That he should cross the seas to win
+    The dearest of the dear?
+
+  I saw thee, lovely Ines,
+    Descend along the shore,
+  With bands of noble gentlemen,
+    And banners-waved before;
+  And gentle youth and maidens gay,
+    And snowy plumes they wore;
+  It would have been a beauteous dream,
+    If it had been no more!
+
+  Alas, alas, fair Ines,
+    She went away with song,
+  With Music waiting on her steps,
+    And shoutings of the throng;
+  But some were sad and felt no mirth,
+    But only Music's wrong,
+  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
+    To her you've loved so long.
+
+  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
+    That vessel never bore
+  So fair a lady on its deck,
+    Nor danced so light before,--
+  Alas for pleasure on the sea,
+    And sorrow on the shore!
+  The smile that blest one lover's heart
+    Has broken many more!
+
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+
+  One more Unfortunate,
+  Weary of breath,
+  Rashly importunate
+  Gone to her death!
+
+  Take her up tenderly,
+  Lift her with care;--
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young and so fair!
+
+  Look at her garments
+  Clinging like cerements;
+  Whilst the wave constantly
+  Drips from her clothing;
+  Take her up instantly,
+  Loving, not loathing.
+
+  Touch her not scornfully
+  Think of her mournfully,
+  Gently and humanly;
+  Not of the stains of her,
+  All that remains of her
+  Now is pure womanly.
+
+  Make no deep scrutiny
+  Into her mutiny
+  Rash and undutiful;
+  Past all dishonor,
+  Death has left on her
+  Only the beautiful.
+
+  Where the lamps quiver
+  So far in the river,
+  With many a light
+  From window and casement,
+  From garret to basement,
+  She stood, with amazement,
+  Houseless by night.
+
+  The bleak wind of March
+  Made her tremble and shiver;
+  But not the dark arch,
+  Or the black flowing river:
+  Mad from life's history,
+  Glad to death's mystery,
+  Swift to be hurl'd--
+  Anywhere, anywhere
+  Out of the world!
+
+  In she plunged boldly,
+  No matter how coldly
+  The rough river ran,--
+  Over the brink of it,
+  Picture it,--think of it,
+  Dissolute Man!
+  Lave in it, drink of it
+  Then, if you can!
+
+  Still, for all slips of hers,
+  One of Eve's family--
+  Wipe those poor lips of hers
+  Oozing so clammily,
+  Loop up her tresses
+  Escaped from the comb,
+  Her fair auburn tresses;
+  Whilst wonderment guesses
+  Where was her home?
+
+  Who was her father?
+  Who was her mother!
+  Had she a sister?
+  Had she a brother?
+  Or was there a dearer one
+  Still, and a nearer one
+  Yet, than all other?
+
+  Alas! for the rarity
+  Of Christian charity
+  Under the sun!
+  Oh! it was pitiful!
+  Near a whole city full,
+  Home she had none.
+
+  Sisterly, brotherly,
+  Fatherly, motherly,
+  Feelings had changed:
+  Love, by harsh evidence,
+  Thrown from its eminence;
+  Even God's providence
+  Seeming estranged.
+
+  Take her up tenderly;
+  Lift her with care;
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young, and so fair!
+  Ere her limbs frigidly
+  Stiffen too rigidly,
+  Decently,--kindly,--
+  Smooth and compose them;
+  And her eyes, close them,
+  Staring so blindly!
+
+  Dreadfully staring
+  Through muddy impurity,
+  As when with the daring
+  Last look of despairing
+  Fixed on futurity.
+
+  Perishing gloomily,
+  Spurred by contumely,
+  Cold inhumanity,
+  Burning insanity,
+  Into her rest,--
+  Cross her hands humbly,
+  As if praying dumbly,
+  Over her breast!
+  Owning her weakness,
+  Her evil behavior,
+  And leaving, with meekness,
+  Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.
+
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+
+  Though the day of my destiny's over,
+    And the star of my fate hath declined,
+  Thy soft heart refused to discover
+    The faults which so many could find;
+  Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
+    It shrunk not to share it with me,
+  And the love which my spirit hath painted
+    It never hath found but in _thee._
+
+  Then when nature around me is smiling,
+    The last smile which answers to mine,
+  I do not believe it beguiling,
+    Because it reminds me of thine;
+  And when winds are at war with the ocean,
+    As the breasts I believed in with me,
+  If their billows excite an emotion,
+    It is that they bear me from _thee._
+
+  Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
+    And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
+  Though I feel that my soul is delivered
+    To pain--it shall not be its slave.
+  There is many a pang to pursue me:
+    They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
+  They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
+    'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
+
+  Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
+    Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
+  Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
+    Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
+  Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
+    Though parted, it was not to fly,
+  Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
+    Nor mute, that the world might belie.
+
+  Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
+    Nor the war of the many with one--
+  If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
+    'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
+  And if dearly that error hath cost me,
+    And more than I once could foresee,
+  I have found that whatever it lost me,
+    It could not deprive me of _thee_.
+
+  From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
+    Thus much I at least may recall,
+  It hath taught me that which I most cherished
+    Deserved to be dearest of all:
+  In the desert a fountain is springing,
+    In the wide waste there still is a tree,
+  And a bird in the solitude singing,
+    Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
+
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.
+
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
+_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
+profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
+_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
+ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
+so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
+long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+
+    Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
+  Tears from the depth of some divine despair
+  Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
+  In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
+  And thinking of the days that are no more.
+
+    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
+  That brings our friends up from the underworld,
+  Sad as the last which reddens over one
+  That sinks with all we love below the verge;
+  So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
+
+    Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
+  The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
+  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
+  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
+  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
+
+    Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
+  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
+  On lips that are for others; deep as love,
+  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
+  O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
+quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
+Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
+regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
+Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her _love._
+
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+
+  A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
+    A sword of metal keene!
+  Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
+    Al else on earth is meane.
+  The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
+    The rowleing of the drum,
+  The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
+    Be soundes from heaven that come.
+  And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
+    When as their war-cryes welle,
+  May tole from heaven an angel bright,
+    And rowse a fiend from hell,
+
+  Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
+    And don your helmes amaine,
+  Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
+    Us to the field againe.
+  No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
+    When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
+  Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
+    For the fayrest of the land;
+  Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
+    Thus weepe and puling crye,
+  Our business is like men to fight,
+    And hero-like to die!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
+
+
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
+the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
+He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
+volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
+accounting for what had been done."
+
+I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
+least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
+plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_
+constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
+consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
+tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
+
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.
+
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
+originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
+dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
+interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.
+
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections
+and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
+
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
+
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
+the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
+part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
+put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
+design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
+referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.
+
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
+circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.
+
+We commence, then, with this intention.
+
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
+paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
+advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
+depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.
+
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
+limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
+its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
+other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
+capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
+ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
+proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
+the production of any effect at all.
+
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
+for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
+fact, a hundred and eight.
+
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
+--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
+Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
+object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
+to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
+Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
+truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
+to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
+elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
+that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
+introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
+general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
+artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
+subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
+far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
+of the poem.
+
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
+this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
+development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
+is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
+
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
+in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
+one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
+universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
+value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
+considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
+depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
+thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
+repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
+adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
+that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
+novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
+_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
+
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
+_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
+clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
+an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
+any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
+would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
+a single word as the best _refrain_.
+
+The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
+my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
+course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
+such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
+protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
+inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
+connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
+
+The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
+select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
+possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
+tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
+impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
+first which presented itself.
+
+The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
+word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
+inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
+I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
+pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
+spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
+the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
+exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
+then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
+of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
+suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
+capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
+_tone_.
+
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
+mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
+when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
+what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
+obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
+then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
+the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
+such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
+
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
+such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
+I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
+which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
+query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
+so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
+frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
+the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
+wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
+solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
+superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
+self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
+prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
+merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
+frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
+_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
+of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
+strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
+first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
+which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
+reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
+conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
+
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+
+  "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
+  By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
+
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
+stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
+verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.
+
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
+remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
+
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
+_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
+_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
+
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.
+
+The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
+the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
+idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
+flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
+the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
+curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
+the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
+adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
+knocked.
+
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.
+
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
+being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
+lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
+
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+
+  Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
+  _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
+
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
+  By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
+  "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
+      With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+
+The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the _dénouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+_directly_ as possible.
+
+With the _dénouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
+the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
+
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
+which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
+_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
+instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
+of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
+transcendentalists.
+
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+
+  "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
+              Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+
+
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
+
+
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
+love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
+sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
+which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
+with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
+merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
+admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
+would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
+wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
+being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
+would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
+handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
+ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
+desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
+sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
+error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
+supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
+and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
+two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
+artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
+poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
+channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
+what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
+which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
+not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
+multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
+but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
+was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
+this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
+volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
+again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
+good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
+as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
+in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
+(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
+
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
+to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
+successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
+of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
+their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
+us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
+opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
+Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
+untenable and absurd.
+
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.
+
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
+author says:
+
+
+  "By the murmur of a spring,
+  Or the least boughs rustleling,
+  By a daisy whose leaves spread,
+  Shut when Titan goes to bed,
+  Or a shady bush or tree,
+  She could more infuse in me
+  Than all Nature's beauties con
+  In some other wiser man.
+  By her help I also now
+  Make this churlish place allow
+  Something that may sweeten gladness
+  In the very gall of sadness--
+  The dull loneness, the black shade,
+  That these hanging vaults have made
+  The strange music of the waves
+  Beating on these hollow caves,
+  This black den which rocks emboss,
+  Overgrown with eldest moss,
+  The rude portals that give light
+  More to terror than delight,
+  This my chamber of neglect
+  Walled about with disrespect;
+  From all these and this dull air
+  A fit object for despair,
+  She hath taught me by her might
+  To draw comfort and delight."
+
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
+of its species:
+
+
+  "It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+  'Twas on those little silver feet,
+  With what a pretty skipping grace
+  It oft would challenge me the race,
+  And when't had left me far away
+  'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
+  For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+  And trod as if on the four winds.
+  I have a garden of my own,
+  But so with roses overgrown,
+  And lilies, that you would it guess
+  To be a little wilderness;
+  And all the spring-time of the year
+  It only loved to be there.
+  Among the beds of lilies I
+  Have sought it oft where it should lie,
+  Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+  Find it, although before mine eyes.
+  For in the flaxen lilies shade
+  It like a bank of lilies laid;
+  Upon the roses it would feed
+  Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
+  And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+  And print those roses on my lip,
+  But all its chief delight was still
+  With roses thus itself to fill,
+  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
+  Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
+fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+
+  "And trod as if on the four winds!"
+
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
+being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+
+  "And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
+
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+
+  "Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
+
+
+END OF TEXT
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical
+Works, by Edgar Allan Poe
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works
+by Edgar Allan Poe
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works
+
+Author: Edgar Allan Poe
+
+Release Date: November 10, 2003 [EBook #10031]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Clytie Siddall, Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
+
+
+
+
+                                      THE
+
+
+                            COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
+
+
+                                       OF
+
+
+                                EDGAR ALLAN POE
+
+
+
+
+                               BY JOHN H. INGRAM
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+In placing before the public this collection of Edgar Poe's poetical
+works, it is requisite to point out in what respects it differs from,
+and is superior to, the numerous collections which have preceded it.
+Until recently, all editions, whether American or English, of Poe's
+poems have been 'verbatim' reprints of the first posthumous collection,
+published at New York in 1850.
+
+In 1874 I began drawing attention to the fact that unknown and
+unreprinted poetry by Edgar Poe was in existence. Most, if not all, of
+the specimens issued in my articles have since been reprinted by
+different editors and publishers, but the present is the first occasion
+on which all the pieces referred to have been garnered into one sheaf.
+Besides the poems thus alluded to, this volume will be found to contain
+many additional pieces and extra stanzas, nowhere else published or
+included in Poe's works. Such verses have been gathered from printed or
+manuscript sources during a research extending over many years.
+
+In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume,
+attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will
+be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and
+bibliographical points of view.
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+MEMOIR
+
+POEMS OF LATER LIFE:
+  Dedication
+  Preface
+  The Raven
+  The Bells
+  Ulalume
+  To Helen
+  Annabel Lee
+  A Valentine
+  An Enigma
+  To my Mother
+  For Annie
+  To F----
+  To Frances S. Osgood
+  Eldorado
+  Eulalie
+  A Dream within a Dream
+  To Marie Louise (Shew)
+  To the Same
+  The City in the Sea
+  The Sleeper,
+  Bridal Ballad
+Notes
+
+POEMS OF MANHOOD:
+  Lenore
+  To one in Paradise
+  The Coliseum
+  The Haunted Palace
+  The Conqueror Worm
+  Silence
+  Dreamland
+  To Zante
+  Hymn
+Notes
+
+SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
+Note
+
+POEMS OF YOUTH:
+  Introduction (1831)
+  To Science
+  Al Aaraaf
+  Tamerlane
+  To Helen
+  The Valley of Unrest
+  Israfel
+  To----("I heed not that my earthly lot")
+  To----("The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see")
+  To the River----
+  Song
+  Spirits of the Dead
+  A Dream
+  Romance
+  Fairyland
+  The Lake
+  Evening Star
+  Imitation
+  "The Happiest Day,"
+  Hymn. Translation from the Greek
+  Dreams
+  "In Youth I have known one"
+  A Paean
+Notes
+
+DOUBTFUL POEMS:
+  Alone
+  To Isadore
+  The Village Street
+  The Forest Reverie
+Notes
+
+PROSE POEMS:
+  The Island of the Fay
+  The Power of Words
+  The Colloquy of Monos and Una
+  The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
+  Shadow--A Parable
+  Silence--A Fable
+
+ESSAYS:
+  The Poetic Principle
+  The Philosophy of Composition
+  Old English Poetry
+
+
+
+
+
+MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
+
+
+During the last few years every incident in the life of Edgar Poe has
+been subjected to microscopic investigation. The result has not been
+altogether satisfactory. On the one hand, envy and prejudice have
+magnified every blemish of his character into crime, whilst on the
+other, blind admiration would depict him as far "too good for human
+nature's daily food." Let us endeavor to judge him impartially, granting
+that he was as a mortal subject to the ordinary weaknesses of mortality,
+but that he was tempted sorely, treated badly, and suffered deeply.
+
+The poet's ancestry and parentage are chiefly interesting as explaining
+some of the complexities of his character. His father, David Poe, was of
+Anglo-Irish extraction. Educated for the Bar, he elected to abandon it
+for the stage. In one of his tours through the chief towns of the United
+States he met and married a young actress, Elizabeth Arnold, member of
+an English family distinguished for its musical talents. As an actress,
+Elizabeth Poe acquired some reputation, but became even better known for
+her domestic virtues. In those days the United States afforded little
+scope for dramatic energy, so it is not surprising to find that when her
+husband died, after a few years of married life, the young widow had a
+vain struggle to maintain herself and three little ones, William Henry,
+Edgar, and Rosalie. Before her premature death, in December, 1811, the
+poet's mother had been reduced to the dire necessity of living on the
+charity of her neighbors.
+
+Edgar, the second child of David and Elizabeth Poe, was born at Boston,
+in the United States, on the 19th of January, 1809. Upon his mother's
+death at Richmond, Virginia, Edgar was adopted by a wealthy Scotch
+merchant, John Allan. Mr. Allan, who had married an American lady and
+settled in Virginia, was childless. He therefore took naturally to the
+brilliant and beautiful little boy, treated him as his son, and made him
+take his own surname. Edgar Allan, as he was now styled, after some
+elementary tuition in Richmond, was taken to England by his adopted
+parents, and, in 1816, placed at the Manor House School,
+Stoke-Newington.
+
+Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life
+neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is
+himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson',
+described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick
+and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been
+spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed
+him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into
+all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but,
+poor fellow, his parents spoiled him."
+
+Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story
+of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic
+exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record
+we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their
+literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description
+of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably
+accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went
+through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the
+author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His
+schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old,
+irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its
+destruction a few years ago.
+
+The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days
+spent in the English academy, says,
+
+  "The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world of incident
+  to occupy or amuse it. The morning's awakening, the nightly summons to
+  bed; the connings, the recitations, the periodical half-holidays and
+  perambulations, the playground, with its broils, its pastimes, its
+  intrigues--these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were made to
+  involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incident, a
+  universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and
+  spirit-stirring, _'Oh, le bon temps, que ce siecle de fer!'"_
+
+From this world of boyish imagination Poe was called to his adopted
+parents' home in the United States. He returned to America in 1821, and
+was speedily placed in an academy in Richmond, Virginia, in which city
+the Allans continued to reside. Already well grounded in the elementary
+processes of education, not without reputation on account of his
+European residence, handsome, proud, and regarded as the heir of a
+wealthy man, Poe must have been looked up to with no little respect by
+his fellow pupils. He speedily made himself a prominent position in the
+school, not only by his classical attainments, but by his athletic
+feats--accomplishments calculated to render him a leader among lads.
+
+  "In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had
+  not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps',"
+
+is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he
+remembers as
+
+  "a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer,
+  with some slight training.... He would allow the strongest boy in the
+  school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the
+  secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the
+  lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to
+  exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough;
+  but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult
+  to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic
+  proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth."
+
+In one of his feats Poe only came off second best.
+
+  "A challenge to a foot race," says Colonel Preston, "had been passed
+  between the two classical schools of the city; we selected Poe as our
+  champion. The race came off one bright May morning at sunrise, in the
+  Capitol Square. Historical truth compels me to add that on this
+  occasion our school was beaten, and we had to pay up our small bets.
+  Poe ran well, but his competitor was a long-legged, Indian-looking
+  fellow, who would have outstripped Atalanta without the help of the
+  golden apples."
+
+  "In our Latin exercises in school," continues the colonel, "Poe was
+  among the first--not first without dispute. We had competitors who
+  fairly disputed the palm, especially one, Nat Howard, afterwards known
+  as one of the ripest scholars in Virginia, and distinguished also as a
+  profound lawyer. If Howard was less brilliant than Poe, he was far
+  more studious; for even then the germs of waywardness were developing
+  in the nascent poet, and even then no inconsiderable portion of his
+  time was given to versifying. But if I put Howard as a Latinist on a
+  level with Poe, I do him full justice."
+
+  "Poe," says the colonel, "was very fond of the Odes of Horace, and
+  repeated them so often in my hearing that I learned by sound the words
+  of many before I understood their meaning. In the lilting rhythm of
+  the Sapphics and Iambics, his ear, as yet untutored in more
+  complicated harmonies, took special delight. Two odes, in particular,
+  have been humming in my ear all my life since, set to the tune of his
+  recitation:
+
+    _'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce
+    Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_
+
+  And
+
+    _'Non ebur neque aureum
+    Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc.
+
+  "I remember that Poe was also a very fine French scholar. Yet, with
+  all his superiorities, he was not the master spirit nor even the
+  favorite of the school. I assign, from my recollection, this place to
+  Howard. Poe, as I recall my impressions now, was self-willed,
+  capricious, inclined to be imperious, and, though of generous
+  impulses, not steadily kind, nor even amiable; and so what he would
+  exact was refused to him. I add another thing which had its influence,
+  I am sure. At the time of which I speak, Richmond was one of the most
+  aristocratic cities on this side of the Atlantic.... A school is, of
+  its nature, democratic; but still boys will unconsciously bear about
+  the odor of their fathers' notions, good or bad. Of Edgar Poe," who
+  had then resumed his parental cognomen, "it was known that his parents
+  had been players, and that he was dependent upon the bounty that is
+  bestowed upon an adopted son. All this had the effect of making the
+  boys decline his leadership; and, on looking back on it since, I fancy
+  it gave him a fierceness he would otherwise not have had."
+
+This last paragraph of Colonel Preston's recollections cast a suggestive
+light upon the causes which rendered unhappy the lad's early life and
+tended to blight his prospective hopes. Although mixing with members of
+the best families of the province, and naturally endowed with hereditary
+and native pride,--fostered by the indulgence of wealth and the
+consciousness of intellectual superiority,--Edgar Poe was made to feel
+that his parentage was obscure, and that he himself was dependent upon
+the charity and caprice of an alien by blood. For many lads these things
+would have had but little meaning, but to one of Poe's proud temperament
+it must have been a source of constant torment, and all allusions to it
+gall and wormwood. And Mr. Allan was not the man to wean Poe from such
+festering fancies: as a rule he was proud of the handsome and talented
+boy, and indulged him in all that wealth could purchase, but at other
+times he treated him with contumely, and made him feel the bitterness of
+his position.
+
+Still Poe did maintain his leading position among the scholars at that
+Virginian academy, and several still living have favored us with
+reminiscences of him. His feats in swimming to which Colonel Preston has
+alluded, are quite a feature of his youthful career. Colonel Mayo
+records one daring performance in natation which is thoroughly
+characteristic of the lad. One day in mid-winter, when standing on the
+banks of the James River, Poe dared his comrade into jumping in, in
+order to swim to a certain point with him. After floundering about in
+the nearly frozen stream for some time, they reached the piles upon
+which Mayo's Bridge was then supported, and there attempted to rest and
+try to gain the shore by climbing up the log abutment to the bridge.
+Upon reaching the bridge, however, they were dismayed to find that its
+plank flooring overlapped the abutment by several feet, and that it was
+impossible to ascend it. Nothing remained for them but to let go their
+slippery hold and swim back to the shore. Poe reached the bank in an
+exhausted and benumbed condition, whilst Mayo was rescued by a boat just
+as he was succumbing. On getting ashore Poe was seized with a violent
+attack of vomiting, and both lads were ill for several weeks.
+
+Alluding to another quite famous swimming feat of his own, the poet
+remarked, "Any 'swimmer in the falls' in my days would have swum the
+Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from Ludlam's
+Wharf to Warwick (six miles), in a hot June sun, against one of the
+strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a feat
+comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would not
+think much," Poe added in a strain of exaggeration not unusual with him,
+"of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to Calais."
+Colonel Mayo, who had tried to accompany him in this performance, had to
+stop on the way, and says that Poe, when he reached the goal, emerged
+from the water with neck, face, and back blistered. The facts of this
+feat, which was undertaken for a wager, having been questioned, Poe,
+ever intolerant of contradiction, obtained and published the affidavits
+of several gentlemen who had witnessed it. They also certified that Poe
+did not seem at all fatigued, and that he walked back to Richmond
+immediately after the performance.
+
+The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been
+slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy,
+and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his
+schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in
+sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate,
+the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who
+envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated
+with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a
+warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth
+an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated
+instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman:
+
+  "While at the academy in Richmond, he one day accompanied a schoolmate
+  to his home, where he saw, for the first time, Mrs. Helen Stannard,
+  the mother of his young friend. This lady, on entering the room, took
+  his hands and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, which
+  so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to deprive him
+  of the power of speech, and for a time almost of consciousness itself.
+  He returned home in a dream, with but one thought, one hope in life
+ --to hear again the sweet and gracious words that had made the
+  desolate world so beautiful to him, and filled his lonely heart with
+  the oppression of a new joy. This lady afterwards became the confidant
+  of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the one redeeming influence
+  that saved and guided him in the earlier days of his turbulent and
+  passionate youth."
+
+When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was
+very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for
+consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so
+frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was
+overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding
+voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She
+died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish
+admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in
+her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her
+tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the
+winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came
+away most regretfully."
+
+The memory of this lady, of this "one idolatrous and purely ideal love"
+of his boyhood, was cherished to the last. The name of Helen frequently
+recurs in his youthful verses, "The Paean," now first included in his
+poetical works, refers to her; and to her he inscribed the classic and
+exquisitely beautiful stanzas beginning "Helen, thy beauty is to me."
+
+Another important item to be noted in this epoch of his life is that he
+was already a poet. Among his schoolfellows he appears to have acquired
+some little reputation as a writer of satirical verses; but of his
+poetry, of that which, as he declared, had been with him "not a purpose,
+but a passion," he probably preserved the secret, especially as we know
+that at his adoptive home poesy was a forbidden thing. As early as 1821
+he appears to have essayed various pieces, and some of these were
+ultimately included in his first volume. With Poe poetry was a personal
+matter--a channel through which the turbulent passions of his heart
+found an outlet. With feelings such as were his, it came to pass, as a
+matter of course, that the youthful poet fell in love. His first affair
+of the heart is, doubtless, reminiscently portrayed in what he says of
+his boyish ideal, Byron. This passion, he remarks, "if passion it can
+properly be called, was of the most thoroughly romantic, shadowy, and
+imaginative character. It was born of the hour, and of the youthful
+necessity to love. It had no peculiar regard to the person, or to the
+character, or to the reciprocating affection... Any maiden, not
+immediately and positively repulsive," he deems would have suited the
+occasion of frequent and unrestricted intercourse with such an
+imaginative and poetic youth. "The result," he deems, "was not merely
+natural, or merely probable; it was as inevitable as destiny itself."
+
+Between the lines may be read the history of his own love. "The Egeria
+of _his_ dreams--the Venus Aphrodite that sprang in full and supernal
+loveliness from the bright foam upon the storm-tormented ocean of _his_
+thoughts," was a little girl, Elmira Royster, who lived with her father
+in a house opposite to the Allans in Richmond. The young people met
+again and again, and the lady, who has only recently passed away,
+recalled Edgar as "a beautiful boy," passionately fond of music,
+enthusiastic and impulsive, but with prejudices already strongly
+developed. A certain amount of love-making took place between the young
+people, and Poe, with his usual passionate energy, ere he left home for
+the University had persuaded his fair inamorata to engage herself to
+him. Poe left home for the University of Virginia, Charlottesville, in
+the beginning of 1825. lie wrote frequently to Miss Royster, but her
+father did not approve of the affair, and, so the story runs,
+intercepted the correspondence, until it ceased. At seventeen, Elmira
+became the bride of a Mr. Shelton, and it was not until some time
+afterwards that Poe discovered how it was his passionate appeals had
+failed to elicit any response from the object of his youthful affection.
+
+Poe's short university career was in many respects a repetition of his
+course at the Richmond Academy. He became noted at Charlottesville both
+for his athletic feats and his scholastic successes. He entered as a
+student on February 1,1826, and remained till the close of the second
+session in December of that year.
+
+  "He entered the schools of ancient and modern languages, attending the
+  lectures on Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was a member
+  of the last three classes," says Mr. William Wertenbaker, the recently
+  deceased librarian, "and can testify that he was tolerably regular in
+  his attendance, and a successful student, having obtained distinction
+  at the final examination in Latin and French, and this was at that
+  time the highest honor a student could obtain. The present regulations
+  in regard to degrees had not then been adopted. Under existing
+  regulations, he would have graduated in the two languages above-named,
+  and have been entitled to diplomas."
+
+These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison,
+chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite
+with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with
+which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his
+translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy.
+
+Several of Poe's classmates at Charlottesville have testified to his
+"noble qualities" and other good endowments, but they remember that his
+"disposition was rather retiring, and that he had few intimate
+associates." Mr. Thomas Boiling, one of his fellow-students who has
+favored us with reminiscences of him, says:
+
+  "I was 'acquainted', with him, but that is about all. My impression
+  was, and is, that no one could say that he 'knew' him. He wore a
+  melancholy face always, and even his smile--for I do not ever remember
+  to have seen him laugh--seemed to be forced. When he engaged
+  sometimes with others in athletic exercises, in which, so far as high
+  or long jumping, I believe he excelled all the rest, Poe, with the
+  same ever sad face, appeared to participate in what was amusement to
+  the others more as a task than sport."
+
+Poe had no little talent for drawing, and Mr. John Willis states that
+the walls of his college rooms were covered with his crayon sketches,
+whilst Mr. Boiling mentions, in connection with the poet's artistic
+facility, some interesting incidents. The two young men had purchased
+copies of a handsomely-illustrated edition of Byron's poems, and upon
+visiting Poe a few days after this purchase, Mr. Bolling found him
+engaged in copying one of the engravings with crayon upon his dormitory
+ceiling. He continued to amuse himself in this way from time to time
+until he had filled all the space in his room with life-size figures
+which, it is remembered by those who saw them, were highly ornamental
+and well executed.
+
+
+As Mr. Bolling talked with his associate, Poe would continue to scribble
+away with his pencil, as if writing, and when his visitor jestingly
+remonstrated with him on his want of politeness, he replied that he had
+been all attention, and proved that he had by suitable comment,
+assigning as a reason for his apparent want of courtesy that he was
+trying 'to divide his mind,' to carry on a conversation and write
+sensibly upon a totally different subject at the same time.
+
+Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says:
+
+  "As librarian I had frequent official intercourse with Poe, but it was
+  at or near the close of the session before I met him in the social
+  circle. After spending an evening together at a private house he
+  invited me, on our return, into his room. It was a cold night in
+  December, and his fire having gone pretty nearly out, by the aid of
+  some tallow candles, and the fragments of a small table which he broke
+  up for the purpose, he soon rekindled it, and by its comfortable blaze
+  I spent a very pleasant hour with him. On this occasion he spoke with
+  regret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and of the debts he
+  had contracted during the session. If my memory be not at fault, he
+  estimated his indebtedness at $2,000 and, though they were gaming
+  debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that he was
+  bound by honor to pay them at the earliest opportunity."
+
+This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it
+never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him
+such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to
+enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father,
+however, did not regard his 'protege's' collegiate career with equal
+pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic
+successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which,
+like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation
+took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the
+shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone.
+
+Taking with him such poems as he had ready, Poe made his way to Boston,
+and there looked up some of his mother's old theatrical friends. Whether
+he thought of adopting the stage as a profession, or whether he thought
+of getting their assistance towards helping him to put a drama of his
+own upon the stage,--that dream of all young authors,--is now unknown.
+He appears to have wandered about for some time, and by some means or
+the other succeeded in getting a little volume of poems printed "for
+private circulation only." This was towards the end of 1827, when he was
+nearing nineteen. Doubtless Poe expected to dispose of his volume by
+subscription among his friends, but copies did not go off, and
+ultimately the book was suppressed, and the remainder of the edition,
+for "reasons of a private nature," destroyed.
+
+What happened to the young poet, and how he contrived to exist for the
+next year or so, is a mystery still unsolved. It has always been
+believed that he found his way to Europe and met with some curious
+adventures there, and Poe himself certainly alleged that such was the
+case. Numbers of mythical stories have been invented to account for this
+chasm in the poet's life, and most of them self-evidently fabulous. In a
+recent biography of Poe an attempt had been made to prove that he
+enlisted in the army under an assumed name, and served for about
+eighteen months in the artillery in a highly creditable manner,
+receiving an honorable discharge at the instance of Mr. Allan. This
+account is plausible, but will need further explanation of its many
+discrepancies of dates, and verification of the different documents
+cited in proof of it, before the public can receive it as fact. So many
+fables have been published about Poe, and even many fictitious documents
+quoted, that it behoves the unprejudiced to be wary in accepting any new
+statements concerning him that are not thoroughly authenticated.
+
+On the 28th February, 1829, Mrs. Allan died, and with her death the
+final thread that had bound Poe to her husband was broken. The adopted
+son arrived too late to take a last farewell of her whose influence had
+given the Allan residence its only claim upon the poet's heart. A kind
+of truce was patched up over the grave of the deceased lady, but, for
+the future, Poe found that home was home no longer.
+
+Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a
+means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of
+poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others
+now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous
+collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal
+profit for its author.
+
+Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he
+saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a
+livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little
+difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military
+Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe
+for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the
+Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the
+discipline having been of the most severe character, and the
+accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads.
+
+The poet appears to have entered upon this new course of life with his
+usual enthusiasm, and for a time to have borne the rigid rules of the
+place with unusual steadiness. He entered the institution on the 1st
+July, 1830, and by the following March had been expelled for determined
+disobedience. Whatever view may be taken of Poe's conduct upon this
+occasion, it must be seen that the expulsion from West Point was of his
+own seeking. Highly-colored pictures have been drawn of his eccentric
+behavior at the Academy, but the fact remains that he wilfully, or at
+any rate purposely, flung away his cadetship. It is surmised with
+plausibility that the second marriage of Mr. Allan, and his expressed
+intention of withdrawing his help and of not endowing or bequeathing
+this adopted son any of his property, was the mainspring of Poe's
+action. Believing it impossible to continue without aid in a profession
+so expensive as was a military life, he determined to relinquish it and
+return to his long cherished attempt to become an author.
+
+Expelled from the institution that afforded board and shelter, and
+discarded by his former protector, the unfortunate and penniless young
+man yet a third time attempted to get a start in the world of letters by
+means of a volume of poetry. If it be true, as alleged, that several of
+his brother cadets aided his efforts by subscribing for his little work,
+there is some possibility that a few dollars rewarded this latest
+venture. Whatever may have resulted from the alleged aid, it is certain
+that in a short time after leaving the Military Academy Poe was reduced
+to sad straits. He disappeared for nearly two years from public notice,
+and how he lived during that period has never been satisfactorily
+explained. In 1833 he returns to history in the character of a winner of
+a hundred-dollar award offered by a newspaper for the best story.
+
+The prize was unanimously adjudged to Poe by the adjudicators, and Mr.
+Kennedy, an author of some little repute, having become interested by
+the young man's evident genius, generously assisted him towards
+obtaining a livelihood by literary labor. Through his new friend's
+introduction to the proprietor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', a
+moribund magazine published at irregular intervals, Poe became first a
+paid contributor, and eventually the editor of the publication, which
+ultimately he rendered one of the most respected and profitable
+periodicals of the day. This success was entirely due to the brilliancy
+and power of Poe's own contributions to the magazine.
+
+In March, 1834, Mr. Allan died, and if our poet had maintained any hopes
+of further assistance from him, all doubt was settled by the will, by
+which the whole property of the deceased was left to his second wife and
+her three sons. Poe was not named.
+
+On the 6th May, 1836, Poe, who now had nothing but his pen to trust to,
+married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a child of only fourteen, and with
+her mother as housekeeper, started a home of his own. In the meantime
+his various writings in the 'Messenger' began to attract attention and
+to extend his reputation into literary circles, but beyond his editorial
+salary of about $520 brought him no pecuniary reward.
+
+In January, 1837, for reasons never thoroughly explained, Poe severed
+his connection with the 'Messenger', and moved with all his household
+goods from Richmond to New York. Southern friends state that Poe was
+desirous of either being admitted into partnership with his employer, or
+of being allowed a larger share of the profits which his own labors
+procured. In New York his earnings seem to have been small and
+irregular, his most important work having been a republication from the
+'Messenger' in book form of his Defoe-like romance entitled 'Arthur
+Gordon Pym'. The truthful air of "The Narrative," as well as its other
+merits, excited public curiosity both in England and America; but Poe's
+remuneration does not appear to have been proportionate to its success,
+nor did he receive anything from the numerous European editions the work
+rapidly passed through.
+
+In 1838 Poe was induced by a literary friend to break up his New York
+home and remove with his wife and aunt (her mother) to Philadelphia. The
+Quaker city was at that time quite a hotbed for magazine projects, and
+among the many new periodicals Poe was enabled to earn some kind of a
+living. To Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for 1837 he had contributed a
+few articles, but in 1840 he arranged with its proprietor to take up the
+editorship. Poe had long sought to start a magazine of his own, and it
+was probably with a view to such an eventuality that one of his
+conditions for accepting the editorship of the 'Gentleman's Magazine'
+was that his name should appear upon the title-page.
+
+Poe worked hard at the 'Gentleman's' for some time, contributing to its
+columns much of his best work; ultimately, however, he came to
+loggerheads with its proprietor, Burton, who disposed of the magazine to
+a Mr. Graham, a rival publisher. At this period Poe collected into two
+volumes, and got them published as 'Tales of the Grotesque and
+Arabesques', twenty-five of his stories, but he never received any
+remuneration, save a few copies of the volumes, for the work. For some
+time the poet strove most earnestly to start a magazine of his own, but
+all his efforts failed owing to his want of capital.
+
+The purchaser of Burton's magazine, having amalgamated it with another,
+issued the two under the title of 'Graham's Magazine'. Poe became a
+contributor to the new venture, and in November of the year 1840
+consented to assume the post of editor.
+
+Under Poe's management, assisted by the liberality of Mr. Graham,
+'Graham's Magazine' became a grand success. To its pages Poe contributed
+some of his finest and most popular tales, and attracted to the
+publication the pens of many of the best contemporary authors. The
+public was not slow in showing its appreciation of 'pabulum' put before
+it, and, so its directors averred, in less than two years the
+circulation rose from five to fifty-two thousand copies.
+
+A great deal of this success was due to Poe's weird and wonderful
+stories; still more, perhaps, to his trenchant critiques and his
+startling theories anent cryptology. As regards the tales now issued in
+'Graham's', attention may especially be drawn to the world-famed
+"Murders in the Rue Morgue," the first of a series--'"une espece de
+trilogie,"' as Baudelaire styles them--illustrative of an analytic phase
+of Poe's peculiar mind. This 'trilogie' of tales, of which the later two
+were "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget," was
+avowedly written to prove the capability of solving the puzzling riddles
+of life by identifying another person's mind by our own. By trying to
+follow the processes by which a person would reason out a certain thing,
+Poe propounded the theory that another person might ultimately arrive,
+as it were, at that person's conclusions, indeed, penetrate the
+innermost arcanum of his brain and read his most secret thoughts. Whilst
+the public was still pondering over the startling proposition, and
+enjoying perusal of its apparent proofs, Poe still further increased his
+popularity and drew attention to his works by putting forward the
+attractive but less dangerous theorem that "human ingenuity could not
+construct a cipher which human ingenuity could not solve."
+
+This cryptographic assertion was made in connection with what the public
+deemed a challenge, and Poe was inundated with ciphers more or less
+abstruse, demanding solution. In the correspondence which ensued in
+'Graham's Magazine' and other publications, Poe was universally
+acknowledged to have proved his case, so far as his own personal ability
+to unriddle such mysteries was concerned. Although he had never offered
+to undertake such a task, he triumphantly solved every cryptogram sent
+to him, with one exception, and that exception he proved conclusively
+was only an imposture, for which no solution was possible.
+
+The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the
+fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of
+hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate
+cipher.
+
+The year 1841 may be deemed the brightest of Poe's checkered career. On
+every side acknowledged to be a new and brilliant literary light, chief
+editor of a powerful magazine, admired, feared, and envied, with a
+reputation already spreading rapidly in Europe as well as in his native
+continent, the poet might well have hoped for prosperity and happiness.
+But dark cankers were gnawing his heart. His pecuniary position was
+still embarrassing. His writings, which were the result of slow and
+careful labor, were poorly paid, and his remuneration as joint editor of
+'Graham's' was small. He was not permitted to have undivided control,
+and but a slight share of the profits of the magazine he had rendered
+world-famous, whilst a fearful domestic calamity wrecked all his hopes,
+and caused him to resort to that refuge of the broken-hearted--to that
+drink which finally destroyed his prospects and his life.
+
+Edgar Poe's own account of this terrible malady and its cause was made
+towards the end of his career. Its truth has never been disproved, and
+in its most important points it has been thoroughly substantiated. To a
+correspondent he writes in January 1848:
+
+  "You say, 'Can you _hint_ to me what was "that terrible evil" which
+  caused the "irregularities" so profoundly lamented?' Yes, I can do more
+  than hint. This _evil_ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six
+  years ago, a wife whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a
+  blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of
+  her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered
+  partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke
+  again. I went through precisely the same scene.... Then again--again--
+  and even once again at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the
+  agonies of her death--and at each accession of the disorder I loved
+  her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity.
+  But I am constitutionally sensitive--nervous in a very unusual degree.
+  I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these
+  fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank--God only knows how often or
+  how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to
+  the drink rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly
+  abandoned all hope of a permanent cure, when I found one in the
+  _death_ of my wife. This I can and do endure as becomes a man. It was
+  the horrible never-ending oscillation between hope and despair which I
+  could _not_ longer have endured, without total loss of reason."
+
+The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home,
+superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own
+aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after
+years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a
+change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's',
+owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of
+happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he
+became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The
+terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were
+reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B.
+Harris's reminiscences.
+
+Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this
+writer says:
+
+  "It was during their stay there that Mrs. Poe, while singing one
+  evening, ruptured a blood-vessel, and after that she suffered a
+  hundred deaths. She could not bear the slightest exposure, and needed
+  the utmost care; and all those conveniences as to apartment and
+  surroundings which are so important in the case of an invalid were
+  almost matters of life and death to her. And yet the room where she
+  lay for weeks, hardly able to breathe, except as she was fanned, was a
+  little narrow place, with the ceiling so low over the narrow bed that
+  her head almost touched it. But no one dared to speak, Mr. Poe was so
+  sensitive and irritable; 'quick as steel and flint,' said one who knew
+  him in those days. And he would not allow a word about the danger of
+  her dying: the mention of it drove him wild."
+
+Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if,
+impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet,
+driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of
+Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved
+wife, the distracted man
+
+  "would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about
+  the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which
+  way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety
+  at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him."
+
+During his calmer moments Poe exerted all his efforts to proceed with
+his literary labors. He continued to contribute to 'Graham's Magazine,'
+the proprietor of which periodical remained his friend to the end of his
+life, and also to some other leading publications of Philadelphia and
+New York. A suggestion having been made to him by N. P. Willis, of the
+latter city, he determined to once more wander back to it, as he found
+it impossible to live upon his literary earnings where he was.
+
+Accordingly, about the middle of 1845, Poe removed to New York, and
+shortly afterwards was engaged by Willis and his partner Morris as
+sub-editor on the 'Evening Mirror'. He was, says Willis,
+
+  "employed by us for several months as critic and subeditor.... He
+  resided with his wife and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town,
+  but was at his desk in the office from nine in the morning till the
+  evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his
+  genius, and a willingness to let it atone for more than ordinary
+  irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious
+  attention to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and
+  difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
+  industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a
+  reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not
+  to treat him always with deferential courtsey.... With a prospect of
+  taking the lead in another periodical, he at last voluntarily gave up
+  his employment with us."
+
+A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on
+the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published.
+The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a
+single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did
+more to render its author famous than all his other writings put
+together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into
+existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages,
+and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally
+delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time
+read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions.
+Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote
+his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was
+merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set
+rules.
+
+Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it
+still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health,
+he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had
+great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it
+has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get
+either his most admired poems or tales published.
+
+Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway
+Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his
+prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical,
+but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking
+labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the
+unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a
+quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time
+the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even
+having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire
+moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe
+himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family.
+
+The appeal had the desired effect. Old friends and new came to the
+rescue, and, thanks to them, and especially to Mrs. Shew, the "Marie
+Louise" of Poe's later poems, his wife's dying moments were soothed, and
+the poet's own immediate wants provided for. In January, 1846, Virginia
+Poe died; and for some time after her death the poet remained in an
+apathetic stupor, and, indeed, it may be truly said that never again did
+his mental faculties appear to regain their former power.
+
+For another year or so Poe lived quietly at Fordham, guarded by the
+watchful care of Mrs. Clemm,--writing little, but thinking out his
+philosophical prose poem of "Eureka," which he deemed the crowning work
+of his life. His life was as abstemious and regular as his means were
+small. Gradually, however, as intercourse with fellow literati
+re-aroused his dormant energies, he began to meditate a fresh start in
+the world. His old and never thoroughly abandoned project of starting a
+magazine of his own, for the enunciation of his own views on literature,
+now absorbed all his thoughts. In order to get the necessary funds for
+establishing his publication on a solid footing, he determined to give a
+series of lectures in various parts of the States.
+
+His re-entry into public life only involved him in a series of
+misfortunes. At one time he was engaged to be married to Mrs. Whitman, a
+widow lady of considerable intellectual and literary attainments; but,
+after several incidents of a highly romantic character, the match was
+broken off. In 1849 Poe revisited the South, and, amid the scenes and
+friends of his early life, passed some not altogether unpleasing time.
+At Richmond, Virginia, he again met his first love, Elmira, now a
+wealthy widow, and, after a short renewed acquaintance, was once more
+engaged to marry her. But misfortune continued to dog his steps.
+
+A publishing affair recalled him to New York. He left Richmond by boat
+for Baltimore, at which city he arrived on the 3d October, and handed
+his trunk to a porter to carry to the train for Philadelphia. What now
+happened has never been clearly explained. Previous to starting on his
+journey, Poe had complained of indisposition,--of chilliness and of
+exhaustion,--and it is not improbable that an increase or continuance of
+these symptoms had tempted him to drink, or to resort to some of those
+narcotics he is known to have indulged in towards the close of his life.
+Whatever the cause of his delay, the consequences were fatal. Whilst in
+a state of temporary mania or insensibility, he fell into the hands of a
+band of ruffians, who were scouring the streets in search of accomplices
+or victims. What followed is given on undoubted authority.
+
+His captors carried the unfortunate poet into an electioneering den,
+where they drugged him with whisky. It was election day for a member of
+Congress, and Poe with other victims, was dragged from polling station
+to station, and forced to vote the ticket placed in his hand. Incredible
+as it may appear, the superintending officials of those days registered
+the proffered vote, quite regardless of the condition of the person
+personifying a voter. The election over, the dying poet was left in the
+streets to perish, but, being found ere life was extinct, he was carried
+to the Washington University Hospital, where he expired on the 7th of
+October, 1849, in the forty-first year of his age.
+
+Edgar Poe was buried in the family grave of his grandfather, General
+Poe, in the presence of a few friends and relatives. On the 17th
+November, 1875, his remains were removed from their first resting-place
+and, in the presence of a large number of people, were placed under a
+marble monument subscribed for by some of his many admirers. His wife's
+body has recently been placed by his side.
+
+The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe
+leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly
+typified by that:
+
+  "Unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
+  bore--
+  Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
+  Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+
+JOHN H. INGRAM.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                          POEMS OF LATER LIFE
+
+
+
+
+                                   TO
+
+                        THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX--
+                            TO THE AUTHOR OF
+                         "THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
+
+                                   TO
+
+                     MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
+
+                                OF ENGLAND,
+
+                          I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
+
+                WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
+                      WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
+
+                1845                                E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+        *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+
+These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
+redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
+while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious
+that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
+at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon
+me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the
+public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have
+prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under
+happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me
+poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be
+held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with
+an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of
+mankind.
+
+1845. E.A.P.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE RAVEN.
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping--rapping at my chamber door.
+  "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
+          Only this and nothing more."
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+          Nameless here for evermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
+  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
+      This it is and nothing more."
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping--tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
+        Darkness there and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
+    fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
+        Merely this and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
+  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
+  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;--
+      'Tis the wind and nothing more."
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
+  Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
+      Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+        With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before--
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
+        Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
+  Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
+      Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
+    door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+      Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
+        _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
+    sent thee
+  Respite--respite aad nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
+  On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
+  Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
+    upstarting--
+  "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+      Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+Published, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BELLS,
+
+
+I.
+
+  Hear the sledges with the bells--
+  Silver bells!
+  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
+  How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
+  In their icy air of night!
+  While the stars, that oversprinkle
+  All the heavens, seem to twinkle
+  With a crystalline delight;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
+  From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+
+II.
+
+  Hear the mellow wedding bells,
+  Golden bells!
+  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
+  Through the balmy air of night
+  How they ring out their delight!
+  From the molten golden-notes,
+  And all in tune,
+  What a liquid ditty floats
+  To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
+  On the moon!
+  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
+  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
+  How it swells!
+  How it dwells
+  On the future! how it tells
+  Of the rapture that impels
+  To the swinging and the ringing
+  Of the bells, bells, bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Hear the loud alarum bells--
+  Brazen bells!
+  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
+  In the startled ear of night
+  How they scream out their affright!
+  Too much horrified to speak,
+  They can only shriek, shriek,
+  Out of tune,
+  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
+  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
+  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
+  With a desperate desire,
+  And a resolute endeavor
+  Now--now to sit or never,
+  By the side of the pale-faced moon.
+  Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
+  What a tale their terror tells
+  Of Despair!
+  How they clang, and clash, and roar!
+  What a horror they outpour
+  On the bosom of the palpitating air!
+  Yet the ear it fully knows,
+  By the twanging,
+  And the clanging,
+  How the danger ebbs and flows;
+  Yet the ear distinctly tells,
+  In the jangling,
+  And the wrangling,
+  How the danger sinks and swells,
+  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
+  Of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+  Bells, bells, bells--
+  In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Hear the tolling of the bells--
+  Iron bells!
+  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
+  In the silence of the night,
+  How we shiver with affright
+  At the melancholy menace of their tone!
+  For every sound that floats
+  From the rust within their throats
+     Is a groan.
+  And the people--ah, the people--
+  They that dwell up in the steeple.
+      All alone,
+  And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
+    In that muffled monotone,
+  Feel a glory in so rolling
+    On the human heart a stone--
+  They are neither man nor woman--
+  They are neither brute nor human--
+      They are Ghouls:
+  And their king it is who tolls;
+  And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
+           Rolls
+  A paean from the bells!
+  And his merry bosom swells
+  With the paean of the bells!
+  And he dances, and he yells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the paean of the bells--
+      Of the bells:
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+  In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+    To the throbbing of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+    To the sobbing of the bells;
+  Keeping time, time, time,
+    As he knells, knells, knells,
+  In a happy Runic rhyme,
+  To the rolling of the bells--
+  Of the bells, bells, bells--
+  To the tolling of the bells,
+  Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+    Bells, bells, bells--
+  To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
+
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ULALUME.
+
+
+  The skies they were ashen and sober;
+    The leaves they were crisped and sere--
+    The leaves they were withering and sere;
+  It was night in the lonesome October
+    Of my most immemorial year;
+  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+    In the misty mid region of Weir--
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+    In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  Here once, through an alley Titanic.
+    Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
+    Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
+  These were days when my heart was volcanic
+    As the scoriac rivers that roll--
+    As the lavas that restlessly roll
+  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
+    In the ultimate climes of the pole--
+  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
+    In the realms of the boreal pole.
+
+  Our talk had been serious and sober,
+    But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
+    Our memories were treacherous and sere--
+  For we knew not the month was October,
+  And we marked not the night of the year--
+    (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
+  We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
+    (Though once we had journeyed down here)--
+  Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
+    Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  And now as the night was senescent
+    And star-dials pointed to morn--
+    As the sun-dials hinted of morn--
+  At the end of our path a liquescent
+    And nebulous lustre was born,
+  Out of which a miraculous crescent
+    Arose with a duplicate horn--
+  Astarte's bediamonded crescent
+    Distinct with its duplicate horn.
+
+  And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
+    She rolls through an ether of sighs--
+    She revels in a region of sighs:
+  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
+    These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
+  And has come past the stars of the Lion
+    To point us the path to the skies--
+    To the Lethean peace of the skies--
+  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
+    To shine on us with her bright eyes--
+  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
+    With love in her luminous eyes."
+
+  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
+    Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust--
+    Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
+  Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
+    Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must."
+  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
+    Wings till they trailed in the dust--
+  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
+    Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
+    Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
+
+  I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
+    Let us on by this tremulous light!
+    Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
+  Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
+    With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
+    See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!
+  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
+    And be sure it will lead us aright--
+  We safely may trust to a gleaming
+    That cannot but guide us aright,
+    Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
+
+  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
+    And tempted her out of her gloom--
+    And conquered her scruples and gloom;
+  And we passed to the end of a vista,
+    But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
+    By the door of a legended tomb;
+  And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
+    On the door of this legended tomb?"
+    She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume--
+    'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
+
+  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
+    As the leaves that were crisped and sere--
+    As the leaves that were withering and sere;
+  And I cried--"It was surely October
+    On _this_ very night of last year
+    That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--
+    That I brought a dread burden down here!
+    On this night of all nights in the year,
+    Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
+  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
+    This misty mid region of Weir--
+  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--
+    This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
+
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  I saw thee once--once only--years ago:
+  I must not say _how_ many--but _not_ many.
+  It was a July midnight; and from out
+  A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
+  Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
+  There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
+  With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
+  Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
+  Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
+  Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That gave out, in return for the love-light,
+  Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
+  That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
+  By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
+
+  Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
+  I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
+  Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
+  And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow!
+
+  Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight--
+  Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
+  That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
+  To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
+  No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
+  Save only thee and me--(O Heaven!--O God!
+  How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)--
+  Save only thee and me. I paused--I looked--
+  And in an instant all things disappeared.
+  (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
+  The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
+  The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
+  The happy flowers and the repining trees,
+  Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
+  Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
+  All--all expired save thee--save less than thou:
+  Save only the divine light in thine eyes--
+  Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
+  I saw but them--they were the world to me.
+  I saw but them--saw only them for hours--
+  Saw only them until the moon went down.
+  What wild heart-histories seemed to lie unwritten
+  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
+  How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
+  How silently serene a sea of pride!
+  How daring an ambition! yet how deep--
+  How fathomless a capacity for love!
+
+  But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
+  Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
+  And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
+  Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
+  They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone.
+  Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
+  _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
+  They follow me--they lead me through the years.
+
+  They are my ministers--yet I their slave.
+  Their office is to illumine and enkindle--
+  My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
+  And purified in their electric fire,
+  And sanctified in their elysian fire.
+  They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
+  And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to
+  In the sad, silent watches of my night;
+  While even in the meridian glare of day
+  I see them still--two sweetly scintillant
+  Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
+
+
+1846.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ANNABEL LEE.
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago,
+    In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+    Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
+    In this kingdom by the sea:
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love--
+    I and my ANNABEL LEE;
+  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
+    Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+    In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+    My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+    And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+    In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+    Went envying her and me--
+  Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
+    In this kingdom by the sea)
+  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
+    Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+    Of those who were older than we--
+    Of many far wiser than we--
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+    Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
+    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
+    In her sepulchre there by the sea--
+    In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE.
+
+
+  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
+    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
+  Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
+    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
+  Search narrowly the lines!--they hold a treasure
+    Divine--a talisman--an amulet
+  That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure--
+    The words--the syllables! Do not forget
+  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
+    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
+  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
+    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
+  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
+    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
+  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
+    Of poets by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
+  Its letters, although naturally lying
+    Like the knight Pinto--Mendez Ferdinando--
+  Still form a synonym for Truth--Cease trying!
+    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
+
+
+1846.
+
+[To discover the names in this and the following poem, read the first
+letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
+second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth, of the
+fourth and so on, to the end.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AN ENIGMA.
+
+
+  "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
+      "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
+    Through all the flimsy things we see at once
+      As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
+      Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
+    Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
+    Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
+      Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
+    And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
+    The general tuckermanities are arrant
+    Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
+      But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
+    Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
+    Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.
+
+
+[See note after previous poem.]
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER.
+
+
+  Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
+    The angels, whispering to one another,
+  Can find, among their burning terms of love,
+    None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
+  Therefore by that dear name I long have called you--
+    You who are more than mother unto me,
+  And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
+    In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
+  My mother--my own mother, who died early,
+    Was but the mother of myself; but you
+  Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
+    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
+  By that infinity with which my wife
+    Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+[The above was addressed to the poet's mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FOR ANNIE.
+
+
+  Thank Heaven! the crisis--
+    The danger is past,
+  And the lingering illness
+    Is over at last--
+  And the fever called "Living"
+    Is conquered at last.
+
+  Sadly, I know,
+    I am shorn of my strength,
+  And no muscle I move
+    As I lie at full length--
+  But no matter!--I feel
+    I am better at length.
+
+  And I rest so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  That any beholder
+    Might fancy me dead--
+  Might start at beholding me
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  The moaning and groaning,
+    The sighing and sobbing,
+  Are quieted now,
+    With that horrible throbbing
+  At heart:--ah, that horrible,
+    Horrible throbbing!
+
+  The sickness--the nausea--
+    The pitiless pain--
+  Have ceased, with the fever
+    That maddened my brain--
+  With the fever called "Living"
+    That burned in my brain.
+
+  And oh! of all tortures
+    _That_ torture the worst
+  Has abated--the terrible
+    Torture of thirst,
+  For the naphthaline river
+    Of Passion accurst:--
+  I have drank of a water
+    That quenches all thirst:--
+
+  Of a water that flows,
+    With a lullaby sound,
+  From a spring but a very few
+    Feet under ground--
+  From a cavern not very far
+    Down under ground.
+
+  And ah! let it never
+    Be foolishly said
+  That my room it is gloomy
+    And narrow my bed--
+  For man never slept
+    In a different bed;
+  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
+    In just such a bed.
+
+  My tantalized spirit
+    Here blandly reposes,
+  Forgetting, or never
+    Regretting its roses--
+  Its old agitations
+    Of myrtles and roses:
+
+  For now, while so quietly
+    Lying, it fancies
+  A holier odor
+    About it, of pansies--
+  A rosemary odor,
+    Commingled with pansies--
+  With rue and the beautiful
+    Puritan pansies.
+
+  And so it lies happily,
+    Bathing in many
+  A dream of the truth
+    And the beauty of Annie--
+  Drowned in a bath
+    Of the tresses of Annie.
+
+  She tenderly kissed me,
+    She fondly caressed,
+  And then I fell gently
+    To sleep on her breast--
+  Deeply to sleep
+    From the heaven of her breast.
+
+  When the light was extinguished,
+    She covered me warm,
+  And she prayed to the angels
+    To keep me from harm--
+  To the queen of the angels
+    To shield me from harm.
+
+  And I lie so composedly,
+    Now in my bed
+  (Knowing her love)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  And I rest so contentedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (With her love at my breast)
+    That you fancy me dead--
+  That you shudder to look at me.
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  But my heart it is brighter
+    Than all of the many
+  Stars in the sky,
+    For it sparkles with Annie--
+  It glows with the light
+    Of the love of my Annie--
+  With the thought of the light
+    Of the eyes of my Annie.
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO F--
+
+
+  Beloved! amid the earnest woes
+    That crowd around my earthly path--
+  (Drear path, alas! where grows
+  Not even one lonely rose)--
+    My soul at least a solace hath
+  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
+  An Eden of bland repose.
+
+  And thus thy memory is to me
+    Like some enchanted far-off isle
+  In some tumultuous sea--
+  Some ocean throbbing far and free
+    With storm--but where meanwhile
+  Serenest skies continually
+    Just o'er that one bright inland smile.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
+
+
+  Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
+    From its present pathway part not;
+  Being everything which now thou art,
+    Be nothing which thou art not.
+  So with the world thy gentle ways,
+    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
+  Shall be an endless theme of praise.
+    And love a simple duty.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ELDORADO.
+
+
+    Gaily bedight,
+    A gallant knight,
+  In sunshine and in shadow,
+    Had journeyed long,
+    Singing a song,
+  In search of Eldorado.
+    But he grew old--
+    This knight so bold--
+  And o'er his heart a shadow
+    Fell as he found
+    No spot of ground
+  That looked like Eldorado.
+
+  And, as his strength
+    Failed him at length,
+  He met a pilgrim shadow--
+    "Shadow," said he,
+    "Where can it be--
+  This land of Eldorado?"
+
+    "Over the Mountains
+    Of the Moon,
+  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
+    Ride, boldly ride,"
+    The shade replied,
+  "If you seek for Eldorado!"
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EULALIE.
+
+
+               I dwelt alone
+               In a world of moan,
+           And my soul was a stagnant tide,
+  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
+  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
+               Ah, less--less bright
+               The stars of the night
+           Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
+               And never a flake
+               That the vapor can make
+           With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
+  Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
+  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless
+    curl.
+               Now Doubt--now Pain
+               Come never again,
+           For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
+               And all day long
+               Shines, bright and strong,
+           Astarte within the sky,
+  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
+  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
+
+
+  Take this kiss upon the brow!
+  And, in parting from you now,
+  Thus much let me avow--
+  You are not wrong, who deem
+  That my days have been a dream:
+  Yet if hope has flown away
+  In a night, or in a day,
+  In a vision or in none,
+  Is it therefore the less _gone_?
+  _All_ that we see or seem
+  Is but a dream within a dream.
+
+  I stand amid the roar
+  Of a surf-tormented shore,
+  And I hold within my hand
+  Grains of the golden sand--
+  How few! yet how they creep
+  Through my fingers to the deep
+  While I weep--while I weep!
+  O God! can I not grasp
+  Them with a tighter clasp?
+  O God! can I not save
+  _One_ from the pitiless wave?
+  Is _all_ that we see or seem
+  But a dream within a dream?
+
+
+1849.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning--
+  Of all to whom thine absence is the night--
+  The blotting utterly from out high heaven
+  The sacred sun--of all who, weeping, bless thee
+  Hourly for hope--for life--ah, above all,
+  For the resurrection of deep buried faith
+  In truth, in virtue, in humanity--
+  Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
+  Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
+  At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
+  At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
+  In thy seraphic glancing of thine eyes--
+  Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
+  Nearest resembles worship,--oh, remember
+  The truest, the most fervently devoted,
+  And think that these weak lines are written by him--
+  By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
+  His spirit is communing with an angel's.
+
+1847.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW).
+
+
+  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
+  In the mad pride of intellectuality,
+  Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever
+  A thought arose within the human brain
+  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
+  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
+  Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables--
+  Italian tones, made only to be murmured
+  By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew
+  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,"--
+  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
+  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
+  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
+  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
+  (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
+  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
+  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
+  With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee,
+  I cannot write--I cannot speak or think--
+  Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
+  This standing motionless upon the golden
+  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
+  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
+  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
+  Upon the left, and all the way along,
+  Amid empurpled vapors, far away
+  To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CITY IN THE SEA.
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy Heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently--
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
+  Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
+  Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
+  Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine
+  Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol's diamond eye--
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas!
+  Along that wilderness of glass--
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea--
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene.
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave--there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven.
+  The waves have now a redder glow--
+  The hours are breathing faint and low--
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+
+1835?
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE SLEEPER
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All Beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies
+  (Her casement open to the skies)
+  Irene, with her Destinies!
+
+  Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
+  This window open to the night!
+  The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
+  Laughingly through the lattice-drop--
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully--so fearfully--
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
+  Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all-solemn silentness!
+
+  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  For ever with unopened eye,
+  While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
+
+  My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep;
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold--
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And winged panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
+  Of her grand family funerals--
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood many an idle stone--
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne'er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
+  It was the dead who groaned within.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+BRIDAL BALLAD.
+
+
+  The ring is on my hand,
+    And the wreath is on my brow;
+  Satins and jewels grand
+  Are all at my command.
+    And I am happy now.
+
+  And my lord he loves me well;
+    But, when first he breathed his vow,
+  I felt my bosom swell--
+  For the words rang as a knell,
+  And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
+  In the battle down the dell,
+    And who is happy now.
+
+  But he spoke to reassure me,
+    And he kissed my pallid brow,
+  While a reverie came o'er me,
+  And to the churchyard bore me,
+  And I sighed to him before me,
+  Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
+    "Oh, I am happy now!"
+
+  And thus the words were spoken,
+    And thus the plighted vow,
+  And, though my faith be broken,
+  And, though my heart be broken,
+  Behold the golden keys
+    That _proves_ me happy now!
+
+  Would to God I could awaken
+    For I dream I know not how,
+  And my soul is sorely shaken
+  Lest an evil step be taken,--
+  Lest the dead who is forsaken
+    May not be happy now.
+
+
+1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+1.   THE RAVEN
+
+
+"The Raven" was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
+York 'Evening Mirror'--a paper its author was then assistant editor of.
+It was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written
+by N. P. Willis:
+
+  "We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the second
+  number of the 'American Review', the following remarkable poem by
+  Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
+  'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
+  English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of
+  versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and
+  'pokerishness.' It is one of those 'dainties bred in a book' which we
+  feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."
+
+In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published
+as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently
+suggested if not written by Poe himself.
+
+  ["The following lines from a correspondent--besides the deep, quaint
+  strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some
+  ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless
+  intended by the author--appears to us one of the most felicitous
+  specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The
+  resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and
+  sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been
+  thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the
+  language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by
+  power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own,
+  chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and
+  very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme.
+  Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients
+  had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of 'The
+  Raven' arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds
+  in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if
+  all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed
+  merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form: but the presence
+  in all the others of one line--mostly the second in the verse"
+  (stanza?)--"which flows continuously, with only an aspirate pause in
+  the middle, like that before the short line in the Sapphio Adonic,
+  while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with
+  any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect.
+  We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
+  better understood."
+
+  ED. 'Am. Rev.']
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+2.   THE BELLS
+
+
+The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject, and
+some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's
+friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
+headed it, "The Bells. By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now the editor's
+property, consists of only seventeen lines, and reads thus:
+
+
+
+I.
+
+      The bells!--ah the bells!
+      The little silver bells!
+  How fairy-like a melody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their merry little throats--
+          From the silver, tinkling throats
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+II.
+
+      The bells!--ah, the bells!
+      The heavy iron bells!
+  How horrible a monody there floats
+          From their throats--
+          From their deep-toned throats--
+          From their melancholy throats
+          How I shudder at the notes
+    Of the bells, bells, bells--
+            Of the bells!
+
+
+
+In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it
+to the editor of the 'Union Magazine'. It was not published. So, in the
+following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
+enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
+publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current
+version, was sent, and in the following October was published in the
+'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+3.   ULALUME
+
+
+This poem was first published in Colton's 'American Review' for December
+1847, as "To----Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediately in
+the 'Home Journal', it was copied into various publications with the
+name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.
+When first published, it contained the following additional stanza which
+Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman wisely suppressed:
+
+
+  Said we then--the two, then--"Ah, can it
+      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
+      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
+  To bar up our path and to ban it
+      From the secret that lies in these wolds--
+  Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
+      From the limbo of lunary souls--
+  This sinfully scintillant planet
+      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+4.   TO HELEN
+
+
+"To Helen" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published Until November
+1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
+'Union Magazine' and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
+desire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats in
+coupling those two words".
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+5.   ANNABEL LEE
+
+
+"Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
+of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride although at least one
+of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
+copy of the ballad to the 'Union Magazine', in which publication it
+appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst
+suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
+"Annabel Lee" to the editor of the 'Southern Literary Messenger', who
+published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after
+Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's own copy, left among his papers,
+passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he
+quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe in the New York 'Tribune', before
+any one else had an opportunity of publishing it.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+6.   A VALENTINE
+
+
+"A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
+have been written early in 1846.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+7.   AN ENIGMA
+
+
+"An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig ("Stella"), was sent to
+that lady in a letter, in November 1847, and the following March
+appeared in Sartain's 'Union Magazine'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+8.   TO MY MOTHER
+
+
+The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
+the short-lived 'Flag of our Union', early in 1849, but does not appear
+to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in
+the 'Leaflets of Memory' for 1850.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+9.   FOR ANNIE
+
+
+"For Annie" was first published in the 'Flag of our Union', in the
+spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
+afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the 'Home Journal'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+10.   TO F----
+
+
+"To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the 'Broadway Journal'
+for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed
+"To Mary," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for July 1835, and
+subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in 'Graham's
+Magazine' for March 1842, as "To One Departed."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+11.   TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
+
+
+"To F--s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.
+Osgood, was published in the 'Broadway Journal' for September 1845. The
+earliest version of these lines appeared in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for September 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and was
+addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,
+the poem reappeared in Burton's 'Gentleman's Magazine' for August, 1839,
+as "To----."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+12.   ELDORADO
+
+
+Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849, in the
+'Flag of our Union', it does not appear to have ever received the
+author's finishing touches.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+13.   EULALIE
+
+
+"Eulalie--a Song" first appears in Colton's 'American Review' for July,
+1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+14.   A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
+
+
+"A Dream within a Dream" does not appear to have been published as a
+separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was
+contained, in 1829, in the piece beginning, "Should my early life seem,"
+and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to
+"Tamerlane." In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines
+of the piece as a separate poem, headed "For Annie."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+15   TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To M----L----S----," addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shew, was written
+in February 1847, and published shortly afterwards. In the first
+posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason,
+included in the "Poems written in Youth," and amongst those poems they
+have hitherto been included.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+16.  (2)  TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
+
+
+"To----," a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shew, and written in 1848,
+was also first published, but in a somewhat faulty form, in the above
+named posthumous collection.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+17.   THE CITY IN THE SEA
+
+
+Under the title of "The Doomed City" the initial version of "The City in
+the Sea" appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe: it reappeared as
+"The City of Sin," in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for August 1835,
+whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's 'American
+Review' for April, 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+18.   THE SLEEPER
+
+
+As "Irene," the earliest known version of "The Sleeper," appeared in the
+1831 volume. It reappeared in the 'Literary Messenger' for May 1836,
+and, in its present form, in the 'Broadway Journal' for May 1845.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+19.   THE BRIDAL BALLAD
+
+
+"The Bridal Ballad" is first discoverable in the 'Southern Literary
+Messenger' for January 1837, and, in its present compressed and revised
+form, was reprinted in the 'Broadway Journal' for August, 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                         POEMS OF MANHOOD.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+LENORE.
+
+
+  Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
+  Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
+  And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more!
+  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
+  Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
+  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
+  A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
+
+  "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
+  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
+  How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
+  By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
+  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
+
+  _Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
+  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
+  The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
+  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--
+  For her, the fair and _debonnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
+  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
+  The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
+
+  "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
+  But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
+  Let _no_ bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
+  Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.
+  To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
+  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
+  From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."
+
+
+1844.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ONE IN PARADISE,
+
+
+  Thou wast that all to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine--
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine,
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+  And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
+    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast!
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o'er!
+  "No more--no more--no more"--
+  (Such language holds the solemn sea
+    To the sands upon the shore)
+  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+    Or the stricken eagle soar!
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy dark eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams--
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams!
+
+  Alas! for that accursed time
+    They bore thee o'er the billow,
+  From love to titled age and crime,
+    And an unholy pillow!
+  From me, and from our misty clime,
+    Where weeps the silver willow!
+
+
+1835
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLISEUM.
+
+
+  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
+  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
+  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
+  At length--at length--after so many days
+  Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
+  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
+  I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
+  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
+  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
+
+  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
+  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
+  I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
+  O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
+  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
+  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
+  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
+
+  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
+  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
+  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
+  Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
+  Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
+  Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
+  Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
+  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
+  The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
+
+  But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
+  These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
+  These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
+  These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
+  These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
+  All of the famed, and the colossal left
+  By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
+
+  "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
+  Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
+  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
+  As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
+  We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
+  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
+  We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
+  Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
+  Not all the magic of our high renown--
+  Not all the wonder that encircles us--
+  Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
+  Not all the memories that hang upon
+  And cling around about us as a garment,
+  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE HAUNTED PALACE.
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace--
+    Radiant palace--reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought's dominion--
+    It stood there!
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair!
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This--all this--was in the olden
+    Time long ago),
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A winged odor went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley,
+    Through two luminous windows, saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute's well-tuned law,
+  Bound about a throne where, sitting
+    (Porphyrogene!)
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch's high estate.
+  (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed,
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+  And travellers, now, within that valley,
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms, that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody,
+    While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out forever
+    And laugh--but smile no more.
+
+
+1838.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONQUEROR WORM.
+
+
+  Lo! 'tis a gala night
+    Within the lonesome latter years!
+  An angel throng, 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.
+
+  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
+    That shift the scenery to and fro,
+  Flapping from out their Condor wings
+    Invisible Wo!
+
+  That motley drama--oh, be sure
+    It shall not be forgot!
+  With its Phantom chased for evermore,
+    By a crowd that seize it not,
+  Through a circle that ever returneth in
+    To the self-same spot,
+  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
+    And Horror the soul of the plot.
+
+  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 the angels sob at vermin 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,
+  And the angels, all pallid and wan,
+    Uprising, unveiling, affirm
+  That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
+    And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
+
+
+1838
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.
+
+
+  There are some qualities--some incorporate things,
+    That have a double life, which thus is made
+  A type of that twin entity which springs
+    From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
+  There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
+    Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
+    Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
+  Some human memories and tearful lore,
+  Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
+  He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
+    No power hath he of evil in himself;
+  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
+    Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
+  That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
+  No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
+
+
+1840
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMLAND.
+
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have reached these lands but newly
+  From an ultimate dim Thule--
+  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
+    Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
+
+  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
+  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
+  With forms that no man can discover
+  For the dews that drip all over;
+  Mountains toppling evermore
+  Into seas without a shore;
+  Seas that restlessly aspire,
+  Surging, unto skies of fire;
+  Lakes that endlessly outspread
+  Their lone waters--lone and dead,
+  Their still waters--still and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily.
+
+  By the lakes that thus outspread
+  Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
+  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily,--
+
+  By the mountains--near the river
+  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
+  By the gray woods,--by the swamp
+  Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
+  By the dismal tarns and pools
+    Where dwell the Ghouls,--
+  By each spot the most unholy--
+  In each nook most melancholy,--
+
+  There the traveller meets aghast
+  Sheeted Memories of the past--
+  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
+  As they pass the wanderer by--
+  White-robed forms of friends long given,
+  In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
+
+  For the heart whose woes are legion
+  'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
+  For the spirit that walks in shadow
+  'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
+  But the traveller, travelling through it,
+  May not--dare not openly view it;
+  Never its mysteries are exposed
+  To the weak human eye unclosed;
+  So wills its King, who hath forbid
+  The uplifting of the fringed lid;
+  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
+  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only.
+
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have wandered home but newly
+  From this ultimate dim Thule.
+
+
+1844
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ZANTE.
+
+
+  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
+    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
+  How many memories of what radiant hours
+    At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
+  How many scenes of what departed bliss!
+    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
+  How many visions of a maiden that is
+    No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
+
+  _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
+    Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
+  Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
+    Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
+  O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
+    "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
+
+
+1887.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+HYMN.
+
+
+  At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
+  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
+  In joy and wo--in good and ill--
+  Mother of God, be with me still!
+  When the Hours flew brightly by,
+  And not a cloud obscured the sky,
+  My soul, lest it should truant be,
+  Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
+  Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
+  Darkly my Present and my Past,
+  Let my future radiant shine
+  With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
+
+
+1885.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+
+20.   LENORE
+
+
+"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
+Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The Paean"--now first
+published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+21.   TO ONE IN PARADISE
+
+
+"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
+now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
+separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
+time, to the piece.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+22.   THE COLISEUM
+
+
+"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
+1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
+August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+23.   THE HAUNTED PALACE
+
+
+"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
+Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
+tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
+'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
+separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+24.   THE CONQUEROR WORM
+
+
+"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
+was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
+separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+25.   SILENCE
+
+
+The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
+Magazine' for April, 1840.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+26.   DREAMLAND
+
+
+The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
+for June, 1844.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+37.   TO ZANTE
+
+
+The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
+when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+28.   HYMN
+
+
+The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
+"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
+1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
+first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
+
+
+
+
+
+*       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                        SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
+
+                         AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
+
+
+I.
+
+ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
+
+_Alessandra_.     Thou art sad, Castiglione.
+
+_Castiglione_.    Sad!--not I.
+                  Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
+                  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
+                  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
+
+_Aless_.          Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
+                  Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
+                  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
+
+_Cas_.            Did I sigh?
+                  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
+                  A silly--a most silly fashion I have
+                  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
+
+_Aless_.          Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
+                  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
+                  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
+                  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
+                  Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
+                  The constitution as late hours and wine.
+
+_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
+                  Not even deep sorrow--
+                  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
+                  I will amend.
+
+_Aless_.          Do it! I would have thee drop
+                  Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
+                  Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
+                  And Alessandra's husband.
+
+_Cas_.            I will drop them.
+
+_Aless_.          Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
+                  To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
+                  For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
+                  Upon appearances.
+
+_Cas_.            I'll see to it.
+
+_Aless_.          Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
+                  To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
+                  In dignity.
+
+_Cas_.            Much, much, oh, much I want
+                  In proper dignity.
+
+_Aless.
+(haughtily_).     Thou mockest me, sir!
+
+_Cos.
+(abstractedly_).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!
+
+_Aless_.          Heard I aright?
+                  I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
+                  Sir Count!
+         (_places her hand on his shoulder_)
+                             what art thou dreaming?
+                  He's not well!
+                  What ails thee, sir?
+
+_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
+                  I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
+                  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
+                  This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
+
+_Enter Di Broglio_.
+
+_Di Broglio_.     My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
+                 --what's the matter?
+          (_observing Alessandra_).
+                  I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
+                  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
+                  I've news for you both. Politian is expected
+                  Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
+                  To the imperial city.
+
+_Aless_.          What! Politian
+                  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
+
+_Di Brog_.        The same, my love.
+                  We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
+                  In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
+                  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
+                  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
+                  And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
+
+_Aless_.          I have heard much of this Politian.
+                  Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
+                  And little given to thinking?
+
+_Di Brog_.        Far from it, love.
+                  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
+                  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
+                  Learned as few are learned.
+
+_Aless_.          'Tis very strange!
+                  I have known men have seen Politian
+                  And sought his company. They speak of him
+                  As of one who entered madly into life,
+                  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
+
+_Cas_.            Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
+                  And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
+                  He is a dreamer, and shut out
+                  From common passions.
+
+_Di Brog_.        Children, we disagree.
+                  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
+                  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
+                  Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
+
+                  (_Exeunt._)
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
+LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
+a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
+carelessly upon a chair.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         Jacinta! is it thou?
+
+_Jacinta
+(pertly_).        Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
+
+_Lal_.            I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
+                  Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
+                  Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
+
+_Jac. (aside_).   'Tis time.
+
+(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
+her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
+look. Lalage continues to read._)
+
+_Lal_.            "It in another climate, so he said,
+                  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
+
+           (_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
+
+                  "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
+                  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
+                  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
+                  Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
+                  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
+                  O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
+                  O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
+                  Jacinta!
+
+          (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
+
+                  Again!--a similar tale
+                  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
+                  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
+                  "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
+                  "I think not so--her infelicity
+                  Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
+                  Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
+                  Here's a far sterner story--
+                  But like--oh, very like in its despair--
+                  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
+                  A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
+                  She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
+                  Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
+                  With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
+                  Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
+
+_Jac_.
+(_pettishly_).    Madam, what is it?
+
+_Lal_.            Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
+                  As go down in the library and bring me
+                  The Holy Evangelists?
+
+_Jac_.            Pshaw!
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+_Lal_.            If there be balm
+                  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
+                  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
+                  Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
+                  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
+
+(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
+
+                  There, ma'am, 's the book.
+   (_aside_.)     Indeed she is very troublesome.
+
+_Lal_.
+(_astonished_).   What didst thou say, Jacinta?
+                  Have I done aught
+                  To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
+                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
+                  Trustworthy and respectful.
+              (_resumes her reading_.)
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
+                  She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
+
+_Lal_.            What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
+                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
+                  How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
+                  Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
+                  Thou needest, Jacinta?
+
+_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
+                  That's meant for me.  I'm sure, madam, you need not
+                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
+
+_Lal_.            Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
+                  I thought not of the jewels.
+
+_Jac_.            Oh, perhaps not!
+                  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
+                  There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
+                  For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
+                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
+                  And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
+                  Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
+
+                  (_Exit_)
+
+(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
+short pause raises it_.)
+
+_Lal_.            Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
+                  Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
+                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
+                  (_taking up the mirror_)
+                  Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
+                  In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
+                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
+                  A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
+                  Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
+                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
+                  And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
+                  Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
+                  Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
+                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
+                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
+                  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
+                  _Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
+                  Castiglione lied who said he loved----
+                  Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
+
+(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
+unobserved_)
+
+_Monk_.           Refuge thou hast,
+                  Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
+                  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
+
+_Lal.
+(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
+                  The frightful sounds of merriment below;
+                  Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
+                  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
+                  Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
+                  Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
+                  With horror and awe!
+
+_Monk_.           Think of thy precious soul!
+
+_Lal_.            Think of my early days!--think of my father
+                  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
+                  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
+                  Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
+                  And think of me!--think of my trusting love
+                  And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
+                  Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
+                  Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
+                  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
+                  And vows before the throne?
+
+_Monk_.           I did.
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis well.
+                  There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
+                  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
+                  A solemn vow!
+
+_Monk_.           Daughter, this zeal is well!
+
+_Lal_.            Father, this zeal is anything but well!
+                  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
+                  A crucifix whereon to register
+                  This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
+                  Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
+                  Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
+                  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
+                  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
+                  _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
+                  The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
+                  And the deed's register should tally, father!
+         (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
+                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
+                  Is written in heaven!
+
+_Monk_.           Thy words are madness, daughter,
+                  And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
+                  Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
+                  Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
+                  Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
+
+_Lal_.            'Tis sworn!
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
+
+
+_Baldazzar_.      Arouse thee now, Politian!
+                  Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
+                  Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
+                  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
+                  And live, for now thou diest!
+
+_Politian_.       Not so, Baldazzar!
+                  _Surely_ I live.
+
+_Bal_.            Politian, it doth grieve me
+                  To see thee thus!
+
+_Pol_.            Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
+                  To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
+                  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
+                  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
+                  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
+                  Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
+                  And be no more Politian, but some other.
+                  Command me, sir!
+
+_Bal_.            To the field then--to the field--
+                  To the senate or the field.
+
+_Pol_.            Alas! alas!
+                  There is an imp would follow me even there!
+                  There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
+                  There is--what voice was that?
+
+_Bal_.            I heard it not.
+                  I heard not any voice except thine own,
+                  And the echo of thine own.
+
+_Pol_.            Then I but dreamed.
+
+_Bal_.            Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
+                  Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
+                  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
+                  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
+                  And phantom voices.
+
+_Pol_.            It _is_ a phantom voice!
+                  Didst thou not hear it _then_?
+
+_Bal_             I heard it not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
+                  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
+                  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
+                  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
+                  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
+                  We have been boys together--school-fellows--
+                  And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
+                  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
+                  A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
+                  A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
+                  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
+                  Unto thy friend.
+
+_Bal_.            Thou speakest a fearful riddle
+                  I _will_ not understand.
+
+_Pol_.            Yet now as Fate
+                  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
+                  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
+                  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
+                  I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
+                  So keen a relish for the beautiful
+                  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
+                  Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
+                  Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
+                  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
+                  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
+                  Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
+                  Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
+
+_Bal_.            Indeed I hear not.
+
+_Pol_.            Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
+                  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
+                  A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
+                  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
+                  Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
+                  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
+                  Surely I never heard--yet it were well
+                  Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
+                  In earlier days!
+
+_Bal_.            I myself hear it now.
+                  Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
+                  Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
+                  Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
+                  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
+                  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
+                  The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
+                  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
+                  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
+                  His son and heir.
+
+_Pol_.            Be still!--it comes again!
+
+_Voice_
+(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+
+_Bal_.            The song is English, and I oft have heard it
+                  In merry England--never so plaintively--
+                  Hist! hist! it comes again!
+
+_Voice
+(more loudly_).   "Is it so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus,
+                  That have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among?
+                  And is thy heart so strong
+                  As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            'Tis hushed and all is still!
+
+_Pol_.            All _is not_ still.
+
+_Bal_.            Let us go down.
+
+_Pol_.            Go down, Baldazzar, go!
+
+_Bal_.            The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
+                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
+                  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
+
+_Voice_
+(_distinctly_).   "Who have loved thee so long,
+                  In wealth and woe among,
+                  And is thy heart so strong?
+                  Say nay! say nay!"
+
+_Bal_.            Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
+                  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
+                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
+                  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
+
+_Pol_.            Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
+               (_going_).
+                  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
+                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
+                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
+                  "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
+                  Once more that silent tongue."
+
+_Bal_.            Let me beg you, sir,
+                  Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
+                  Let us go down, I pray you.
+
+_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
+                     the voice
+                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
+             (_Approaching the window_)
+                  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
+                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
+                  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
+                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
+                  I go not down to-night.
+
+_Bal_.            Your lordship's pleasure
+                  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
+
+_Pol_.            Good-night, my friend, good-night.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
+
+
+_Lalage_.         And dost thou speak of love
+                  To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
+                  To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
+                  This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
+
+_Politian_.       Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
+                  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
+                  Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
+                  And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
+                  And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
+                  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
+                  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
+                  Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
+                  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
+                  Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
+                  Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
+                  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
+                  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
+                  Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
+                  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
+                  Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
+               (_arising_.)
+                  Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
+                  Thy beauty and thy woes.
+
+_Lal_.            Alas, proud Earl,
+                  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
+                  How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
+                  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
+                  Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
+                  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
+                  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
+                  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
+                  And with thy glory?
+
+_Pol_.            Speak not to me of glory!
+                  I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
+                  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
+                  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
+                  Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
+                  What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
+                  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
+                  By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
+                  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
+                  There is no deed I would more glory in,
+                  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
+                  And trample it under foot. What matters it--
+                  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
+                  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
+                  Into the dust--so we descend together?
+                  Descend together--and then--and then perchance--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And then perchance
+                  _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
+                  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
+                  And still--
+
+_Lal_.            Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+_Pol_.            And still _together_--_together_.
+
+_Lal_.            Now, Earl of Leicester!
+                  Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
+                  I feel thou lovest me truly.
+
+_Pol_.            O Lalage!
+               (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
+                  And lovest thou _me_?
+
+_Lal_.            Hist! hush! within the gloom
+                  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed--
+                  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
+                  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
+               (_walks across and returns_.)
+                  I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
+                  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
+
+_Pol_.            My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
+                  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self,
+                  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
+                  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
+                  Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
+                  Throw over all things a gloom.
+
+_Lal_.            Politian!
+                  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
+                  With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
+                  Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
+                  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
+                  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,--
+                  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
+                  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
+                  Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
+                  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
+                  In days that are to come?
+
+_Pol_.            Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou
+                  Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
+                  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
+                  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
+                  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
+                  For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
+                  No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
+                  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
+                  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
+                  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
+                  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
+                  My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
+                  Fly thither with me?
+
+_Lal_.            A deed is to be done--
+                  Castiglione lives!
+
+_Pol_.            And he shall die!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Lal_.
+(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!
+                  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
+                  Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
+                  Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
+                  I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
+                  Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go
+                  With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!
+                  And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
+                  To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
+                  To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
+                  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
+                  Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
+                  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
+                  Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
+                  And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
+                  Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
+                  So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
+                  'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
+
+
+_Politian_.       This weakness grows upon me. I am fain
+                  And much I fear me ill--it will not do
+                  To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
+                  O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
+                  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
+                  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
+                  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
+                  Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
+                  'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
+                  Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?
+
+              _Enter Baldazzar_.
+
+_Baldazzar_.      That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
+                  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
+                  He doth decline your cartel.
+
+_Pol_.            _What_ didst thou say?
+                  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
+                  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
+                  Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
+                  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
+                  No mortal eyes have seen!--_what_ said the Count?
+
+_Bal_.            That he, Castiglione, not being aware
+                  Of any feud existing, or any cause
+                  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
+                  Cannot accept the challenge.
+
+_Pol_.            It is most true--
+                  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
+                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
+                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
+                  A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
+                  From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did _say_?
+
+_Bal_.            No more, my lord, than I have told you:
+                  The Count Castiglione will not fight.
+                  Having no cause for quarrel.
+
+_Pol_.            Now this is true--
+                  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
+                  And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
+                  A piece of service: wilt thou go back and say
+                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
+                  Hold him a villain?--thus much, I pr'ythee, say
+                  Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
+                  He should have cause for quarrel.
+
+_Bal_.            My lord!--my friend!--
+
+_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis he--he comes himself!
+       (_aloud_.) Thou reasonest well.
+                  I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
+                  Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
+                  Now pr'ythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
+                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
+                  I would adjust.
+
+_Bal_.            I go--to-morrow we meet,
+                  Do we not?--at the Vatican.
+
+_Pol_.            At the Vatican.
+
+                  (_Exit Bal_.)
+
+                  _Enter Castiglione_.
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl of Leicester here!
+
+_Pol_.            I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
+                  Dost thou not, that I am here?
+
+_Cas_.            My lord, some strange,
+                  Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
+                  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
+                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
+                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
+                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
+                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
+                  Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
+                  'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
+                  Do err at times.
+
+_Pol_.            Draw, villain, and prate no more!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
+                  Proud Earl!
+               (_Draws._)
+
+_Pol_.
+(_drawing_.)      Thus to the expiatory tomb,
+                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
+                  In the name of Lalage!
+
+_Cas_. (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
+         stage_.)
+                  Of Lalage!
+                  Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say!
+                  Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
+                  Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
+                  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
+
+_Cas_.            I dare not--dare not--
+                  Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
+                  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
+                  I cannot--dare not.
+
+_Pol_.            Now, by my halidom,
+                  I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
+
+_Cas_.            Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
+(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
+changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
+the Earl._)
+                  Alas! my lord,
+                  It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
+                  I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
+
+_Pol.
+(greatly softened_). Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
+
+_Cas_.            And Lalage--
+
+_Pol_.            _Scoundrel!--arise and die!_
+
+_Cas_.            It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die
+                  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
+                  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
+                  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
+                  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
+               (_baring his bosom_.)
+                  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
+                  Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee.
+
+_Pol_.            Now's Death and Hell!
+                  Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
+                  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
+                  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
+                  For public insult in the streets--before
+                  The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
+                  Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
+                  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
+                  Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt
+                    thee,
+                  Dost hear? with _cowardice_--thou _wilt not_ fight me?
+                  Thou liest! thou _shalt_!
+
+                  (_Exit_.)
+
+_Cas_.            Now this indeed is just!
+                  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: By Sir Thomas Wyatt.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTE ON POLITIAN
+
+20. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
+light of publicity in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for December
+1835 and January 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian; an
+unpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
+collection of Poems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
+subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
+considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
+and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
+and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
+reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
+following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
+Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
+Castiglione her betrothed.
+
+
+
+_Duke_.           Why do you laugh?
+
+_Castiglione_.    Indeed.
+                  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
+                  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
+                  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
+                  Alessandra, you and I, you must remember!
+                  We were walking in the garden.
+
+_Duke_.           Perfectly.
+                  I do remember it--what of it--what then?
+
+_Cas_.            O nothing--nothing at all.
+
+_Duke_.           Nothing at all!
+                  It is most singular that you should laugh
+                  At nothing at all!
+
+_Cas_.            Most singular--singular!
+
+_Duke_.           Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
+                  As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
+                  What are you talking of?
+
+_Cas_.            Was it not so?
+                  We differed in opinion touching him.
+
+_Duke_.           Him!--Whom?
+
+_Cas_.            Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
+
+_Duke_.           The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?
+                  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
+                  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
+                  Was neither learned nor mirthful.
+
+_Cas_.            Ha! ha!--now did I?
+
+_Duke_.           That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
+                  You were wrong, it being not the character
+                  Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be
+                  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
+                  Too positive again.
+
+_Cas_.            'Tis singular!
+                  Most singular! I could not think it possible
+                  So little time could so much alter one!
+                  To say the truth about an hour ago,
+                  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
+                  All arm in arm, we met this very man
+                  The Earl--he, with his friend Baldazzar,
+                  Having just arrived in Rome. Ha! ha! he _is_ altered!
+                  Such an account he gave me of his journey!
+                  'Twould have made you die with laughter--such tales he
+                    told
+                  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
+                  Along the road--such oddity--such humor--
+                  Such wit--such whim--such flashes of wild merriment
+                  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
+                  Demeanor of his friend--who, to speak the truth
+                  Was gravity itself--
+
+_Duke_.           Did I not tell you?
+
+_Cas_.            You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange,
+                  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
+                  The Earl a gloomy man.
+
+_Duke_.           So, so, you see!
+                  Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
+                  It cannot be the Earl?
+
+_Cas_.            The Earl! Oh no!
+                  Tis not the Earl--but yet it is--and leaning
+                  Upon his friend Baldazzar. Ah! welcome, sir!
+                  (_Enter Politian and Baldazzar_.)
+                  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
+                  To Rome--his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
+                  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
+                  Of Leicester in Great Britain.
+                  [_Politian bows haughtily_.]
+                  That, his friend
+                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
+                  So please you, for Your Grace.
+
+_Duke_.           Ha! ha! Most welcome
+                  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
+                  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
+                  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
+                  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
+                  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
+                  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
+                  Most seasonable. The wedding--
+
+_Politian_.       Touching those letters, sir,
+                  Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?--
+                  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
+                  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
+                  Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here
+                  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
+
+_Duke_.           Retire!--so soon?
+
+_Cas_.            What ho! Benito! Rupert!
+                  His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them!
+                  His lordship is unwell.
+
+             (_Enter Benito_.)
+
+_Ben_.            This way, my lord!
+
+             (_Exit, followed by Politian_.)
+
+_Duke_.           Retire! Unwell!
+
+_Bal_.            So please you, sir. I fear me
+                  'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
+                  The damp air of the evening--the fatigue
+                  Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
+                  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
+                  I will return anon.
+
+_Duke_.           Return anon!
+                  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
+                  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
+                  You surely were mistaken in what you said
+                  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said
+                  Politian was a melancholy man?
+
+                 (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                           POEMS OF YOUTH
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION TO POEMS.--1831.
+
+
+LETTER TO MR. B--.
+
+"WEST POINT, 1831
+
+"DEAR B--
+
+...
+
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition--that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
+'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor
+have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole
+lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer
+light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they
+may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
+
+"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one
+who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_ of
+poetry, I feel to be false--the less poetical the critic, the less just
+the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
+but few B----s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
+good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
+observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
+yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
+judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'
+The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
+'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
+theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
+write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
+it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet--yet
+the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
+step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his
+more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
+understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are
+sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
+superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have been
+discovered--this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
+fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_. This neighbor's
+own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above _him_, and
+so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
+summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
+pinnacle.
+
+"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
+of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
+or empire--an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
+possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
+improve by travel--their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
+distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
+glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
+mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
+many letters of recommendation.
+
+"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
+another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
+would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet
+would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique;
+whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we
+have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
+writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
+There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
+example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise
+Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in
+fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
+'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.
+
+"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly.
+
+"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
+the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is
+called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
+been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
+refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
+supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
+and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
+prosaically exemplified.
+
+"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings--but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
+it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is,
+or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
+existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
+existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
+happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
+happiness is another name for pleasure;--therefore the end of
+instruction should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion
+implies precisely the reverse.
+
+"To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
+his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
+pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
+means of obtaining.
+
+"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
+their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
+their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
+the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
+be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth,' who labors indefatigably,
+through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or
+two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
+thousand.
+
+"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study--not a
+passion--it becomes the metaphysician to reason--but the poet to
+protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued
+in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination--intellect
+with the passions--or age with poetry.
+
+  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
+  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'
+
+"are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
+lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable
+palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding
+the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
+philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
+mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
+of a man.
+
+"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
+Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
+treatise 'de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis'. He goes wrong by reason
+of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
+contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
+it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray--while he who
+surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
+useful to us below--its brilliancy and its beauty.
+
+"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe--for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings--(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom--his 'El
+Dorado')--but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
+glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
+that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
+glacier.
+
+"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
+of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
+which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
+is too correct. This may not be understood,--but the old Goths of
+Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of
+importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober--sober that they might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigor.
+
+"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full
+of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'--indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is 'un'worthy to be done, or what 'has' been
+done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
+unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
+the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
+comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
+
+"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. 'Tantaene animis?' Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see
+what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,
+  And now she's at the pony's head,
+  On that side now, and now on this;
+  And, almost stifled with her bliss,
+  A few sad tears does Betty shed....
+  She pats the pony, where or when
+  She knows not ... happy Betty Foy!
+  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'
+
+"Secondly:
+
+  "'The dew was falling fast, the--stars began to blink;
+  I heard a voice: it said,--"Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
+  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
+  A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.
+  No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone,
+  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone.'
+
+"Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it,
+indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite?
+I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+"But there are occasions, dear B----, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+  if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
+  will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha!
+  ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will
+  be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have
+  been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+"Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
+
+"Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+
+  '_J'ai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+  bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles
+  nient_;'
+
+and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by
+the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to
+think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the
+Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that
+man's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious
+from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the
+light that are weltering below.
+
+"What is Poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of a
+scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'
+'_Tres-volontiers;_' and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
+Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B----, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then--and then think
+of the 'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--Prospero--Oberon--and
+Titania!
+
+"A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
+its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a
+poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
+perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
+to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
+sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
+pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
+the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
+
+"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?
+
+"To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing:
+
+  "'No Indian prince has to his palace
+  More followers than a thief to the gallows.'"
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONNET--TO SCIENCE.
+
+
+  SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
+    Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
+  Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
+    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
+  How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
+    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
+  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
+    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
+  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
+    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
+  To seek a shelter in some happier star?
+    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
+  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
+  The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism,
+and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me,
+after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my
+earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from
+the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
+acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845).
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe
+that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+AL AARAAF. [1]
+
+
+
+PART I.
+
+
+  O! nothing earthly save the ray
+  (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
+  As in those gardens where the day
+  Springs from the gems of Circassy--
+  O! nothing earthly save the thrill
+  Of melody in woodland rill--
+  Or (music of the passion-hearted)
+  Joy's voice so peacefully departed
+  That like the murmur in the shell,
+  Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
+  O! nothing of the dross of ours--
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
+  Adorn yon world afar, afar--
+  The wandering star.
+
+  'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
+  Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
+  Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
+  An oasis in desert of the blest.
+  Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll
+  Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
+  The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
+  Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
+  To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
+  And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
+  But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
+  She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
+  And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
+  Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
+
+  Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
+  Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
+  (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
+  Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
+  It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
+  She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
+  Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
+  Fit emblems of the model of her world--
+  Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight--
+  Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
+  A wreath that twined each starry form around,
+  And all the opal'd air in color bound.
+
+  All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
+  Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
+  On the fair Capo Deucato [2], and sprang
+  So eagerly around about to hang
+  Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
+  Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died [3].
+  The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
+  Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
+  And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd [4]--
+  Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
+  All other loveliness: its honied dew
+  (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
+  Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
+  And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
+  In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
+  So like its own above that, to this hour,
+  It still remaineth, torturing the bee
+  With madness, and unwonted reverie:
+  In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
+  And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
+  Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
+  Repenting follies that full long have fled,
+  Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
+  Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
+  Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
+  She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
+  And Clytia [5] pondering between many a sun,
+  While pettish tears adown her petals run:
+  And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth [6]--
+  And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
+  Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
+  Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
+  And Valisnerian lotus thither flown [7]
+  From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
+  And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante [8]!
+  Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
+  And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever [9]
+  With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
+  Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
+  To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven [10]:
+
+    "Spirit! that dwellest where,
+      In the deep sky,
+    The terrible and fair,
+      In beauty vie!
+    Beyond the line of blue--
+      The boundary of the star
+    Which turneth at the view
+      Of thy barrier and thy bar--
+    Of the barrier overgone
+      By the comets who were cast
+    From their pride, and from their throne
+      To be drudges till the last--
+    To be carriers of fire
+      (The red fire of their heart)
+    With speed that may not tire
+      And with pain that shall not part--
+    Who livest--_that_ we know--
+      In Eternity--we feel--
+    But the shadow of whose brow
+      What spirit shall reveal?
+    Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
+      Thy messenger hath known
+    Have dream'd for thy Infinity
+      A model of their own [11]--
+    Thy will is done, O God!
+      The star hath ridden high
+    Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
+      Beneath thy burning eye;
+    And here, in thought, to thee--
+      In thought that can alone
+    Ascend thy empire and so be
+      A partner of thy throne--
+    By winged Fantasy [12],
+       My embassy is given,
+    Till secrecy shall knowledge be
+      In the environs of Heaven."
+
+  She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
+  Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
+  A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
+  For the stars trembled at the Deity.
+  She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
+  How solemnly pervading the calm air!
+  A sound of silence on the startled ear
+  Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
+  Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
+  "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
+
+  All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
+  Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings--
+  But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
+  The eternal voice of God is passing by,
+  And the red winds are withering in the sky!
+  "What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run [13],
+  Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
+  Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
+  Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
+  The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
+  (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
+  What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
+  The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
+  Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
+  To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
+  Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
+  With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
+  Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night [14],
+  And wing to other worlds another light!
+  Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
+  To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
+  To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
+  Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
+
+   Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
+  The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
+  Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
+  The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
+  As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
+  Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
+  And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
+  Her way--but left not yet her Therasaean reign [15].
+
+
+
+PART II.
+
+
+  High on a mountain of enamell'd head--
+  Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
+  Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
+  Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
+  With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
+  What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
+  Of rosy head, that towering far away
+  Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
+  Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
+  While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
+  Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
+  Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthen'd air,
+  Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
+  Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
+  And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
+  Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall [16]
+  Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
+  Of their own dissolution, while they die--
+  Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
+  A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
+  Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
+  A window of one circular diamond, there,
+  Look'd out above into the purple air
+  And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
+  And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
+  Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
+  Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
+  But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
+  The dimness of this world: that grayish green
+  That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
+  Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
+  And every sculptured cherub thereabout
+  That from his marble dwelling peered out,
+  Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
+  Achaian statues in a world so rich?
+  Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis [17]--
+  From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
+  Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave [18]
+  Is now upon thee--but too late to save!
+  Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
+  Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
+  That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco [19],
+  Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
+  That stealeth ever on the ear of him
+  Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
+  And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
+  Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?  [20]
+   But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
+  A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
+  A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain,
+  And Nesace is in her halls again.
+  From the wild energy of wanton haste
+  Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
+  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
+  Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
+  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
+  She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
+  The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
+  And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
+
+  Young flowers were whispering in melody [21]
+  To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
+  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
+  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
+  Yet silence came upon material things--
+  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
+  And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
+  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
+
+    "Neath blue-bell or streamer--
+      Or tufted wild spray
+    That keeps, from the dreamer,
+      The moonbeam away--[22]
+    Bright beings! that ponder,
+      With half-closing eyes,
+    On the stars which your wonder
+      Hath drawn from the skies,
+    Till they glance thro' the shade, and
+      Come down to your brow
+    Like--eyes of the maiden
+      Who calls on you now--
+    Arise! from your dreaming
+      In violet bowers,
+    To duty beseeming
+      These star-litten hours--
+    And shake from your tresses
+      Encumber'd with dew
+
+    The breath of those kisses
+      That cumber them too--
+    (O! how, without you, Love!
+      Could angels be blest?)
+    Those kisses of true love
+      That lull'd ye to rest!
+    Up! shake from your wing
+      Each hindering thing:
+    The dew of the night--
+      It would weigh down your flight;
+    And true love caresses--
+      O! leave them apart!
+    They are light on the tresses,
+      But lead on the heart.
+
+    Ligeia! Ligeia!
+      My beautiful one!
+    Whose harshest idea
+      Will to melody run,
+    O! is it thy will
+      On the breezes to toss?
+    Or, capriciously still,
+      Like the lone Albatross, [23]
+    Incumbent on night
+      (As she on the air)
+    To keep watch with delight
+      On the harmony there?
+
+    Ligeia! wherever
+      Thy image may be,
+    No magic shall sever
+      Thy music from thee.
+    Thou hast bound many eyes
+      In a dreamy sleep--
+    But the strains still arise
+      Which _thy_ vigilance keep--
+
+    The sound of the rain
+      Which leaps down to the flower,
+    And dances again
+      In the rhythm of the shower--
+    The murmur that springs [24]
+      From the growing of grass
+    Are the music of things--
+      But are modell'd, alas!
+    Away, then, my dearest,
+      O! hie thee away
+    To springs that lie clearest
+      Beneath the moon-ray--
+    To lone lake that smiles,
+      In its dream of deep rest,
+    At the many star-isles
+    That enjewel its breast--
+    Where wild flowers, creeping,
+      Have mingled their shade,
+    On its margin is sleeping
+      Full many a maid--
+    Some have left the cool glade, and
+      Have slept with the bee--[25]
+    Arouse them, my maiden,
+      On moorland and lea--
+
+    Go! breathe on their slumber,
+      All softly in ear,
+    The musical number
+      They slumber'd to hear--
+    For what can awaken
+      An angel so soon
+    Whose sleep hath been taken
+      Beneath the cold moon,
+    As the spell which no slumber
+      Of witchery may test,
+    The rhythmical number
+      Which lull'd him to rest?"
+
+  Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
+  A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
+  Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
+  Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
+  That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds afar,
+  O death! from eye of God upon that star;
+  Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
+  Sweet was that error--ev'n with _us_ the breath
+  Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
+  To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
+  For what (to them) availeth it to know
+  That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
+  Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
+  With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
+  Beyond that death no immortality--
+  But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
+  And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
+  Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell! [26]
+
+  What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
+  Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
+  But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
+  To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
+  A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
+  O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
+  Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
+  Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan." [27]
+
+  He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
+  A wanderer by mossy-mantled well--
+  A gazer on the lights that shine above--
+  A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
+  What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
+  And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
+  And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
+  To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
+  The night had found (to him a night of wo)
+  Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
+  Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
+  And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
+  Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
+  With eagle gaze along the firmament:
+  Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
+  It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
+
+  "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
+  How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
+  She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
+  I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourned to leave,
+  That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
+  The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
+  On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
+  Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
+  And on my eyelids--O, the heavy light!
+  How drowsily it weighed them into night!
+  On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
+  With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
+  But O, that light!--I slumbered--Death, the while,
+  Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
+  So softly that no single silken hair
+  Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
+
+  "The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
+  Was a proud temple called the Parthenon; [28]
+  More beauty clung around her columned wall
+  Then even thy glowing bosom beats withal, [29]
+  And when old Time my wing did disenthral
+  Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
+  And years I left behind me in an hour.
+  What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
+  One half the garden of her globe was flung
+  Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
+  Tenantless cities of the desert too!
+  Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
+  And half I wished to be again of men."
+
+  "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
+  A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--
+  And greener fields than in yon world above,
+  And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."
+  "But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
+  Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft, [30]
+  Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
+  I left so late was into chaos hurled,
+  Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
+  And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
+  Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
+  And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
+  But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
+  Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
+  Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
+  For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
+  Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
+  A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
+
+  "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
+  Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
+  We came, my love; around, above, below,
+  Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
+  Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
+  _She_ grants to us as granted by her God--
+  But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
+  Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
+  Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
+  Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
+  When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
+  Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
+  But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
+  As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
+  We paused before the heritage of men,
+  And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"
+
+  Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
+  The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
+  They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
+  Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
+
+
+1839.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
+suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy
+surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never
+been seen since.]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Sappho.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4: This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
+The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.]
+
+
+[Footnote: Clytia--the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
+better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun,
+covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
+clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat
+of the day.--'B. de St. Pierre.']
+
+
+[Footnote 6: There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
+species of serpentine aloe without prickles, whose large and beautiful
+flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its
+expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month
+of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand
+them--fade and die.--'St. Pierre'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 7: There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
+Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four
+feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the
+river.]
+
+
+[Footnote 8: The Hyacinth.]
+
+
+[Footnote 9: It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen
+floating in one of these down the river Ganges, and that he still loves
+the cradle of his childhood.]
+
+
+[Footnote 10: And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of
+the saints.--'Rev. St. John.']
+
+
+[Footnote 11: The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
+having really a human form.--'Vide Clarke's Sermons', vol. I, page 26,
+fol. edit.
+
+The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.--'Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine'.
+
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.--'Vide du Pin'.
+
+Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
+
+
+  Dicite sacrorum praeesides nemorum Dese, etc.,
+  Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
+  Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
+  Eternus, incorruptus, aequaevus polo,
+  Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+--And afterwards,
+
+  Non cui profundum Caecitas lumen dedit
+  Dircaeus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 12:
+
+  Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
+  Seinem Schosskinde
+  Der Phantasie.
+
+'Goethe'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 13: Sightless--too small to be seen.--'Legge'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 14: I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the
+fire-flies; they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
+centre, into innumerable radii.]
+
+
+[Footnote 15: Therasaea, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
+which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished
+mariners.]
+
+
+[Footnote 16:
+
+  Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
+  Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 17: Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,
+
+  "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais
+  erige au pied d'une chaine de rochers steriles--peut-il etre un chef
+  d'oeuvre des arts!"]
+
+
+[Footnote 18: "Oh, the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There
+were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In
+the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.
+Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed)
+--but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo,
+Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that
+after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are
+seen above the surface. At 'any' season, such remains may be discovered
+by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would
+argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the
+"Asphaltites."]
+
+
+[Footnote 19: Eyraco-Chaldea.]
+
+
+[Footnote 20: I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
+the darkness as it stole over the horizon.]
+
+
+[Footnote 21:
+
+  Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
+
+'Merry Wives of Windsor'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 22: In Scripture is this passage:
+
+  "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."
+
+It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the
+effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
+to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently
+alludes.]
+
+
+[Footnote 23: The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.]
+
+
+[Footnote 24: I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
+now unable to obtain and quote from memory:
+
+  "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all
+  musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest
+  do make when they growe."]
+
+
+[Footnote 25: The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
+moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before,
+has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W.
+Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+  O! were there an island,
+    Tho' ever so wild,
+  Where woman might smile, and
+    No man be beguil'd, etc. ]
+
+
+[Footnote 26: With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
+Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that
+tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
+heavenly enjoyment.
+
+  Un no rompido sueno--
+  Un dia puro--allegre--libre
+  Quiera--
+  Libre de amor--de zelo--
+  De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.
+
+'Luis Ponce de Leon.'
+
+Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium.
+
+The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant
+upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after
+life, is final death and annihilation.]
+
+
+[Footnote 27:
+
+  There be tears of perfect moan
+  Wept for thee in Helicon.
+
+'Milton'.]
+
+
+[Footnote 28: It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.]
+
+
+[Footnote 29:
+
+  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
+  Than have the white breasts of the queen of love.
+
+'Marlowe.']
+
+
+[Footnote 30: Pennon, for pinion.--'Milton'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TAMERLANE.
+
+
+  Kind solace in a dying hour!
+  Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
+  I will not madly deem that power
+  Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
+  Unearthly pride hath revelled in--
+  I have no time to dote or dream:
+  You call it hope--that fire of fire!
+  It is but agony of desire:
+  If I _can_ hope--O God! I can--
+  Its fount is holier--more divine--
+  I would not call thee fool, old man,
+  But such is not a gift of thine.
+
+  Know thou the secret of a spirit
+  Bowed from its wild pride into shame
+  O yearning heart! I did inherit
+  Thy withering portion with the fame,
+  The searing glory which hath shone
+  Amid the Jewels of my throne,
+  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
+  Not Hell shall make me fear again--
+  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
+  And sunshine of my summer hours!
+  The undying voice of that dead time,
+  With its interminable chime,
+  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
+  Upon thy emptiness--a knell.
+
+  I have not always been as now:
+  The fevered diadem on my brow
+  I claimed and won usurpingly--
+  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
+  Rome to the Caesar--this to me?
+  The heritage of a kingly mind,
+  And a proud spirit which hath striven
+  Triumphantly with human kind.
+  On mountain soil I first drew life:
+  The mists of the Taglay have shed
+  Nightly their dews upon my head,
+  And, I believe, the winged strife
+  And tumult of the headlong air
+  Have nestled in my very hair.
+
+  So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
+  ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
+  Upon me with the touch of Hell,
+  While the red flashing of the light
+  From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
+  Appeared to my half-closing eye
+  The pageantry of monarchy;
+  And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
+  Came hurriedly upon me, telling
+  Of human battle, where my voice,
+  My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
+  (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
+  And leap within me at the cry)
+  The battle-cry of Victory!
+
+  The rain came down upon my head
+  Unsheltered--and the heavy wind
+  Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
+  It was but man, I thought, who shed
+  Laurels upon me: and the rush--
+  The torrent of the chilly air
+  Gurgled within my ear the crush
+  Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
+  The hum of suitors--and the tone
+  Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
+
+  My passions, from that hapless hour,
+  Usurped a tyranny which men
+  Have deemed since I have reached to power,
+  My innate nature--be it so:
+  But, father, there lived one who, then,
+  Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
+  Burned with a still intenser glow
+  (For passion must, with youth, expire)
+  E'en _then_ who knew this iron heart
+  In woman's weakness had a part.
+
+  I have no words--alas!--to tell
+  The loveliness of loving well!
+  Nor would I now attempt to trace
+  The more than beauty of a face
+  Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
+  Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
+  Thus I remember having dwelt
+  Some page of early lore upon,
+  With loitering eye, till I have felt
+  The letters--with their meaning--melt
+  To fantasies--with none.
+
+  O, she was worthy of all love!
+  Love as in infancy was mine--
+  'Twas such as angel minds above
+  Might envy; her young heart the shrine
+  On which my every hope and thought
+  Were incense--then a goodly gift,
+  For they were childish and upright--
+  Pure--as her young example taught:
+  Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
+  Trust to the fire within, for light?
+
+  We grew in age--and love--together--
+  Roaming the forest, and the wild;
+  My breast her shield in wintry weather--
+  And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
+  And she would mark the opening skies,
+  _I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
+  Young Love's first lesson is----the heart:
+  For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
+  When, from our little cares apart,
+  And laughing at her girlish wiles,
+  I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
+  And pour my spirit out in tears--
+  There was no need to speak the rest--
+  No need to quiet any fears
+  Of her--who asked no reason why,
+  But turned on me her quiet eye!
+
+  Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
+  My spirit struggled with, and strove
+  When, on the mountain peak, alone,
+  Ambition lent it a new tone--
+  I had no being--but in thee:
+  The world, and all it did contain
+  In the earth--the air--the sea--
+  Its joy--its little lot of pain
+  That was new pleasure--the ideal,
+  Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
+  And dimmer nothings which were real--
+  (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
+  Parted upon their misty wings,
+  And, so, confusedly, became
+  Thine image and--a name--a name!
+  Two separate--yet most intimate things.
+
+  I was ambitious--have you known
+  The passion, father? You have not:
+  A cottager, I marked a throne
+  Of half the world as all my own,
+  And murmured at such lowly lot--
+  But, just like any other dream,
+  Upon the vapor of the dew
+  My own had past, did not the beam
+  Of beauty which did while it thro'
+  The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
+  My mind with double loveliness.
+
+  We walked together on the crown
+  Of a high mountain which looked down
+  Afar from its proud natural towers
+  Of rock and forest, on the hills--
+  The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
+  And shouting with a thousand rills.
+
+  I spoke to her of power and pride,
+  But mystically--in such guise
+  That she might deem it nought beside
+  The moment's converse; in her eyes
+  I read, perhaps too carelessly--
+  A mingled feeling with my own--
+  The flush on her bright cheek, to me
+  Seemed to become a queenly throne
+  Too well that I should let it be
+  Light in the wilderness alone.
+
+  I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
+  And donned a visionary crown--
+  Yet it was not that Fantasy
+  Had thrown her mantle over me--
+  But that, among the rabble--men,
+  Lion ambition is chained down--
+  And crouches to a keeper's hand--
+  Not so in deserts where the grand--
+  The wild--the terrible conspire
+  With their own breath to fan his fire.
+
+  Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
+  Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
+  Above all cities? in her hand
+  Their destinies? in all beside
+  Of glory which the world hath known
+  Stands she not nobly and alone?
+  Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
+  Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
+  And who her sovereign? Timour--he
+  Whom the astonished people saw
+  Striding o'er empires haughtily
+  A diademed outlaw!
+
+  O, human love! thou spirit given,
+  On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
+  Which fall'st into the soul like rain
+  Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
+  And, failing in thy power to bless,
+  But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
+  Idea! which bindest life around
+  With music of so strange a sound
+  And beauty of so wild a birth--
+  Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
+
+  When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
+  No cliff beyond him in the sky,
+  His pinions were bent droopingly--
+  And homeward turned his softened eye.
+  'Twas sunset: When the sun will part
+  There comes a sullenness of heart
+  To him who still would look upon
+  The glory of the summer sun.
+  That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
+  So often lovely, and will list
+  To the sound of the coming darkness (known
+  To those whose spirits hearken) as one
+  Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
+  But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
+
+  What tho' the moon--tho' the white moon
+  Shed all the splendor of her noon,
+  _Her_ smile is chilly--and _her_ beam,
+  In that time of dreariness, will seem
+  (So like you gather in your breath)
+  A portrait taken after death.
+  And boyhood is a summer sun
+  Whose waning is the dreariest one--
+  For all we live to know is known,
+  And all we seek to keep hath flown--
+  Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
+  With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
+  I reached my home--my home no more--
+  For all had flown who made it so.
+  I passed from out its mossy door,
+  And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
+  A voice came from the threshold stone
+  Of one whom I had earlier known--
+  O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
+  On beds of fire that burn below,
+  An humbler heart--a deeper woe.
+
+  Father, I firmly do believe--
+  I _know_--for Death who comes for me
+  From regions of the blest afar,
+  Where there is nothing to deceive,
+  Hath left his iron gate ajar.
+  And rays of truth you cannot see
+  Are flashing thro' Eternity----
+  I do believe that Eblis hath
+  A snare in every human path--
+  Else how, when in the holy grove
+  I wandered of the idol, Love,--
+  Who daily scents his snowy wings
+  With incense of burnt-offerings
+  From the most unpolluted things,
+  Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
+  Above with trellised rays from Heaven
+  No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
+  The light'ning of his eagle eye--
+  How was it that Ambition crept,
+  Unseen, amid the revels there,
+  Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
+  In the tangles of Love's very hair!
+
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN.
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece,
+  To the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
+
+
+  _Once_ it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sun-light lazily lay,
+  _Now_ each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley's restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless--
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Unceasingly, from morn till even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye--
+  Over the lilies that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:--from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+
+1831.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ISRAFEL. [1]
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamoured Moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven),
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli's fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings--
+  The trembling living wire
+  Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty--
+  Where Love's a grow-up God--
+    Where the Houri glances are
+  Imbued with all the beauty
+    Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore, thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest!
+  Merrily live and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit--
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervor of thy lute--
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely--flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+    Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+
+1836.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the
+  sweetest voice of all God's creatures.
+
+'Koran'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  I heed not that my earthly lot
+    Hath--little of Earth in it--
+  That years of love have been forgot
+    In the hatred of a minute:--
+  I mourn not that the desolate
+    Are happier, sweet, than I,
+  But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
+    Who am a passer-by.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO----
+
+
+  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
+    The wantonest singing birds,
+
+  Are lips--and all thy melody
+    Of lip-begotten words--
+
+  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
+    Then desolately fall,
+  O God! on my funereal mind
+    Like starlight on a pall--
+
+  Thy heart--_thy_ heart!--I wake and sigh,
+    And sleep to dream till day
+  Of the truth that gold can never buy--
+    Of the baubles that it may.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIVER
+
+
+  Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
+    Of crystal, wandering water,
+  Thou art an emblem of the glow
+        Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
+        The playful maziness of art
+    In old Alberto's daughter;
+
+  But when within thy wave she looks--
+    Which glistens then, and trembles--
+  Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
+    Her worshipper resembles;
+  For in his heart, as in thy stream,
+    Her image deeply lies--
+  His heart which trembles at the beam
+    Of her soul-searching eyes.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SONG.
+
+
+  I saw thee on thy bridal day--
+    When a burning blush came o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee:
+
+  And in thine eye a kindling light
+    (Whatever it might be)
+  Was all on Earth my aching sight
+    Of Loveliness could see.
+
+  That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
+    As such it well may pass--
+  Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
+    In the breast of him, alas!
+
+  Who saw thee on that bridal day,
+    When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SPIRITS OF THE DEAD.
+
+
+  Thy soul shall find itself alone
+  'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
+  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--tho' 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 forever.
+  Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--
+  Now are visions ne'er to vanish--
+  From thy spirit shall they pass
+  No more--like dew-drops 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!
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM.
+
+
+  In visions of the dark night
+    I have dreamed of joy departed--
+  But a waking dream of life and light
+    Hath left me broken-hearted.
+
+  Ah! what is not a dream by day
+    To him whose eyes are cast
+  On things around him with a ray
+    Turned back upon the past?
+
+  That holy dream--that holy dream,
+    While all the world were chiding,
+  Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
+    A lonely spirit guiding.
+
+  What though that light, thro' storm and night,
+    So trembled from afar--
+  What could there be more purely bright
+    In Truth's day star?
+
+
+1837.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE.
+
+
+  Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
+  With drowsy head and folded wing,
+  Among the green leaves as they shake
+  Far down within some shadowy lake,
+  To me a painted paroquet
+  Hath been--a most familiar bird--
+  Taught me my alphabet to say--
+  To lisp my very earliest word
+  While in the wild wood I did lie,
+  A child--with a most knowing eye.
+
+  Of late, eternal Condor years
+  So shake the very Heaven on high
+  With tumult as they thunder by,
+  I have no time for idle cares
+  Though gazing on the unquiet sky.
+  And when an hour with calmer wings
+  Its down upon my spirit flings--
+  That little time with lyre and rhyme
+  To while away--forbidden things!
+  My heart would feel to be a crime
+  Unless it trembled with the strings.
+
+
+1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+FAIRYLAND.
+
+
+  Dim vales--and shadowy floods--
+  And cloudy-looking woods,
+  Whose forms we can't discover
+  For the tears that drip all over
+  Huge moons there wax and wane--
+  Again--again--again--
+  Every moment of the night--
+  Forever changing places--
+  And they put out the star-light
+  With the breath from their pale faces.
+  About twelve by the moon-dial
+  One more filmy than the rest
+  (A kind which, upon trial,
+  They have found to be the best)
+  Comes down--still down--and down
+  With its centre on the crown
+  Of a mountain's eminence,
+  While its wide circumference
+  In easy drapery falls
+  Over hamlets, over halls,
+  Wherever they may be--
+  O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
+  Over spirits on the wing--
+  Over every drowsy thing--
+  And buries them up quite
+  In a labyrinth of light--
+  And then, how deep!--O, deep!
+  Is the passion of their sleep.
+  In the morning they arise,
+  And their moony covering
+  Is soaring in the skies,
+  With the tempests as they toss,
+  Like--almost any thing--
+  Or a yellow Albatross.
+  They use that moon no more
+  For the same end as before--
+  Videlicet a tent--
+  Which I think extravagant:
+  Its atomies, however,
+  Into a shower dissever,
+  Of which those butterflies,
+  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
+  And so come down again
+  (Never-contented thing!)
+  Have brought a specimen
+  Upon their quivering wings.
+
+
+1831
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE LAKE.
+
+
+  In spring of youth it was my lot
+  To haunt of the wide world a spot
+  The which I could not love the less--
+  So lovely was the loneliness
+  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
+  And the tall pines that towered around.
+
+  But when the Night had thrown her pall
+  Upon the spot, as upon all,
+  And the mystic wind went by
+  Murmuring in melody--
+  Then--ah, then, I would awake
+  To the terror of the lone lake.
+
+  Yet that terror was not fright,
+  But a tremulous delight--
+  A feeling not the jewelled mine
+  Could teach or bribe me to define--
+  Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
+
+  Death was in that poisonous wave,
+  And in its gulf a fitting grave
+  For him who thence could solace bring
+  To his lone imagining--
+  Whose solitary soul could make
+  An Eden of that dim lake.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+EVENING STAR.
+
+
+  'Twas noontide of summer,
+    And midtime of night,
+  And stars, in their orbits,
+    Shone pale, through the light
+  Of the brighter, cold moon.
+    'Mid planets her slaves,
+  Herself in the Heavens,
+    Her beam on the waves.
+
+    I gazed awhile
+    On her cold smile;
+  Too cold--too cold for me--
+    There passed, as a shroud,
+    A fleecy cloud,
+  And I turned away to thee,
+    Proud Evening Star,
+    In thy glory afar
+  And dearer thy beam shall be;
+    For joy to my heart
+    Is the proud part
+  Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
+    And more I admire
+    Thy distant fire,
+  Than that colder, lowly light.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+IMITATION.
+
+
+  A dark unfathomed tide
+  Of interminable pride--
+  A mystery, and a dream,
+  Should my early life seem;
+  I say that dream was fraught
+  With a wild and waking thought
+  Of beings that have been,
+  Which my spirit hath not seen,
+  Had I let them pass me by,
+  With a dreaming eye!
+  Let none of earth inherit
+  That vision on my spirit;
+  Those thoughts I would control,
+  As a spell upon his soul:
+  For that bright hope at last
+  And that light time have past,
+  And my wordly rest hath gone
+  With a sigh as it passed on:
+  I care not though it perish
+  With a thought I then did cherish.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
+
+
+     I.       The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                My seared and blighted heart hath known,
+              The highest hope of pride and power,
+                I feel hath flown.
+
+
+     II.      Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
+                But they have vanished long, alas!
+              The visions of my youth have been--
+                But let them pass.
+
+
+     III.     And pride, what have I now with thee?
+                Another brow may ev'n inherit
+              The venom thou hast poured on me--
+                Be still my spirit!
+
+
+     IV.      The happiest day--the happiest hour
+                Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen
+              The brightest glance of pride and power
+                I feel have been:
+
+
+     V.       But were that hope of pride and power
+                Now offered with the pain
+              Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour
+                I would not live again:
+
+     VI.      For on its wing was dark alloy
+                And as it fluttered--fell
+              An essence--powerful to destroy
+                A soul that knew it well.
+
+
+1827.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+Translation from the Greek.
+
+
+HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS.
+
+
+  I.      Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal,
+            Like those champions devoted and brave,
+          When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
+            And to Athens deliverance gave.
+
+  II.     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
+            In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
+          Where the mighty of old have their home--
+            Where Achilles and Diomed rest.
+
+  III.    In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
+            Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
+          When he made at the tutelar shrine
+            A libation of Tyranny's blood.
+
+  IV.     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
+            Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
+          Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
+            Embalmed in their echoing songs!
+
+1827
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+DREAMS.
+
+
+  Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
+  My spirit not awakening, till the beam
+  Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
+  Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
+  'Twere better than the cold reality
+  Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
+  And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
+  A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
+  But should it be--that dream eternally
+  Continuing--as dreams have been to me
+  In my young boyhood--should it thus be given,
+  'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
+  For I have revelled when the sun was bright
+  I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
+  And loveliness,--have left my very heart
+  Inclines of my imaginary apart [1]
+  From mine own home, with beings that have been
+  Of mine own thought--what more could I have seen?
+  'Twas once--and only once--and the wild hour
+  From my remembrance shall not pass--some power
+  Or spell had bound me--'twas the chilly wind
+  Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
+  Its image on my spirit--or the moon
+  Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
+  Too coldly--or the stars--howe'er it was
+  That dream was that that night-wind--let it pass.
+  _I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
+  I have been happy--and I love the theme:
+  Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
+  As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
+  Of semblance with reality which brings
+  To the delirious eye, more lovely things
+  Of Paradise and Love--and all my own!--
+  Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: In climes of mine imagining apart?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE."
+
+
+          _How often we forget all time, when lone
+          Admiring Nature's universal throne;
+          Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense
+          Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
+
+
+I.        In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
+            In secret communing held--as he with it,
+          In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
+            Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
+          From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
+            A passionate light such for his spirit was fit--
+          And yet that spirit knew--not in the hour
+            Of its own fervor--what had o'er it power.
+
+
+II.       Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
+            To a ferver [1] by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
+          But I will half believe that wild light fraught
+            With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
+          Hath ever told--or is it of a thought
+            The unembodied essence, and no more
+          That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
+            As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
+
+
+III.      Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
+            To the loved object--so the tear to the lid
+          Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
+            And yet it need not be--(that object) hid
+          From us in life--but common--which doth lie
+            Each hour before us--but then only bid
+          With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
+            T' awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token--
+
+
+IV.       Of what in other worlds shall be--and given
+            In beauty by our God, to those alone
+          Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
+            Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
+          That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
+            Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne
+          With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
+            Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Query "fervor"?--Ed.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+A PAEAN.
+
+
+
+I.        How shall the burial rite be read?
+            The solemn song be sung?
+          The requiem for the loveliest dead,
+            That ever died so young?
+
+
+II.       Her friends are gazing on her,
+            And on her gaudy bier,
+          And weep!--oh! to dishonor
+            Dead beauty with a tear!
+
+
+III.     They loved her for her wealth--
+           And they hated her for her pride--
+          But she grew in feeble health,
+            And they _love_ her--that she died.
+
+
+IV.      They tell me (while they speak
+           Of her "costly broider'd pall")
+         That my voice is growing weak--
+           That I should not sing at all--
+
+
+V.       Or that my tone should be
+           Tun'd to such solemn song
+         So mournfully--so mournfully,
+           That the dead may feel no wrong.
+
+
+VI.      But she is gone above,
+           With young Hope at her side,
+         And I am drunk with love
+           Of the dead, who is my bride.--
+
+VII.     Of the dead--dead who lies
+           All perfum'd there,
+         With the death upon her eyes.
+           And the life upon her hair.
+
+
+VIII.    Thus on the coffin loud and long
+           I strike--the murmur sent
+         Through the gray chambers to my song,
+           Shall be the accompaniment.
+
+
+IX.      Thou diedst in thy life's June--
+           But thou didst not die too fair:
+         Thou didst not die too soon,
+           Nor with too calm an air.
+
+
+X.       From more than friends on earth,
+           Thy life and love are riven,
+         To join the untainted mirth
+           Of more than thrones in heaven.--
+
+
+XI.      Therefore, to thee this night
+           I will no requiem raise,
+         But waft thee on thy flight,
+           With a Paean of old days.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This
+section includes the pieces printed for the first volume of 1827 (which
+was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second
+published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in
+their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
+
+"Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it,
+in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for
+1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the
+following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in all subsequent
+collections:
+
+
+AL AARAAF.
+
+
+  Mysterious star!
+  Thou wert my dream
+  All a long summer night--
+  Be now my theme!
+  By this clear stream,
+  Of thee will I write;
+  Meantime from afar
+  Bathe me in light!
+
+  Thy world has not the dross of ours,
+  Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
+  That list our love or deck our bowers
+  In dreamy gardens, where do lie
+  Dreamy maidens all the day;
+  While the silver winds of Circassy
+  On violet couches faint away.
+  Little--oh! little dwells in thee
+  Like unto what on earth we see:
+  Beauty's eye is here the bluest
+  In the falsest and untruest--
+  On the sweetest air doth float
+  The most sad and solemn note--
+  If with thee be broken hearts,
+  Joy so peacefully departs,
+  That its echo still doth dwell,
+  Like the murmur in the shell.
+  Thou! thy truest type of grief
+  Is the gently falling leaf--
+  Thou! thy framing is so holy
+  Sorrow is not melancholy.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed
+volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
+published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
+improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
+lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
+least.
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The
+Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two
+others of the youthful pieces.
+
+The poem styled "Romance" constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume,
+but with the addition of the following lines:
+
+
+  Succeeding years, too wild for song,
+  Then rolled like tropic storms along,
+  Where, though the garish lights that fly
+  Dying along the troubled sky,
+  Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
+  The blackness of the general Heaven,
+  That very blackness yet doth fling
+  Light on the lightning's silver wing.
+
+  For being an idle boy lang syne,
+  Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
+  I early found Anacreon rhymes
+  Were almost passionate sometimes--
+  And by strange alchemy of brain
+  His pleasures always turned to pain--
+  His naivete to wild desire--
+  His wit to love--his wine to fire--
+  And so, being young and dipt in folly,
+  I fell in love with melancholy.
+
+  And used to throw my earthly rest
+  And quiet all away in jest--
+  I could not love except where Death
+  Was mingling his with Beauty's breath--
+  Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
+  Were stalking between her and me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  But _now_ my soul hath too much room--
+  Gone are the glory and the gloom--
+  The black hath mellow'd into gray,
+  And all the fires are fading away.
+
+  My draught of passion hath been deep--
+  I revell'd, and I now would sleep--
+  And after drunkenness of soul
+  Succeeds the glories of the bowl--
+  An idle longing night and day
+  To dream my very life away.
+
+  But dreams--of those who dream as I,
+  Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
+  Yet should I swear I mean alone,
+  By notes so very shrilly blown,
+  To break upon Time's monotone,
+  While yet my vapid joy and grief
+  Are tintless of the yellow leaf--
+  Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
+  Will shake his shadow in my path--
+  And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook
+  Connivingly my dreaming-book.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                 DOUBTFUL POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+ALONE.
+
+
+  From childhood's hour I have not been
+  As others were--I have not seen
+  As others saw--I could not bring
+  My passions from a common spring--
+  From the same source I have not taken
+  My sorrow--I could not awaken
+  My heart to joy at the same tone--
+  And all I loved--_I_ loved alone--
+  _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn
+  Of a most stormy life--was drawn
+  From every depth of good and ill
+  The mystery which binds me still--
+  From the torrent, or the fountain--
+  From the red cliff of the mountain--
+  From the sun that round me roll'd
+  In its autumn tint of gold--
+  From the lightning in the sky
+  As it passed me flying by--
+  From the thunder and the storm--
+  And the cloud that took the form
+  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
+  Of a demon in my view.
+
+
+March 17, 1829.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+TO ISADORE.
+
+
+I.       Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
+             Whose shadows fall before
+             Thy lowly cottage door--
+         Under the lilac's tremulous leaves--
+         Within thy snowy clasped hand
+             The purple flowers it bore.
+         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
+         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land--
+         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
+             Most beauteous Isadore!
+
+
+II.      And when I bade the dream
+             Upon thy spirit flee,
+             Thy violet eyes to me
+         Upturned, did overflowing seem
+         With the deep, untold delight
+             Of Love's serenity;
+         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
+         And pale as the Imperial Night
+         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
+             Enthralled my soul to thee!
+
+
+III.     Ah! ever I behold
+             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
+             Blue as the languid skies
+         Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold;
+         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
+             And olden memories
+         Are startled from their long repose
+         Like shadows on the silent snows
+         When suddenly the night-wind blows
+             Where quiet moonlight lies.
+
+
+IV.      Like music heard in dreams,
+             Like strains of harps unknown,
+             Of birds for ever flown,--
+         Audible as the voice of streams
+         That murmur in some leafy dell,
+             I hear thy gentlest tone,
+         And Silence cometh with her spell
+         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
+         When tremulous in dreams I tell
+             My love to thee alone!
+
+V.       In every valley heard,
+             Floating from tree to tree,
+             Less beautiful to me,
+         The music of the radiant bird,
+         Than artless accents such as thine
+             Whose echoes never flee!
+         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:--
+         For uttered in thy tones benign
+         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
+             Doth seem a melody!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE STREET.
+
+
+  In these rapid, restless shadows,
+    Once I walked at eventide,
+  When a gentle, silent maiden,
+    Walked in beauty at my side.
+  She alone there walked beside me
+  All in beauty, like a bride.
+
+  Pallidly the moon was shining
+    On the dewy meadows nigh;
+  On the silvery, silent rivers,
+    On the mountains far and high,--
+  On the ocean's star-lit waters,
+    Where the winds a-weary die.
+
+  Slowly, silently we wandered
+    From the open cottage door,
+  Underneath the elm's long branches
+    To the pavement bending o'er;
+  Underneath the mossy willow
+    And the dying sycamore.
+
+  With the myriad stars in beauty
+    All bedight, the heavens were seen,
+  Radiant hopes were bright around me,
+    Like the light of stars serene;
+  Like the mellow midnight splendor
+    Of the Night's irradiate queen.
+
+  Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
+    Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
+  Like the distant murmured music
+    Of unquiet, lovely seas;
+  While the winds were hushed in slumber
+    In the fragrant flowers and trees.
+
+  Wondrous and unwonted beauty
+    Still adorning all did seem,
+  While I told my love in fables
+    'Neath the willows by the stream;
+  Would the heart have kept unspoken
+    Love that was its rarest dream!
+
+  Instantly away we wandered
+    In the shadowy twilight tide,
+  She, the silent, scornful maiden,
+    Walking calmly at my side,
+  With a step serene and stately,
+    All in beauty, all in pride.
+
+  Vacantly I walked beside her.
+    On the earth mine eyes were cast;
+  Swift and keen there came unto me
+    Bitter memories of the past--
+  On me, like the rain in Autumn
+    On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
+
+  Underneath the elms we parted,
+    By the lowly cottage door;
+  One brief word alone was uttered--
+    Never on our lips before;
+  And away I walked forlornly,
+  Broken-hearted evermore.
+
+  Slowly, silently I loitered,
+    Homeward, in the night, alone;
+  Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
+    That my youth had never known;
+  Wild unrest, like that which cometh
+    When the Night's first dream hath flown.
+
+  Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
+    Mad, discordant melodies,
+  And keen melodies like shadows
+    Haunt the moaning willow trees,
+  And the sycamores with laughter
+    Mock me in the nightly breeze.
+
+  Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
+    Through the sighing foliage streams;
+  And each morning, midnight shadow,
+    Shadow of my sorrow seems;
+  Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
+    And, O soul, forget thy dreams!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE FOREST REVERIE.
+
+
+      'Tis said that when
+      The hands of men
+    Tamed this primeval wood,
+  And hoary trees with groans of wo,
+  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
+    Were in their strength subdued,
+      The virgin Earth
+      Gave instant birth
+    To springs that ne'er did flow--
+      That in the sun
+      Did rivulets run,
+  And all around rare flowers did blow--
+      The wild rose pale
+      Perfumed the gale,
+  And the queenly lily adown the dale
+      (Whom the sun and the dew
+      And the winds did woo),
+  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
+
+      So when in tears
+      The love of years
+    Is wasted like the snow,
+  And the fine fibrils of its life
+  By the rude wrong of instant strife
+    Are broken at a blow--
+      Within the heart
+      Do springs upstart
+    Of which it doth now know,
+      And strange, sweet dreams,
+      Like silent streams
+  That from new fountains overflow,
+      With the earlier tide
+      Of rivers glide
+  Deep in the heart whose hope has died--
+  Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
+    Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
+      Sweet flowers, ere long,--
+    The rare and radiant flowers of song!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+NOTES.
+
+
+Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,
+and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone"
+have the chief claim to our notice. 'Fac-simile' copies of this piece
+had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its
+publication in 'Scribner's Magazine' for September 1875; but as proofs
+of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
+publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been
+adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to
+guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of
+a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the
+'fac-simile' given in 'Scribner's' is alleged to be of his handwriting.
+If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects
+from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of
+the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which
+the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.
+The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of
+his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well
+qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
+claimed for them."
+
+Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the 'Broadway Journal', some lines "To
+Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore
+no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
+questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they
+were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the
+'Broadway Journal' over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
+them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless,
+to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known
+works in his journal over 'noms de plume', and as no other writings
+whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it
+is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
+be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual
+elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an
+assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection,
+so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be
+by the author of "The Raven."
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                              PROSE POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE ISLAND OF THE FAY.
+
+
+    "Nullus enim locus sine genio est."
+
+    _Servius_.
+
+
+"_La musique_," says Marmontel, in those "Contes Moraux"[1] which in all
+our translations we have insisted upon calling "Moral Tales," as if in
+mockery of their spirit--"_la musique est le seul des talens qui jouisse
+de lui-meme: tous les autres veulent des temoins_." He here confounds
+the pleasure derivable from sweet sounds with the capacity for creating
+them. No more than any other _talent_, is that for music susceptible of
+complete enjoyment where there is no second party to appreciate its
+exercise; and it is only in common with other talents that it produces
+_effects_ which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea which the
+_raconteur_ has either failed to entertain clearly, or has sacrificed in
+its expression to his national love of _point_, is doubtless the very
+tenable one that the higher order of music is the most thoroughly
+estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form
+will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and
+for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach
+of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than
+does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness
+experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man
+who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude
+behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only,
+but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow
+upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at
+war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark
+valleys, and the gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the
+forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains
+that look down upon all,--I love to regard these as themselves but the
+colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole--a whole whose
+form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and most inclusive of all;
+whose path is among associate planets; whose meek handmaiden is the
+moon; whose mediate sovereign is the sun; whose life is eternity; whose
+thought is that of a god; whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies
+are lost in immensity; whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our
+own cognizance of the _animalculae_ which infest the brain, a being which
+we in consequence regard as purely inanimate and material, much in the
+same manner as these _animalculae_ must thus regard us.
+
+Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on every
+hand, notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the priesthood,
+that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important consideration in
+the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which the stars move are those
+best adapted for the evolution, without collision, of the greatest
+possible number of bodies. The forms of those bodies are accurately such
+as within a given surface to include the greatest possible amount of
+matter; while the surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate
+a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces
+otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object
+with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of
+matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter
+with vitality is a principle--indeed, as far as our judgments extend,
+the _leading_ principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely
+logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we
+daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we find
+cycle within cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant
+centre which is the Godhead, may we not analogically suppose, in the
+same manner, life within life, the less within the greater, and all
+within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring through
+self-esteem in believing man, in either his temporal or future
+destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that vast "clod of
+the valley" which he tills and contemns, and to which he denies a soul,
+for no more profound reason than that he does not behold it in operation
+[2].
+
+These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my meditations
+among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers and the ocean, a
+tinge of what the every-day world would not fail to term the fantastic.
+My wanderings amid such scenes have been many and far-searching, and
+often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many
+a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright
+lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have
+strayed and gazed _alone._ What flippant Frenchman [3] was it who said,
+in allusion to the well known work of Zimmermann, that _"la solitude est
+une belle chose; mais il faut quelqu'un pour vous dire que la solitude
+est une belle chose"_? The epigram cannot be gainsaid; but the necessity
+is a thing that does not exist.
+
+It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant region of
+mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and melancholy tarns
+writhing or sleeping within all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet
+and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw
+myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an unknown odorous shrub,
+that I might doze as I contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only
+should I look upon it, such was the character of phantasm which it wore.
+
+On all sides, save to the west where the sun was about sinking, arose
+the verdant walls of the forest. The little river which turned sharply
+in its course, and was thus immediately lost to sight, seemed to have no
+exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of
+the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to
+me as I lay at length and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly
+and continuously into the valley a rich golden and crimson waterfall
+from the sunset fountains of the sky.
+
+About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in, one
+small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the bosom of the
+stream.
+
+  So blended bank and shadow there,
+  That each seemed pendulous in air--
+
+so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely possible to
+say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf its crystal
+dominion began. My position enabled me to include in a single view both
+the eastern and western extremities of the islet, and I observed a
+singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all one
+radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye
+of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was
+short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were
+lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern figure
+and foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There seemed a
+deep sense of life and joy about all, and although no airs blew from out
+the heavens, yet everything had motion through the gentle sweepings to
+and fro of innumerable butterflies, that might have been mistaken for
+tulips with wings [4].
+
+The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade.
+A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things.
+The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude--
+wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that
+conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the
+deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly,
+and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low
+and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were
+not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary
+clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and
+seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element
+with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower
+and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth,
+and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued
+momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus
+entombed.
+
+This idea having once seized upon my fancy greatly excited it, and I
+lost myself forthwith in reverie. "If ever island were enchanted," said
+I to myself, "this is it. This is the haunt of the few gentle Fays who
+remain from the wreck of the race. Are these green tombs theirs?--or do
+they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying,
+do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by
+little their existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,
+exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting tree is to
+the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker by what it preys
+upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the death which engulfs it?"
+
+As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly to
+rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the island, bearing
+upon their bosom large dazzling white flakes of the bark of the
+sycamore, flakes which, in their multiform positions upon the water, a
+quick imagination might have converted into anything it pleased; while I
+thus mused, it appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays
+about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness
+from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in
+a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an
+oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude
+seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within
+the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded the islet and
+re-entered the region of light. "The revolution which has just been made
+by the Fay," continued I musingly, "is the cycle of the brief year of
+her life. She has floated through her winter and through her summer. She
+is a year nearer unto death: for I did not fail to see that as she came
+into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in the
+dark water, making its blackness more black."
+
+And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the
+latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy.
+She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened
+momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and
+became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the
+circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and
+at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person,
+while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each
+passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became
+whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly
+departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went
+disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and
+that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all
+things, and I beheld her magical figure no more.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: Moraux is here derived from _moeurs_, and its meaning is
+"_fashionable_," or, more strictly, "of manners."]
+
+
+[Footnote 2: Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise,
+'De Situ Orbis', says,
+
+  "Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.]
+
+
+[Footnote 3: Balzac, in substance; I do not remember the words.]
+
+
+[Footnote 4:
+
+  "Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera."
+
+'P. Commire'.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POWER OF WORDS.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with
+  immortality!
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded.
+  Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of
+  the angels freely, that it may be given!
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But in this existence I dreamed that I should be at once cognizant of
+  all things, and thus at once happy in being cognizant of all.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of
+  knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know
+  all, were the curse of a fiend.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But does not The Most High know all?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  _That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing
+  unknown even to HIM.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things
+  be known?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Look down into the abysmal distances!--attempt to force the gaze down
+  the multitudinous vistas of the stars, as we sweep slowly through them
+  thus--and thus--and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all
+  points arrested by the continuous golden walls of the universe?--the
+  walls of the myriads of the shining bodies that mere number has
+  appeared to blend into unity?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  There are no dreams in Aidenn--but it is here whispered that, of this
+  infinity of matter, the _sole_ purpose is to afford infinite springs
+  at which the soul may allay the thirst _to know_ which is forever
+  unquenchable within it--since to quench it would be to extinguish the
+  soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear.
+  Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmony of the Pleiades, and
+  swoop outward from the throne into the starry meadows beyond Orion,
+  where, for pansies and violets, and heart's-ease, are the beds of the
+  triplicate and triple-tinted suns.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  And now, Agathos, as we proceed, instruct me!--speak to me in the
+  earth's familiar tones! I understand not what you hinted to me just
+  now of the modes or of the methods of what during mortality, we were
+  accustomed to call Creation. Do you mean to say that the Creator is
+  not God?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I mean to say that the Deity does not create.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Explain!
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now
+  throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only
+  be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or
+  immediate results of the Divine creative power.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the
+  extreme.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term
+  Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise
+  to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the
+  final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very
+  successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to
+  denominate the creation of animalculae.
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  The cases of which you speak were, in fact, instances of the secondary
+  creation, and of the _only_ species of creation which has ever been
+  since the first word spoke into existence the first law.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst
+  hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the
+  immediate handiwork of the King?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Let me endeavor, my Oinos, to lead you, step by step, to the
+  conception I intend. You are well aware that, as no thought can
+  perish, so no act is without infinite result. We moved our hands, for
+  example, when we were dwellers on the earth, and in so doing we gave
+  vibration to the atmosphere which engirdled it. This vibration was
+  indefinitely extended till it gave impulse to every particle of the
+  earth's air, which thenceforward, _and forever_, was actuated by the
+  one movement of the hand. This fact the mathematicians of our globe
+  well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid
+  by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation--so that it
+  became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given
+  extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the
+  atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from
+  a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of
+  the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the results
+  of any given impulse were absolutely endless--and who saw that a
+  portion of these results were accurately traceable through the agency
+  of algebraic analysis--who saw, too, the facility of the
+  retrogradation--these men saw, at the same time, that this species of
+  analysis itself had within itself a capacity for indefinite
+  progress--that there were no bounds conceivable to its advancement and
+  applicability, except within the intellect of him who advanced or
+  applied it. But at this point our mathematicians paused.
+
+
+'Oinos.'
+
+  And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded?
+
+
+'Agathos.'
+
+  Because there were some considerations of deep interest beyond. It was
+  deducible from what they knew, that to a being of infinite
+  understanding--one to whom the _perfection_ of the algebraic analysis
+  lay unfolded--there could be no difficulty in tracing every impulse
+  given the air--and the ether through the air--to the remotest
+  consequences at any even infinitely remote epoch of time. It is indeed
+  demonstrable that every such impulse _given the air_, must _in the
+  end_ impress every individual thing that exists _within the
+  universe;_--and the being of infinite understanding--the being whom
+  we have imagined--might trace the remote undulations of the
+  impulse--trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all
+  particles of all matter--upward and onward forever in their
+  modifications of old forms--or, in other words, _in their creation of
+  new_--until he found them reflected--unimpressive _at last_--back from
+  the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this,
+  but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him--should one of
+  these numberless comets, for example, be presented to his
+  inspection--he could have no difficulty in determining, by the
+  analytic retrogradation, to what original impulse it was due. This
+  power of retrogradation in its absolute fulness and perfection--this
+  faculty of referring at _all_ epochs, _all_ effects to _all_
+  causes--is of course the prerogative of the Deity alone--but in every
+  variety of degree, short of the absolute perfection, is the power
+  itself exercised by the whole host of the Angelic Intelligences.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But you speak merely of impulses upon the air.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general
+  proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it
+  pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of
+  _creation_.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates?
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all
+  motion is thought--and the source of all thought is--
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  God.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which
+  lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth.
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  You did.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of
+  the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the
+  air?
+
+
+'Oinos'.
+
+  But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as
+  we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most
+  terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant
+  flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the
+  passions of a turbulent heart.
+
+
+'Agathos'.
+
+  They _are_!--they _are_!--This wild star--it is now three centuries
+  since, with clasped hands, and with streaming eyes, at the feet of my
+  beloved--I spoke it--with a few passionate sentences--into birth. Its
+  brilliant flowers _are_ the dearest of all unfulfilled dreams, and its
+  raging volcanoes _are_ the passions of the most turbulent and
+  unhallowed of hearts!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA.
+
+
+  [Greek: Mellonta  sauta']
+
+  These things are in the future.
+
+  _Sophocles_--'Antig.'
+
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  "Born again?"
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words
+  upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the
+  explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the
+  secret.
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Death!
+
+
+'Monos.'
+
+  How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a
+  vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are
+  confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal.
+  Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word
+  which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew
+  upon all pleasures!
+
+
+'Una.'
+
+  Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did
+  we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously
+  did it act as a check to human bliss, saying unto it, "thus far, and
+  no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned
+  within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy
+  in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthen with its
+  strength! Alas, as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that
+  evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus in time it
+  became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now!
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to
+  say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the
+  incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will
+  be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative
+  begin?
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  At what point?
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  You have said.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity
+  of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with
+  the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad
+  instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a
+  breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid
+  eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this
+  epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our
+  forefathers--wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem--had
+  ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied
+  to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the
+  five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution when arose
+  some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose
+  truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious
+  --principles which should have taught our race to submit to the
+  guidance of the natural laws rather than attempt their control. At
+  long intervals some master-minds appeared, looking upon each advance
+  in practical science as a retrogradation in the true utility.
+  Occasionally the poetic intellect--that intellect which we now feel to
+  have been the most exalted of all--since those truths which to us were
+  of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that
+  _analogy_ which speaks in proof-tones to the imagination alone, and to
+  the unaided reason bears no weight--occasionally did this poetic
+  intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of
+  the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree
+  of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct
+  intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition
+  of his soul. And these men--the poets--living and perishing amid the
+  scorn of the "utilitarians"--of rough pedants, who arrogated to
+  themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the
+  scorned--these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely,
+  upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our
+  enjoyments were keen--days when _mirth_ was a word unknown, so
+  solemnly deep-toned was happiness--holy, august, and blissful days,
+  blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest
+  solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble
+  exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by
+  opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil
+  days. The great "movement"--that was the cant term--went on: a
+  diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art--the Arts--arose supreme,
+  and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated
+  them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty
+  of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and
+  still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a
+  God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might
+  be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with
+  system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities.
+  Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and
+  in the face of analogy and of God--in despite of the loud warning
+  voice of the laws of _gradation_ so visibly pervading all things in
+  Earth and Heaven--wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were
+  made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil,
+  Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking
+  cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath
+  of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages
+  of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our
+  slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have
+  arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own
+  destruction in the perversion of our _taste_, or rather in the blind
+  neglect of its culture in the schools. For, in truth, it was at this
+  crisis that taste alone--that faculty which, holding a middle position
+  between the pure intellect and the moral sense, could never safely
+  have been disregarded--it was now that taste alone could have led us
+  gently back to Beauty, to Nature, and to Life. But alas for the pure
+  contemplative spirit and majestic intuition of Plato! Alas for the
+  [Greek: mousichae]  which he justly regarded as an all-sufficient
+  education for the soul! Alas for him and for it!--since both were most
+  desperately needed, when both were most entirely forgotten or despised
+  [1]. Pascal, a philosopher whom we both love, has said, how
+  truly!--"_Que tout notre raisonnement se reduit a ceder au
+  sentiment;_" and it is not impossible that the sentiment of the
+  natural, had time permitted it, would have regained its old ascendency
+  over the harsh mathematical reason of the schools. But this thing was
+  not to be. Prematurely induced by intemperance of knowledge, the old
+  age of the world drew near. This the mass of mankind saw not, or,
+  living lustily although unhappily, affected not to see. But, for
+  myself, the Earth's records had taught me to look for widest ruin as
+  the price of highest civilization. I had imbibed a prescience of our
+  Fate from comparison of China the simple and enduring, with Assyria
+  the architect, with Egypt the astrologer, with Nubia, more crafty than
+  either, the turbulent mother of all Arts. In the history of these
+  regions I met with a ray from the Future. The individual
+  artificialities of the three latter were local diseases of the Earth,
+  and in their individual overthrows we had seen local remedies applied;
+  but for the infected world at large I could anticipate no regeneration
+  save in death. That man, as a race, should not become extinct, I saw
+  that he must be "_born again._"
+
+  And now it was, fairest and dearest, that we wrapped our spirits,
+  daily, in dreams. Now it was that, in twilight, we discoursed of the
+  days to come, when the Art-scarred surface of the Earth, having
+  undergone that purification which alone could efface its rectangular
+  obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the
+  mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at
+  length a fit dwelling-place for man:--for man the Death-purged--for
+  man to whose now exalted intellect there should be poison in knowledge
+  no more--for the redeemed, regenerated, blissful, and now immortal,
+  but still for the _material_, man.
+
+
+'Una'.
+
+  Well do I remember these conversations, dear Monos; but the epoch of
+  the fiery overthrow was not so near at hand as we believed, and as the
+  corruption you indicate did surely warrant us in believing. Men lived;
+  and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the
+  grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though
+  the century which has since elapsed, and whose conclusion brings up
+  together once more, tortured our slumbering senses with no impatience
+  of duration, yet my Monos, it was a century still.
+
+
+'Monos'.
+
+  Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in
+  the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which
+  had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the
+  fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium
+  replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for
+  pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some
+  days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless
+  torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me.
+
+  Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience.
+  It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of
+  him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and
+  fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into
+  consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without
+  being awakened by external disturbances.
+
+  I breathed no longer. The pulses were still. The heart had ceased to
+  beat. Volition had not departed, but was powerless. The senses were
+  unusually active, although eccentrically so--assuming often each
+  other's functions at random. The taste and the smell were inextricably
+  confounded, and became one sentiment, abnormal and intense. The
+  rose-water with which your tenderness had moistened my lips to the
+  last, affected me with sweet fancies of flowers--fantastic flowers,
+  far more lovely than any of the old Earth, but whose prototypes we
+  have here blooming around us. The eye-lids, transparent and bloodless,
+  offered no complete impediment to vision. As volition was in abeyance,
+  the balls could not roll in their sockets--but all objects within the
+  range of the visual hemisphere were seen with more or less
+  distinctness; the rays which fell upon the external retina, or into
+  the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which
+  struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance,
+  this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as
+  _sound_--sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting
+  themselves at my side were light or dark in shade--curved or angular
+  in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree,
+  was not irregular in action--estimating real sounds with an
+  extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had
+  undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily
+  received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the
+  highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers
+  upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length,
+  long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight
+  immeasurable. I say with a sensual delight. _All_ my perceptions were
+  purely sensual. The materials furnished the passive brain by the
+  senses were not in the least degree wrought into shape by the deceased
+  understanding. Of pain there was some little; of pleasure there was
+  much; but of moral pain or pleasure none at all. Thus your wild sobs
+  floated into my ear with all their mournful cadences, and were
+  appreciated in their every variation of sad tone; but they were soft
+  musical sounds and no more; they conveyed to the extinct reason no
+  intimation of the sorrows which gave them birth; while large and
+  constant tears which fell upon my face, telling the bystanders of a
+  heart which broke, thrilled every fibre of my frame with ecstasy
+  alone. And this was in truth the _Death_ of which these bystanders
+  spoke reverently, in low whispers--you, sweet Una, gaspingly, with
+  loud cries.
+
+  They attired me for the coffin--three or four dark figures which
+  flitted busily to and fro. As these crossed the direct line of my
+  vision they affected me as _forms;_ but upon passing to my side their
+  images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, other
+  dismal expressions of terror, of horror, or of woe. You alone, habited
+  in a white robe, passed in all directions musically about.
+
+  The day waned; and, as its light faded away, I became possessed by a
+  vague uneasiness--an anxiety such as the sleeper feels when sad real
+  sounds fall continuously within his ear--low distant bell-tones,
+  solemn, at long but equal intervals, and commingling with melancholy
+  dreams. Night arrived; and with its shadows a heavy discomfort. It
+  oppressed my limbs with the oppression of some dull weight, and was
+  palpable. There was also a moaning sound, not unlike the distant
+  reverberation of surf, but more continuous, which, beginning with the
+  first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly
+  lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became
+  forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound,
+  but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a
+  great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for
+  there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of
+  melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon
+  which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my side, breathing odor
+  from your sweet lips, and pressing them upon my brow, there arose
+  tremulously within my bosom, and mingling with the merely physical
+  sensations which circumstances had called forth, a something akin to
+  sentiment itself--a feeling that, half appreciating, half responded
+  to your earnest love and sorrow; but this feeling took no root in the
+  pulseless heart, and seemed indeed rather a shadow than a reality, and
+  faded quickly away, first into extreme quiescence, and then into a
+  purely sensual pleasure as before.
+
+  And now, from the wreck and the chaos of the usual senses, there
+  appeared to have arisen within me a sixth, all perfect. In its
+  exercise I found a wild delight--yet a delight still physical,
+  inasmuch as the understanding had in it no part. Motion in the animal
+  frame had fully ceased. No muscle quivered; no nerve thrilled; no
+  artery throbbed. But there seemed to have sprung up in the brain
+  _that_ of which no words could convey to the merely human intelligence
+  even an indistinct conception. Let me term it a mental pendulous
+  pulsation. It was the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of
+  _Time_. By the absolute equalization of this movement--or of such as
+  this--had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted.
+  By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel,
+  and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously
+  to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion--and
+  these deviations were omniprevalent--affected me just as violations of
+  abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although
+  no two of the timepieces in the chamber struck the individual seconds
+  accurately together, yet I had no difficulty in holding steadily in
+  mind the tones, and the respective momentary errors of each. And
+  this--this keen, perfect self-existing sentiment of _duration_--this
+  sentiment existing (as man could not possibly have conceived it to
+  exist) independently of any succession of events--this idea--this
+  sixth sense, upspringing from the ashes of the rest, was the first
+  obvious and certain step of the intemporal soul upon the threshold of
+  the temporal eternity.
+
+  It was midnight; and you still sat by my side. All others had departed
+  from the chamber of Death. They had deposited me in the coffin. The
+  lamps burned flickeringly; for this I knew by the tremulousness of the
+  monotonous strains. But suddenly these strains diminished in
+  distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my
+  nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression
+  of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that
+  of electricity pervaded my frame, and was followed by total loss of
+  the idea of contact. All of what man has termed sense was merged in
+  the sole consciousness of entity, and in the one abiding sentiment of
+  duration. The mortal body had been at length stricken with the hand of
+  the deadly _Decay_.
+
+  Yet had not all of sentience departed; for the consciousness and the
+  sentiment remaining supplied some of its functions by a lethargic
+  intuition. I appreciated the direful change now in operation upon the
+  flesh, and, as the dreamer is sometimes aware of the bodily presence
+  of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you
+  sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was
+  not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side,
+  which confined me within the coffin, which deposited me within the
+  hearse, which bore me to the grave, which lowered me within it, which
+  heaped heavily the mould upon me, and which thus left me, in blackness
+  and corruption, to my sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.
+
+  And here in the prison-house which has few secrets to disclose, there
+  rolled away days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly
+  each second as it flew, and, without effort, took record of its
+  flight--without effort and without object.
+
+  A year passed. The consciousness of _being_ had grown hourly more
+  indistinct, and that of mere _locality_ had in great measure usurped
+  its position. The idea of entity was becoming merged in that of
+  _place_. The narrow space immediately surrounding what had been the
+  body was now growing to be the body itself. At length, as often
+  happens to the sleeper (by sleep and its world alone is _Death_
+  imaged)--at length, as sometimes happened on Earth to the deep
+  slumberer, when some flitting light half startled him into awaking,
+  yet left him half enveloped in dreams--so to me, in the strict embrace
+  of the _Shadow_, came _that_ light which alone might have had power to
+  startle--the light of enduring _Love_. Men toiled at the grave in
+  which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering
+  bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void.
+  That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had
+  vibrated itself into quiescence. Many _lustra_ had supervened. Dust
+  had returned to dust. The worm had food no more. The sense of being
+  had at length utterly departed, and there reigned in its stead--
+  instead of all things, dominant and perpetual--the autocrats _Place_
+  and _Time._ For _that_ which _was not_--for that which had no
+  form--for that which had no thought--for that which had no
+  sentience--for that which was soundless, yet of which matter formed no
+  portion--for all this nothingness, yet for all this immortality, the
+  grave was still a home, and the corrosive hours, co-mates.
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that
+  which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this
+  may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and
+  _music_ for the soul."
+
+Repub. lib. 2.
+
+  "For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it
+  causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul,
+  taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making
+  the man _beautiful-minded_. ... He will praise and admire _the
+  beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it,
+  and _assimilate his own condition with it_."
+
+Ibid. lib. 3. Music had, however, among the Athenians, a far more
+comprehensive signification than with us. It included not only the
+harmonies of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and
+creation, each in its widest sense. The study of _music_ was with them,
+in fact, the general cultivation of the taste--of that which recognizes
+the beautiful--in contradistinction from reason, which deals only with
+the true.]
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION.
+
+
+  I will bring fire to thee.
+
+  _Euripides_.--'Androm'.
+
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Why do you call me Eiros?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_
+  earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  This is indeed no dream!
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are with us no more;--but of these mysteries anon. I rejoice to
+  see you looking life-like and rational. The film of the shadow has
+  already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your
+  allotted days of stupor have expired, and to-morrow I will myself
+  induct you into the full joys and wonders of your novel existence.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the
+  terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad,
+  rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my
+  senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception
+  of _the new_.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  A few days will remove all this;--but I fully understand you, and
+  feel for you. It is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you
+  undergo--yet the remembrance of it hangs by me still. You have now
+  suffered all of pain, however, which you will suffer in Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  In Aidenn?
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  In Aidenn.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  O God!--pity me, Charmion!--I am overburthened with the majesty of all
+  things--of the unknown now known--of the speculative Future merged in
+  the august and certain Present.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this.
+  Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise
+  of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am
+  burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event
+  which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar
+  things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so
+  fearfully perished.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Most fearfully, fearfully!--this is indeed no dream.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros?
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  Mourned, Charmion?--oh, deeply. To that last hour of all there hung a
+  cloud of intense gloom and devout sorrow over your household.
+
+
+'Charmion'.
+
+  And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact
+  of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among
+  mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I
+  remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly
+  unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative
+  philosophy of the day.
+
+
+'Eiros'.
+
+  The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but
+  analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with
+  astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you
+  left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy
+  writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as
+  having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the
+  immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that
+  epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of
+  the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had
+  been well established. They had been observed to pass among the
+  satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration
+  either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We
+  had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable
+  tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our
+  substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not
+  in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were
+  accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of
+  the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an
+  inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days
+  strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of
+  the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement
+  by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally
+  received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust.
+
+  The elements of the strange orb were immediately calculated, and it
+  was at once conceded by all observers that its path, at perihelion
+  would bring it into very close proximity with the earth. There were
+  two or three astronomers of secondary note who resolutely maintained
+  that a contact was inevitable. I cannot very well express to you the
+  effect of this intelligence upon the people. For a few short days they
+  would not believe an assertion which their intellect, so long employed
+  among worldly considerations, could not in any manner grasp. But the
+  truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the
+  understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that
+  astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its
+  approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of
+  very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little
+  perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase
+  in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color.
+  Meantime, the ordinary affairs of men were discarded, and all interest
+  absorbed in a growing discussion instituted by the philosophic in
+  respect to the cometary nature. Even the grossly ignorant aroused
+  their sluggish capacities to such considerations. The learned _now_
+  gave their intellect--their soul--to no such points as the allaying of
+  fear, or to the sustenance of loved theory. They sought--they panted
+  for right views. They groaned for perfected knowledge. _Truth_ arose
+  in the purity of her strength and exceeding majesty, and the wise
+  bowed down and adored.
+
+  That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result
+  from the apprehended contact was an opinion which hourly lost ground
+  among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the
+  reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated that the
+  density of the comet's _nucleus_ was far less than that of our rarest
+  gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the
+  satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which
+  served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness
+  fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them
+  to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous
+  instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must
+  be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that
+  enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery
+  nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a
+  great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold.
+  It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in
+  regard to pestilences and wars--errors which were wont to prevail upon
+  every appearance of a comet--were now altogether unknown, as if by
+  some sudden convulsive exertion reason had at once hurled superstition
+  from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from
+  excessive interest.
+
+  What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate
+  question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of
+  probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of
+  possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible
+  or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such
+  discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing
+  larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind
+  grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended.
+
+  There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the
+  comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any
+  previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any
+  lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the
+  certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The
+  hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms.
+  A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in
+  sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange
+  orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had
+  disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We
+  saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an
+  incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken,
+  with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of
+  rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.
+
+  Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we
+  were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even
+  felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The
+  exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all
+  heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our
+  vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this
+  predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild
+  luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every
+  vegetable thing.
+
+  Yet another day--and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now
+  evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come
+  over all men; and the first sense of _pain_ was the wild signal for
+  general lamentation and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a
+  rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable
+  dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was
+  radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the
+  possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the
+  topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric
+  thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.
+
+  It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound
+  of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures
+  of oxygen and seventy-nine of nitrogen in every one hundred of the
+  atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the
+  vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal
+  life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature.
+  Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal
+  life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been
+  ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had
+  latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea,
+  which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a _total
+  extraction of the nitrogen_? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring,
+  omni-prevalent, immediate;--the entire fulfilment, in all their
+  minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring
+  denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.
+
+  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind?
+  That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope,
+  was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable
+  gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate.
+  Meantime a day again passed--bearing away with it the last shadow of
+  Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood
+  bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium
+  possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the
+  threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus
+  of the destroyer was now upon us;--even here in Aidenn I shudder while
+  I speak. Let me be brief--brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a
+  moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating
+  all things. Then--let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive
+  majesty of the great God!--then, there came a shouting and pervading
+  sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent
+  mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of
+  intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat
+  even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name.
+  Thus ended all.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SHADOW.--A PARABLE.
+
+
+    Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_.
+
+    'Psalm of David'.
+
+
+Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long
+since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things
+shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass
+away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be
+some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much
+to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.
+
+The year had been a year of terror, and of feeling more intense than
+terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and
+signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black
+wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless,
+cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect
+of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that
+now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth
+year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is enjoined with
+the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies,
+if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical
+orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of
+mankind.
+
+Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
+hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of
+seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of
+brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of
+rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise in
+the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and
+the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory of Evil, they
+would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which
+I can render no distinct account--things material and spiritual--
+heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of suffocation--anxiety--and, above
+all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when
+the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of
+thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our
+limbs--upon the household furniture--upon the goblets from which we
+drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby--all things
+save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel.
+Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained
+burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre
+formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat each of us there
+assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet
+glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were
+merry in our proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
+Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple wine
+reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in
+the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay,
+enshrouded;--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no
+portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the
+plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
+of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as
+the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
+although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
+still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
+expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
+mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
+Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar
+off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and
+undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable
+draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
+dark and undefiled shadow--a shadow such as the moon, when low in
+heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
+neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
+awhile among the draperies of the room it at length rested in full view
+upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and
+formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor
+God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God.
+And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the
+entablature of the door and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there
+became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested
+was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus
+enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as
+it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but
+cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror
+of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of
+the shadow its dwelling and its appellation. And the shadow answered, "I
+am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and
+hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul
+Charonian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in
+horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones
+in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a
+multitude of beings, and varying in their cadences from syllable to
+syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well remembered and familiar
+accents of many thousand departed friends.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE.--A FABLE.
+
+
+The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_.
+
+"LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head.
+"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders
+of the river Zaeire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence.
+
+"The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they flow
+not onward to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever beneath the red
+eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive motion. For many miles
+on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic
+water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch
+towards the heaven their long and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro
+their everlasting heads. And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh
+out from among them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh
+one unto the other.
+
+"But there is a boundary to their realm--the boundary of the dark,
+horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides, the
+low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind throughout
+the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally hither and
+thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits,
+one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous
+flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rustling
+and loud noise, the gray clouds rush westwardly forever until they roll,
+a cataract, over the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind
+throughout the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaeire there is
+neither quiet nor silence.
+
+"It was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having
+fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies,
+and the rain fell upon my head--and the lilies sighed one unto the other
+in the solemnity of their desolation.
+
+"And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist, and was
+crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray rock which stood
+by the shore of the river and was lighted by the light of the moon. And
+the rock was gray and ghastly, and tall,--and the rock was gray. Upon
+its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through
+the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I
+might read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decipher them.
+And I was going back into the morass when the moon shone with a fuller
+red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock and upon the
+characters;--and the characters were DESOLATION.
+
+"And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the
+rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the
+action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped
+up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the
+outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the
+features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and
+of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his
+face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care;
+and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and
+weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude.
+
+"And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and
+looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the low unquiet
+shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the
+rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within
+shelter of the lilies, and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out upon
+the dreary river Zaeire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters, and upon the
+pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of
+the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I
+lay close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the
+man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar in
+among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the hippopotami
+which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the morass. And the
+hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of
+the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay
+close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And the man
+trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and he sat upon the
+rock.
+
+"Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a frightful
+tempest gathered in the heaven, where before there had been no wind. And
+the heaven became livid with the violence of the tempest--and the rain
+beat upon the head of the man--and the floods of the river came
+down--and the river was tormented into foam--and the water-lilies
+shrieked within their beds--and the forest crumbled before the wind--and
+the thunder rolled--and the lightning fell--and the rock rocked to its
+foundation. And I lay close within my covert and observed the actions of
+the man. And the man trembled in the solitude;--but the night waned, and
+he sat upon the rock.
+
+"Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and
+the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the
+thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And they became accursed,
+and _were still._ And the moon ceased to totter up its pathway to
+heaven--and the thunder died away--and the lightning did not flash--and
+the clouds hung motionless--and the waters sunk to their level and
+remained--and the trees ceased to rock--and the water-lilies sighed no
+more--and the murmur was heard no longer from among them, nor any shadow
+of sound throughout the vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the
+characters of the rock, and they were changed;--and the characters were
+SILENCE.
+
+"And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance
+was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand,
+and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice
+throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock
+were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled
+afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more."
+
+...
+
+Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound,
+melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories
+of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii
+that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was
+much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy,
+holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around
+Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he
+sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most
+wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell
+back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh
+with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx
+which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at
+the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+                                   ESSAYS.
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
+
+
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
+
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the
+very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,
+in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
+
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
+work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,
+commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity--and this is precisely the fact.
+
+In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no
+very long poem will ever be popular again.
+
+That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of
+its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
+sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
+Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
+considered--there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
+concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
+saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
+physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
+the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
+material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not
+instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
+_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
+the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
+about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little
+gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
+effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear
+praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common
+sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
+rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by
+the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained
+effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
+fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor
+can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
+proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
+as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
+falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
+
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
+while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
+profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.
+
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+
+  I arise from dreams of thee
+    In the first sweet sleep of night
+  When the winds are breathing low,
+    And the stars are shining bright.
+  I arise from dreams of thee,
+    And a spirit in my feet
+  Has led me--who knows how?--
+    To thy chamber-window, sweet!
+
+  The wandering airs they faint
+    On the dark the silent stream--
+  The champak odors fail
+    Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+  The nightingale's complaint,
+    It dies upon her heart,
+  As I must die on thine,
+    O, beloved as thou art!
+
+  O, lift me from the grass!
+    I die, I faint, I fail!
+  Let thy love in kisses rain
+    On my lips and eyelids pale.
+  My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+    My heart beats loud and fast:
+  O, press it close to thine again,
+    Where it will break at last!
+
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
+
+One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+
+  The shadows lay along Broadway,
+    'Twas near the twilight-tide--
+  And slowly there a lady fair
+    Was walking in her pride.
+  Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly
+    Walk'd spirits at her side.
+
+  Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
+    And honor charm'd the air;
+  And all astir looked kind on her,
+    And called her good as fair--
+  For all God ever gave to her
+    She kept with chary care.
+
+  She kept with care her beauties rare
+    From lovers warm and true--
+  For heart was cold to all but gold,
+    And the rich came not to woo--
+  But honor'd well her charms to sell,
+    If priests the selling do.
+
+  Now walking there was one more fair--
+    A slight girl, lily-pale;
+  And she had unseen company
+    To make the spirit quail--
+  Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
+    And nothing could avail.
+
+  No mercy now can clear her brow
+    From this world's peace to pray,
+  For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
+    Her woman's heart gave way!--
+  But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
+    By man is cursed alway!
+
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly
+ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.
+
+While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
+has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
+the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,
+should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
+work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
+idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We
+have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's
+sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
+confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and
+force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
+look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under
+the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
+dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per
+se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written
+solely for the poem's sake.
+
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
+with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
+flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
+truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
+simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
+we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
+converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
+perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
+poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
+who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
+reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
+
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the
+mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.
+
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
+exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of
+Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of
+these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a
+duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He
+who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however
+vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and
+colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I
+say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a
+something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have
+still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,
+those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
+_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
+
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_
+which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to
+feel_ as poetic.
+
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially
+in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,
+attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
+that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
+unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
+union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
+widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
+had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his
+own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
+
+To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
+Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
+Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
+Truth.
+
+A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
+the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
+maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
+of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
+elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic
+Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
+satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
+the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the
+sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
+obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
+possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to
+deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
+attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
+incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
+Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
+may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
+work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
+proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.
+
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Proeem to Longfellow's "Waif":
+
+
+  The day is done, and the darkness
+    Falls from the wings of Night,
+  As a feather is wafted downward
+    From an eagle in his flight.
+
+  I see the lights of the village
+    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
+    That my soul cannot resist;
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing,
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+  Come, read to me some poem,
+    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+    And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+  Not from the grand old masters,
+    Not from the bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+    Through the corridors of Time.
+
+  For, like strains of martial music,
+    Their mighty thoughts suggest
+  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
+    And to-night I long for rest.
+
+  Read from some humbler poet,
+    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+  As showers from the clouds of summer,
+    Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+  Who through long days of labor,
+    And nights devoid of ease,
+  Still heard in his soul the music
+    Of wonderful melodies.
+
+  Such songs have power to quiet
+    The restless pulse of care,
+  And come like the benediction
+    That follows after prayer.
+
+  Then read from the treasured volume
+    The poem of thy choice,
+  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+    The beauty of thy voice.
+
+  And the night shall be filled with music,
+    And the cares that infest the day,
+  Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
+    And as silently steal away.
+
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than
+
+
+           --the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+  Down the corridors of Time.
+
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
+of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
+sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
+"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
+to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult
+attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who
+should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of
+writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
+in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
+adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
+author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
+upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_
+occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
+considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
+sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
+
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:
+
+
+  There, through the long, long summer hours,
+    The golden light should lie,
+  And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
+    Stand in their beauty by.
+  The oriole should build and tell
+  His love-tale, close beside my cell;
+    The idle butterfly
+  Should rest him there, and there be heard
+  The housewife-bee and humming bird.
+
+  And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
+    Come, from the village sent,
+  Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
+    With fairy laughter blent?
+  And what if, in the evening light,
+  Betrothed lovers walk in sight
+    Of my low monument?
+  I would the lovely scene around
+  Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
+
+  I know, I know I should not see
+    The season's glorious show,
+  Nor would its brightness shine for me;
+    Nor its wild music flow;
+
+  But if, around my place of sleep,
+  The friends I love should come to weep,
+    They might not haste to go.
+  Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
+  Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
+
+  These to their soften'd hearts should bear
+    The thought of what has been,
+  And speak of one who cannot share
+    The gladness of the scene;
+  Whose part in all the pomp that fills
+  The circuit of the summer hills,
+    Is--that his grave is green;
+  And deeply would their hearts rejoice
+  To hear again his living voice.
+
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+
+  A feeling of sadness and longing
+    That is not akin to pain,
+  And resembles sorrow only
+    As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+
+  I fill this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon;
+  To whom the better elements
+    And kindly stars have given
+  A form so fair, that like the air,
+    'Tis less of earth than heaven.
+
+  Her every tone is music's own,
+    Like those of morning birds,
+  And something more than melody
+    Dwells ever in her words;
+  The coinage of her heart are they,
+    And from her lips each flows
+  As one may see the burden'd bee
+    Forth issue from the rose.
+
+  Affections are as thoughts to her,
+    The measures of her hours;
+  Her feelings have the fragrancy,
+    The freshness of young flowers;
+  And lovely passions, changing oft,
+    So fill her, she appears
+  The image of themselves by turns,--
+    The idol of past years!
+
+  Of her bright face one glance will trace
+    A picture on the brain,
+  And of her voice in echoing hearts
+    A sound must long remain;
+  But memory, such as mine of her,
+    So very much endears,
+  When death is nigh my latest sigh
+    Will not be life's, but hers.
+
+  I fill'd this cup to one made up
+    Of loveliness alone,
+  A woman, of her gentle sex
+    The seeming paragon--
+  Her health! and would on earth there stood,
+    Some more of such a frame,
+  That life might be all poetry,
+    And weariness a name.
+
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is
+especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
+refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his
+hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
+
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_
+of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
+Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus
+once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
+book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
+replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
+Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
+the chaff_ for his reward.
+
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
+_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to
+point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
+they are _not_ merits altogether.
+
+Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment
+which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
+human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
+
+
+  Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
+  Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
+  Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
+  And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
+
+  Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
+  Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
+  I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
+  I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
+
+  Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
+  And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--
+  Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
+  And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
+
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a
+greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
+In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
+profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the
+lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the
+composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.
+
+One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+
+  O saw ye not fair Ines?
+    She's gone into the West,
+  To dazzle when the sun is down
+    And rob the world of rest
+  She took our daylight with her,
+    The smiles that we love best,
+  With morning blushes on her cheek,
+    And pearls upon her breast.
+
+  O turn again, fair Ines,
+    Before the fall of night,
+  For fear the moon should shine alone,
+    And stars unrivall'd bright;
+  And blessed will the lover be
+    That walks beneath their light,
+  And breathes the love against thy cheek
+    I dare not even write!
+
+  Would I had been, fair Ines,
+    That gallant cavalier,
+  Who rode so gaily by thy side,
+    And whisper'd thee so near!
+  Were there no bonny dames at home,
+    Or no true lovers here,
+  That he should cross the seas to win
+    The dearest of the dear?
+
+  I saw thee, lovely Ines,
+    Descend along the shore,
+  With bands of noble gentlemen,
+    And banners-waved before;
+  And gentle youth and maidens gay,
+    And snowy plumes they wore;
+  It would have been a beauteous dream,
+    If it had been no more!
+
+  Alas, alas, fair Ines,
+    She went away with song,
+  With Music waiting on her steps,
+    And shoutings of the throng;
+  But some were sad and felt no mirth,
+    But only Music's wrong,
+  In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
+    To her you've loved so long.
+
+  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
+    That vessel never bore
+  So fair a lady on its deck,
+    Nor danced so light before,--
+  Alas for pleasure on the sea,
+    And sorrow on the shore!
+  The smile that blest one lover's heart
+    Has broken many more!
+
+
+"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the
+most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,
+moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"
+
+
+  One more Unfortunate,
+  Weary of breath,
+  Rashly importunate
+  Gone to her death!
+
+  Take her up tenderly,
+  Lift her with care;--
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young and so fair!
+
+  Look at her garments
+  Clinging like cerements;
+  Whilst the wave constantly
+  Drips from her clothing;
+  Take her up instantly,
+  Loving, not loathing.
+
+  Touch her not scornfully
+  Think of her mournfully,
+  Gently and humanly;
+  Not of the stains of her,
+  All that remains of her
+  Now is pure womanly.
+
+  Make no deep scrutiny
+  Into her mutiny
+  Rash and undutiful;
+  Past all dishonor,
+  Death has left on her
+  Only the beautiful.
+
+  Where the lamps quiver
+  So far in the river,
+  With many a light
+  From window and casement,
+  From garret to basement,
+  She stood, with amazement,
+  Houseless by night.
+
+  The bleak wind of March
+  Made her tremble and shiver;
+  But not the dark arch,
+  Or the black flowing river:
+  Mad from life's history,
+  Glad to death's mystery,
+  Swift to be hurl'd--
+  Anywhere, anywhere
+  Out of the world!
+
+  In she plunged boldly,
+  No matter how coldly
+  The rough river ran,--
+  Over the brink of it,
+  Picture it,--think of it,
+  Dissolute Man!
+  Lave in it, drink of it
+  Then, if you can!
+
+  Still, for all slips of hers,
+  One of Eve's family--
+  Wipe those poor lips of hers
+  Oozing so clammily,
+  Loop up her tresses
+  Escaped from the comb,
+  Her fair auburn tresses;
+  Whilst wonderment guesses
+  Where was her home?
+
+  Who was her father?
+  Who was her mother!
+  Had she a sister?
+  Had she a brother?
+  Or was there a dearer one
+  Still, and a nearer one
+  Yet, than all other?
+
+  Alas! for the rarity
+  Of Christian charity
+  Under the sun!
+  Oh! it was pitiful!
+  Near a whole city full,
+  Home she had none.
+
+  Sisterly, brotherly,
+  Fatherly, motherly,
+  Feelings had changed:
+  Love, by harsh evidence,
+  Thrown from its eminence;
+  Even God's providence
+  Seeming estranged.
+
+  Take her up tenderly;
+  Lift her with care;
+  Fashion'd so slenderly,
+  Young, and so fair!
+  Ere her limbs frigidly
+  Stiffen too rigidly,
+  Decently,--kindly,--
+  Smooth and compose them;
+  And her eyes, close them,
+  Staring so blindly!
+
+  Dreadfully staring
+  Through muddy impurity,
+  As when with the daring
+  Last look of despairing
+  Fixed on futurity.
+
+  Perishing gloomily,
+  Spurred by contumely,
+  Cold inhumanity,
+  Burning insanity,
+  Into her rest,--
+  Cross her hands humbly,
+  As if praying dumbly,
+  Over her breast!
+  Owning her weakness,
+  Her evil behavior,
+  And leaving, with meekness,
+  Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+
+The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.
+
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+
+  Though the day of my destiny's over,
+    And the star of my fate hath declined,
+  Thy soft heart refused to discover
+    The faults which so many could find;
+  Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
+    It shrunk not to share it with me,
+  And the love which my spirit hath painted
+    It never hath found but in _thee._
+
+  Then when nature around me is smiling,
+    The last smile which answers to mine,
+  I do not believe it beguiling,
+    Because it reminds me of thine;
+  And when winds are at war with the ocean,
+    As the breasts I believed in with me,
+  If their billows excite an emotion,
+    It is that they bear me from _thee._
+
+  Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
+    And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
+  Though I feel that my soul is delivered
+    To pain--it shall not be its slave.
+  There is many a pang to pursue me:
+    They may crush, but they shall not contemn--
+  They may torture, but shall not subdue me--
+    'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.
+
+  Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
+    Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
+  Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
+    Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--
+  Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
+    Though parted, it was not to fly,
+  Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
+    Nor mute, that the world might belie.
+
+  Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
+    Nor the war of the many with one--
+  If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
+    'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
+  And if dearly that error hath cost me,
+    And more than I once could foresee,
+  I have found that whatever it lost me,
+    It could not deprive me of _thee_.
+
+  From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
+    Thus much I at least may recall,
+  It hath taught me that which I most cherished
+    Deserved to be dearest of all:
+  In the desert a fountain is springing,
+    In the wide waste there still is a tree,
+  And a bird in the solitude singing,
+    Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
+
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.
+
+From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
+_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
+profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
+_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most
+ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
+so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last
+long poem, "The Princess:"
+
+
+    Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
+  Tears from the depth of some divine despair
+  Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
+  In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
+  And thinking of the days that are no more.
+
+    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
+  That brings our friends up from the underworld,
+  Sad as the last which reddens over one
+  That sinks with all we love below the verge;
+  So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
+
+    Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
+  The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
+  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
+  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
+  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
+
+    Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
+  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
+  On lips that are for others; deep as love,
+  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
+  O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
+to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
+purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and
+simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of
+the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,
+quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the
+Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in
+regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to
+elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine
+Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is
+unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in
+regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we
+are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
+experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is
+referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth
+which merely served to render the harmony manifest.
+
+We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
+true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which
+induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the
+ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in
+Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low
+shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall
+eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of
+clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of
+silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring
+depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the
+harp of AEolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice
+of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh
+breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous
+perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at
+eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,
+illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all
+unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,
+and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the
+grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,
+in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her
+robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning
+enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional
+endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her _love._
+
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+
+  A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
+    A sword of metal keene!
+  Al else to noble heartes is drosse--
+    Al else on earth is meane.
+  The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.
+    The rowleing of the drum,
+  The clangor of the trumpet lowde--
+    Be soundes from heaven that come.
+  And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
+    When as their war-cryes welle,
+  May tole from heaven an angel bright,
+    And rowse a fiend from hell,
+
+  Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
+    And don your helmes amaine,
+  Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
+    Us to the field againe.
+  No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
+    When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--
+  Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
+    For the fayrest of the land;
+  Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
+    Thus weepe and puling crye,
+  Our business is like men to fight,
+    And hero-like to die!
+
+
+
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.
+
+
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By
+the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?
+He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
+volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
+accounting for what had been done."
+
+I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
+least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
+plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _denouement_ before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _denouement_
+constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
+consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
+tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
+
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
+story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
+combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.
+
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping
+originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to
+dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
+interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.
+
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they
+compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would
+positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,
+at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true
+purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of
+idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured
+fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections
+and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,
+at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the
+step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and
+the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,
+constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._
+
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
+
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
+the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
+part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
+put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my
+design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
+referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,
+step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence
+of a mathematical problem.
+
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
+circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.
+
+We commence, then, with this intention.
+
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
+paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
+advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
+depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.
+
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
+limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
+its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in
+other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
+capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
+ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one
+proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
+the production of any effect at all.
+
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
+for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
+fact, a hundred and eight.
+
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_
+--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and
+which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."
+Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is
+an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct
+causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for
+their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the
+peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.
+Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the
+object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable
+to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.
+Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the
+truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic
+to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable
+elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said
+that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably
+introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the
+general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true
+artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper
+subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as
+far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence
+of the poem.
+
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that
+this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
+development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
+is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
+
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,
+in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
+one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
+universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
+value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
+considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
+depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and
+thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of
+repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
+adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
+that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
+novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
+_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
+
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
+_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
+clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
+an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
+any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
+would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
+a single word as the best _refrain_.
+
+The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
+my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
+course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
+such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
+protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
+inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
+connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
+
+The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
+select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
+possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
+tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
+impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very
+first which presented itself.
+
+The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
+word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
+inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
+I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
+pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
+spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
+the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
+exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
+then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
+of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
+suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
+capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
+_tone_.
+
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word "Nevermore" at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+_supremeness_ or perfection at all points, I asked myself--"Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
+mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And
+when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From
+what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
+obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_; the death,
+then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
+the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
+such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
+
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore." I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
+such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
+I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to
+which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first
+query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
+so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
+frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
+the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
+wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose
+solution he has passionately at heart--propounds them half in
+superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
+self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
+prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
+merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
+frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
+_expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable
+of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
+strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
+first established in mind the climax or concluding query--that query to
+which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in
+reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost
+conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
+
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my
+preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+
+  "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
+  By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore,
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness,
+and importance the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
+
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
+stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, for _centuries, no man, in
+verse has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.
+
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octametre
+acatalectic, alternating with heptametre catalectic repeated in the
+_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrametre
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consists of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the
+stanza consists of eight of these feet, the second of seven and a half
+(in effect two-thirds), the third of eight, the fourth of seven and a
+half, the fifth the same, the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these
+lines taken individually has been employed before, and what originality
+the "Raven" has, is in their _combinations into stanzas;_ nothing even
+remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
+
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the
+_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close
+_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
+
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.
+
+The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and
+the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
+idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
+flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at
+the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's
+curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
+the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
+adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
+knocked.
+
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven's seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.
+
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_
+being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
+lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
+
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with
+many a flirt and flutter."
+
+
+  Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he,
+  _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
+
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling
+  By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_,
+  "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no
+    craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore--
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
+      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
+
+  Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
+      With such name as "Nevermore."
+
+
+The effect of the denouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop
+the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness--this tone
+commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with
+the line,
+
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the
+"fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the _denouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+_directly_ as possible.
+
+With the _denouement_ proper--with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
+the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable--of the real. A raven having learned by rote the
+single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in pouring over a volume,
+half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being
+thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself
+perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the
+student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's
+demeanor, demands of it, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its
+name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word,
+"Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart
+of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts
+suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of
+"Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is
+impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for
+self-torture, and in part by superstition, to propound such queries to
+the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow
+through the anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the
+extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its
+first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has
+been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
+
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, however indefinite of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
+which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
+_excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper
+instead of the under current of theme--which turns into prose (and that
+of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
+transcendentalists.
+
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines:
+
+
+  "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
+               Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!"
+
+
+It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+"Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
+              Shall be lifted--nevermore!
+
+
+
+
+
+         *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+
+
+OLD ENGLISH POETRY. [1]
+
+
+It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
+which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be attributed to
+what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry--we mean to the simple
+love of the antique--and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
+sentiment_ inspired by their writings, should be ascribed to a fact
+which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
+with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
+merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
+admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
+would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
+wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
+being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he
+would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
+handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
+ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
+author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
+their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
+delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
+source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a
+very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems
+_now_--we mean it only as against the poets _then_. There is a growing
+desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
+sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general
+error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of
+supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth
+and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end--with the
+two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly
+artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth--the
+poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through
+channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure
+what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a path
+which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph which is
+not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of the
+multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley is
+but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And he
+was in this but a type of his _school_--for we may as well designate in
+this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in the
+volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
+perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
+Their writings sprang immediately from the soul--and partook intensely
+of that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of
+this _abandon_--to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind--but,
+again, so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all
+good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility,
+as to render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind
+in such a school will be found inferior to those results in one
+(_ceteris paribus_) more artificial.
+
+We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book of
+Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
+idea of the beauty of the _school_--but if the intention had been merely
+to show the school's character, the attempt might have been considered
+successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us
+of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of
+their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please
+us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His
+opinion, for example, of Sir Henry's Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of
+Bohemia"--that "there are few finer things in our language," is
+untenable and absurd.
+
+In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
+Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time.
+Here everything is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
+prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
+other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
+poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
+stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
+without even an attempt at adaptation.
+
+In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
+Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
+degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the
+author says:
+
+
+  "By the murmur of a spring,
+  Or the least boughs rustleling,
+  By a daisy whose leaves spread,
+  Shut when Titan goes to bed,
+  Or a shady bush or tree,
+  She could more infuse in me
+  Than all Nature's beauties con
+  In some other wiser man.
+  By her help I also now
+  Make this churlish place allow
+  Something that may sweeten gladness
+  In the very gall of sadness--
+  The dull loneness, the black shade,
+  That these hanging vaults have made
+  The strange music of the waves
+  Beating on these hollow caves,
+  This black den which rocks emboss,
+  Overgrown with eldest moss,
+  The rude portals that give light
+  More to terror than delight,
+  This my chamber of neglect
+  Walled about with disrespect;
+  From all these and this dull air
+  A fit object for despair,
+  She hath taught me by her might
+  To draw comfort and delight."
+
+
+But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
+character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
+in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's
+"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen
+of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
+pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything
+of its species:
+
+
+  "It is a wondrous thing how fleet
+  'Twas on those little silver feet,
+  With what a pretty skipping grace
+  It oft would challenge me the race,
+  And when't had left me far away
+  'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
+  For it was nimbler much than hinds,
+  And trod as if on the four winds.
+  I have a garden of my own,
+  But so with roses overgrown,
+  And lilies, that you would it guess
+  To be a little wilderness;
+  And all the spring-time of the year
+  It only loved to be there.
+  Among the beds of lilies I
+  Have sought it oft where it should lie,
+  Yet could not, till itself would rise,
+  Find it, although before mine eyes.
+  For in the flaxen lilies shade
+  It like a bank of lilies laid;
+  Upon the roses it would feed
+  Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
+  And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
+  And print those roses on my lip,
+  But all its chief delight was still
+  With roses thus itself to fill,
+  And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,
+  Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
+pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words--over the
+gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself--even
+over the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the
+beauties and good qualities of her favorite--like the cool shadow of a
+summer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."
+The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is
+an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
+artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
+or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness_ of the little
+nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
+them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
+little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on
+her face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in
+the few lines we have quoted--the _wonder_ of the little maiden at the
+fleetness of her favorite--the "little silver feet"--the fawn
+challenging his mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace,"
+running on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her
+approach only to fly from it again--can we not distinctly perceive all
+these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
+
+
+  "And trod as if on the four winds!"
+
+
+a vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
+speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
+consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and
+lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and
+there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should_ lie"--and not
+being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would
+rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to
+"fill itself with roses,"
+
+
+  "And its pure virgin limbs to fold
+  In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
+
+
+and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent
+beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole
+only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,
+the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more
+passionate admiration of the bereaved child:
+
+
+  "Had it lived long, it would have been
+  Lilies without, roses within."
+
+
+
+[Footnote 1: "The Book of Gems." Edited by S. C. Hall.]
+
+
+END OF TEXT
+
+
+
+
+
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