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diff --git a/10031-h/10031-h.htm b/10031-h/10031-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c39a21 --- /dev/null +++ b/10031-h/10031-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10184 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<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——</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 —— ("I heed not that my earthly lot")</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section5i">To —— ("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—a Parable</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#section7f">Silence—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—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—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—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, —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. +</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 +—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—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—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—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." +</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,—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. +</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—<i>"une espèce de +trilogie,"</i> as Baudelaire styles them—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—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—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 <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—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, —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,—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. +</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—<br/> +Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore<br/> +Of 'Never—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—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—<br/> +While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,<br/> +As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.<br/> +"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—<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;—vainly I had sought to borrow<br/> +From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—<br/> +For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—<br/> +Nameless here for evermore.<br/><br/> + +And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain<br/> +Thrilled me—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—<br/> +Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—<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—tapping at my chamber door,<br/> +That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door:—<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—<br/> +Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—<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—<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—<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—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—<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—not a feather then he fluttered—<br/> +Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before—<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—<br/> +Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore<br/> +Of 'Never—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—<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—by these angels he hath sent thee<br/> +Respite—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!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—<br/> +Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,<br/> +Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—<br/> +On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—<br/> +Is there—<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"<br/> +Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."<br/> +<br/> +"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!<br/> +By that Heaven that bends above us — 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 —<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—<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!—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—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—<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—<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—<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—<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—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—<br/> +Of the bells—<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/> +Bells, bells, bells—<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 —<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—ah, the people—<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—<br/> +They are neither man nor woman—<br/> +They are neither brute nor human —<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 —<br/> +Of the bells:<br/> +Keeping time, time, time,<br/> +In a sort of Runic rhyme,<br/> +To the throbbing of the bells —<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells —<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—<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells-<br/> +To the tolling of the bells,<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,<br/> +Bells, bells, bells —<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—<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—<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—<br/> +Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.<br/> +These were days when my heart was volcanic<br/> +As the scoriac rivers that roll—<br/> +As the lavas that restlessly roll<br/> +Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek<br/> +In the ultimate climes of the pole—<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—<br/> +Our memories were treacherous and sere—<br/> +For we knew not the month was October,<br/> +And we marked not the night of the year—<br/> +(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)<br/> +We noted not the dim lake of Auber—<br/> +(Though once we had journeyed down here)—<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—<br/> +As the sun-dials hinted of morn—<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—<br/> +Astarte's bediamonded crescent<br/> +Distinct with its duplicate horn.<br/><br/> + +And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:<br/> +She rolls through an ether of sighs—<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—<br/> +To the Lethean peace of the skies—<br/> +Come up, in despite of the Lion,<br/> +To shine on us with her bright eyes—<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—"Sadly this star I mistrust—<br/> +Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—<br/> +Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!<br/> +Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."<br/> +In terror she spoke, letting sink her<br/> +Wings till they trailed in the dust—<br/> +In agony sobbed, letting sink her<br/> +Plumes till they trailed in the dust—<br/> +Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.<br/><br/> + +I replied—"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:—<br/> +See!—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—<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—<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—<br/> +By the door of a legended tomb;<br/> +And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,<br/> +On the door of this legended tomb?"<br/> +She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—<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—<br/> +As the leaves that were withering and sere;<br/> +And I cried—"It was surely October<br/> +On <i>this</i> very night of last year<br/> +That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—<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—<br/> +This misty mid region of Weir—<br/> +Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—<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—once only—years ago:<br/> +I must not say <i>how</i> many—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—<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—<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—alas, in sorrow!<br/><br/> + +Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—<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—(O Heaven!—O God!<br/> +How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)—<br/> +Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—<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—all expired save thee—save less than thou:<br/> +Save only the divine light in thine eyes—<br/> +Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.<br/> +I saw but them—they were the world to me.<br/> +I saw but them—saw only them for hours—<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—<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—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—they lead me through the years.<br/><br/> + +They are my ministers—yet I their slave.<br/> +Their office is to illumine and enkindle—<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—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—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—<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—<br/> +Yes!—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—<br/> +Of many far wiser than we—<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—<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!—they hold a treasure<br/> +Divine—a talisman—an amulet<br/> +That must be worn <i>at heart</i>. Search well the measure—<br/> +The words—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—as the name is a poet's, too.<br/> +Its letters, although naturally lying<br/> +Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—<br/> +Still form a synonym for Truth—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—<br/> +Trash of all trash!—how <i>can</i> a lady don it?<br/> +Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—<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—ephemeral and <i>so</i> transparent—<br/> +But <i>this is</i>, now—you may depend upon it—<br/> +Stable, opaque, immortal—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—<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—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.—Ed.}</i><br/> +<a href="#note2j">Note</a> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><a name="section2k"></a>For Annie</h3> + +<p> +Thank Heaven! the crisis—<br/> +The danger is past,<br/> +And the lingering illness<br/> +Is over at last—<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—<br/> +But no matter!—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—<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:—ah, that horrible,<br/> +Horrible throbbing!<br/><br/> + +The sickness—the nausea—<br/> +The pitiless pain—<br/> +Have ceased, with the fever<br/> +That maddened my brain—<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—the terrible<br/> +Torture of thirst,<br/> +For the naphthaline river<br/> +Of Passion accurst:—<br/> +I have drank of a water<br/> +That quenches all thirst:—<br/><br/> + +Of a water that flows,<br/> +With a lullaby sound,<br/> +From a spring but a very few<br/> +Feet under ground—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +A rosemary odor,<br/> +Commingled with pansies—<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—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +And I rest so contentedly,<br/> +Now in my bed,<br/> +(With her love at my breast)<br/> +That you fancy me dead—<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—<br/> +It glows with the light<br/> +Of the love of my Annie—<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——</h3> + +<p> +Beloved! amid the earnest woes<br/> +That crowd around my earthly path—<br/> +(Drear path, alas! where grows<br/> +Not even one lonely rose)—<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—<br/> +Some ocean throbbing far and free<br/> +With storm—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?—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—<br/> +This knight so bold—<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—<br/> +"Shadow," said he,<br/> +"Where can it be—<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—<br/> +Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.<br/> +Ah, less—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—<br/> +Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.<br/> +Now Doubt—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—<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—<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—<br/> +How few! yet how they creep<br/> +Through my fingers to the deep<br/> +While I weep—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—<br/> +Of all to whom thine absence is the night—<br/> +The blotting utterly from out high heaven<br/> +The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee<br/> +Hourly for hope—for life—ah, above all,<br/> +For the resurrection of deep buried faith<br/> +In truth, in virtue, in humanity—<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—<br/> +Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude<br/> +Nearest resembles worship,—oh, remember<br/> +The truest, the most fervently devoted,<br/> +And think that these weak lines are written by him—<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"—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—two foreign soft dissyllables—<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,"—<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—I cannot speak or think—<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—<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—<br/> +Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—<br/> +Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—<br/> +Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—<br/> +Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers<br/> +Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—<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—<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—<br/> +No swellings tell that winds may be<br/> +Upon some far-off happier sea—<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—there is a movement there!<br/> +As if the towers had thrust aside,<br/> +In slightly sinking, the dull tide—<br/> +As if their tops had feebly given<br/> +A void within the filmy Heaven.<br/> +The waves have now a redder glow—<br/> +The hours are breathing faint and low—<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!—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—<br/> +This window open to the night!<br/> +The wanton airs, from the tree-top,<br/> +Laughingly through the lattice-drop—<br/> +The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,<br/> +Flit through thy chamber in and out,<br/> +And wave the curtain canopy<br/> +So fitfully—so fearfully—<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—<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—<br/> +Some sepulchre, remote, alone,<br/> +Against whose portal she hath thrown,<br/> +In childhood many an idle stone—<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—<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,—<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>—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—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." +</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!—ah the bells!<br/> +The little silver bells!<br/> +How fairy-like a melody there floats<br/> +From their throats—<br/> +From their merry little throats—<br/> +From the silver, tinkling throats<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells—<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!—ah, the bells!<br/> +The heavy iron bells!<br/> +How horrible a monody there floats<br/> +From their throats—<br/> +From their deep-toned throats—<br/> +From their melancholy throats<br/> +How I shudder at the notes<br/> +Of the bells, bells, bells—<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 — — 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—the two, then—"Ah, can it<br/> +Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—<br/> +The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—<br/> +To bar up our path and to ban it<br/> +From the secret that lies in these wolds—<br/> +Had drawn up the spectre of a planet<br/> +From the limbo of lunary souls—<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—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——</i></h3> + +<p> +"To F——" (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—s S. O—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 ——."</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—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—— 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.</p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><a name="note2r"></a>>Note on the second poem entitled <i>To Marie Louise (Shew)</i></h3> + +<p> +"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.</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!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.<br/> +And, Guy de Vere, hast <i>thou</i> no tear?—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—the funeral song be sung!—<br/> +An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—<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—that she died!<br/> +How <i>shall</i> the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung<br/> +By you—by yours, the evil eye,—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—<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—<br/> +The life still there, upon her hair—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!—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—<br/> +From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—<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—<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!"—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—no more—no more"—<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—<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—at length—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—I feel ye in your strength—<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—these ivy-clad arcades—<br/> +These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—<br/> +These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—<br/> +These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—<br/> +These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—<br/> +All of the famed, and the colossal left<br/> +By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?<br/><br/> + +"Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"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—we rule<br/> +With a despotic sway all giant minds.<br/> +We are not impotent—we pallid stones.<br/> +Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—<br/> +Not all the magic of our high renown—<br/> +Not all the wonder that encircles us—<br/> +Not all the mysteries that in us lie—<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—<br/> +Radiant palace—reared its head.<br/> +In the monarch Thought's dominion—<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—all this—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!—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—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—<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—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!—it writhes!—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—out are the lights—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—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>—sea and shore—<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—<br/> +From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,<br/> +Out of <b>Space</b>—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—lone and dead,<br/> +Their still waters—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,—<br/> +Their sad waters, sad and chilly<br/> +With the snows of the lolling lily,—<br/><br/> + +By the mountains—near the river<br/> +Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—<br/> +By the gray woods,—by the swamp<br/> +Where the toad and the newt encamp,—<br/> +By the dismal tarns and pools<br/> +Where dwell the Ghouls,—<br/> +By each spot the most unholy—<br/> +In each nook most melancholy,—<br/><br/> + +There the traveller meets aghast<br/> +Sheeted Memories of the past—<br/> +Shrouded forms that start and sigh<br/> +As they pass the wanderer by—<br/> +White-robed forms of friends long given,<br/> +In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.<br/><br/> + +For the heart whose woes are legion<br/> +'Tis a peaceful, soothing region—<br/> +For the spirit that walks in shadow<br/> +'Tis—oh, 'tis an Eldorado!<br/> +But the traveller, travelling through it,<br/> +May not—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—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>—<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—at noon—at twilight dim—<br/> +Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!<br/> +In joy and wo—in good and ill—<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"—now first +published in the <b>Poems Of Youth</b>—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 — 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!—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—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—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,—these<br/> +Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—<br/> +Thy looks are haggard—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—<br/> +Not even deep sorrow—<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—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—thou must. Attend thou also more<br/> +To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain<br/> +For thy lofty rank and fashion—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!—pay more attention, sir,<br/> +To a becoming carriage—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—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!—madam!<br/> +I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—<br/> +Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.<br/> +This air is most oppressive!—Madam—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!—hey!—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—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—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—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.—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!—let not my presence trouble you—<br/> +Sit down!—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—turns over some leaves and resumes.</i>]<br/> +"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—<br/> +But Ocean ever to refresh mankind<br/> +Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"<br/> +Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like<br/> +To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!<br/> +O happy land! [<i>pauses</i>] She died!—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!—a similar tale<br/> +Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!<br/> +Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—<br/> +"She died full young"—one Bossola answers him—<br/> +"I think not so—her infelicity<br/> +Seemed to have years too many"—Ah, luckless lady!<br/> +Jacinta! [<i>still no answer.</i>]<br/> +Here's a far sterner story—<br/> +But like—oh, very like in its despair—<br/> +Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily<br/> +A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.<br/> +She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids<br/> +Lean over her and keep—two gentle maids<br/> +With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!<br/> +Rainbow and Dove!—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—"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?—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—no—no—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?—and when is it to be?<br/> +Can I do aught?—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,—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—after a +short pause raises it.</i>]</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Lalage</i></td> +<td>Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?<br/> +Thy servant maid!—but courage!—'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—too much a friend<br/> +In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.<br/> +Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)<br/> +A tale—a pretty tale—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—remembers me,<br/> +Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,<br/> +Inurned and entombed!—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!—thou liest not!<br/> +<i>Thou</i> hast no end to gain—no heart to break—<br/> +Castiglione lied who said he loved——<br/> +Thou true—he false!—false!—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!—My soul is at war with God!<br/> +The frightful sounds of merriment below;<br/> +Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—<br/> +The sweet airs from the garden worry me!<br/> +Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment<br/> +Fills me with dread—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!—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!—think of them!<br/> +And think of me!—think of my trusting love<br/> +And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think<br/> +Of my unspeakable misery!——begone!<br/> +Yet stay! yet stay!—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—<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—Oh! no!—no!—no [<i>shuddering.</i>]<br/> +Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,<br/> +Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!<br/> +Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—<br/> +<i>I</i> have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting<br/> +The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—<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—thy lips are livid—<br/> +Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!<br/> +Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!<br/> +Swear not the oath—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—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—to the field—<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—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—the court<br/> +Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—<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!—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—school-fellows—<br/> +And now are friends—yet shall not be so long—<br/> +For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me<br/> +A kind and gentle office, and a Power—<br/> +A Power august, benignant, and supreme—<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—<br/> +Rich melodies are floating in the winds—<br/> +A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—<br/> +And with a holier lustre the quiet moon<br/> +Sitteth in Heaven.—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!—listen—now—listen!—the faintest sound<br/> +And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!<br/> +A lady's voice!—and sorrow in the tone!<br/> +Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!<br/> +Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls<br/> +Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice<br/> +Surely I never heard—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!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,<br/> +Proceeds from younder lattice—which you may see<br/> +Very plainly through the window—it belongs,<br/> +Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.<br/> +The singer is undoubtedly beneath<br/> +The roof of his Excellency—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!—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—never so plaintively—<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—the Duke awaits us,—<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!—'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—<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—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!—say nay!</i> </td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td> +<td>'Tis strange!—'tis very strange—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—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?—dost thou speak of love<br/> +To Lalage?—ah woe—ah woe is me!<br/> +This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed! </td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian</i></td> +<td>Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears<br/> +Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—<br/> +Be comforted! I know—I know it all,<br/> +And <i>still</i> I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,<br/> +And beautiful Lalage!—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—and thus I answer thee—<br/> +Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. [<i>kneeling</i>]<br/> +Sweet Lalage, <i>I love thee—love thee—love thee</i>;<br/> +Thro' good and ill—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—even for thy woes—<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—<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—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—art thou not beautiful—<br/> +What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:<br/> +By all I hold most sacred and most solemn—<br/> +By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter—<br/> +By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven—<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—<br/> +What matters it, my fairest, and my best,<br/> +That we go down unhonored and forgotten<br/> +Into the dust—so we descend together?<br/> +Descend together—and then—and then perchance— </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—</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—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—<br/> +A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—<br/> +Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.<br/> +[<i>walks across and returns</i>]<br/> +I was mistaken—'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—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—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—a land new found—<br/> +Miraculously found by one of Genoa—<br/> +A thousand leagues within the golden west?<br/> +A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,—<br/> +And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,<br/> +And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds<br/> +Of Heaven untrammelled flow—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—wilt thou<br/> +Fly to that Paradise—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—and thou shalt be<br/> +No more a mourner—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;—oh, wilt thou—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—<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—he—shall—die!—alas!<br/> +Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?<br/> +Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!<br/> +Thou <i>art</i> not gone—thou art not <i>gone</i>, Politian!<br/> +I <i>feel</i> thou art not gone—yet dare not look,<br/> +Lest I behold thee not—thou <i>couldst</i> not go<br/> +With those words upon thy lips—oh, speak to me!<br/> +And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,<br/> +To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,<br/> +To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate<br/> +My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou <i>art</i> not gone—<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—thou mockest me!<br/> +And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone—<br/> +Gone—gone. Where am I?—'tis well—'tis very well!<br/> +So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,<br/> +'Tis well, 'tis <i>very</i> well—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—it will not do<br/> +To die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay thy hand,<br/> +O Azrael, yet awhile!—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—yet a little while:<br/> +'Tis I who pray for life—I who so late<br/> +Demanded but to die!—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!—a fairer day,<br/> +Or one more worthy Italy, methinks<br/> +No mortal eyes have seen!—<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—<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—so utterly free<br/> +From the evil taint of clouds?—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—<br/> +All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,<br/> +And I have not forgotten it—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?—thus much, I pr'ythee, say<br/> +Unto the Count—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!—my friend!—</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian (aside)</i></td> +<td>'Tis he—he comes himself!<br/> +[<i>aloud</i>] Thou reasonest well.<br/> +I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—<br/> +Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.<br/> +Now pr'ythee, leave me—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—to-morrow we meet,<br/> +Do we not?—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—misunderstanding—<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!—am I right?<br/> +'Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—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!—draw?—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—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!<br/> +Avaunt—I will not fight thee—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?—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—dare not—<br/> +Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name<br/> +So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—<br/> +I cannot—dare not. </td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian</i></td> +<td>Now, by my halidom,<br/> +I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Castiglione</i></td> +<td>Ha!—coward!—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—it is—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!—I do—indeed I pity thee.</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Castiglione</i></td> +<td>And Lalage—</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian</i></td> +<td><i>Scoundrel!—arise and die!</i></td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Castiglione</i></td> +<td>It needeth not be—thus—thus—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—<br/> +[<i>baring his bosom</i>]<br/> +Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—<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—am I not sorely—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—before<br/> +The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee—<br/> +Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee<br/> +Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—<br/> +Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,—I'll taunt thee,<br/> +Dost hear? with <i>cowardice</i>—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.—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—what of it—what then? </td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Castiglione</i></td> +<td> O nothing—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—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!—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!—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!—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—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—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—such tales he told<br/> +Of his caprices and his merry freaks<br/> +Along the road—such oddity—such humor—<br/> +Such wit—such whim—such flashes of wild merriment<br/> +Set off too in such full relief by the grave<br/> +Demeanor of his friend—who, to speak the truth<br/> +Was gravity itself—</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—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—but yet it is—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—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—</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Politian</i></td> +<td>Touching those letters, sir,<br/> +Your son made mention of—your son, is he not?—<br/> +Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.<br/> +If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—<br/> +Baldazzar! ah!—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!—so soon? </td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Castiglione</i></td> +<td>What ho! Benito! Rupert!<br/> +His lordship's chambers—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—his lordship is unwell.<br/> +The damp air of the evening—the fatigue<br/> +Of a long journey—the—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!—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——<br/> +<br/> +West Point, 1831</i><br/> +<br/> +<br/> +Dear B——<br/> +<br/> +...<br/> +<br/> +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.<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—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 <i>but</i> 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 +<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—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.<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 —if so—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—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—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.<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—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;<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—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.<br/> +<br/> +"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his +<i>Biographia Literaria</i>—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—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.<br/> +<br/> +"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 <i>El +Dorado</i>)—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,—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.<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)—'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 <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—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where +all is alive and panting with immortality—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—stars began to blink;<br/> +I heard a voice: it said,—"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——, 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?—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——, 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!<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——, 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 — 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—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>—have induced me, +after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my +earliest boyhood. They are printed <i>verbatim</i>—without alteration +from the original edition—the date of which is too remote to be +judiciously acknowledged.—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.—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—<br/> +O! nothing earthly save the thrill<br/> +Of melody in woodland rill—<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—<br/> +O! nothing of the dross of ours—<br/> +Yet all the beauty—all the flowers<br/> +That list our Love, and deck our bowers—<br/> +Adorn yon world afar, afar—<br/> +The wandering star.<br/><br/> + +'Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there<br/> +Her world lay lolling on the golden air,<br/> +Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—<br/> +An oasis in desert of the blest.<br/> +Away away—'mid seas of rays that roll<br/> +Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul—<br/> +The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)<br/> +Can struggle to its destin'd eminence—<br/> +To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,<br/> +And late to ours, the favour'd one of God—<br/> +But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,<br/> +She throws aside the sceptre—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—and knelt.<br/> +Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—<br/> +Fit emblems of the model of her world—<br/> +Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight—<br/> +Of other beauty glittering thro' the light—<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—deep pride—<br/> +<a name="fr13">Of</a> her who lov'd a mortal—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>—<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—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—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>—<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!—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—<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—<br/> +The boundary of the star<br/> +Which turneth at the view<br/> +Of thy barrier and thy bar—<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—<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—<br/> +Who livest—<i>that</i> we know—<br/> +In Eternity—we feel—<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>—<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—<br/> +In thought that can alone<br/> +Ascend thy empire and so be<br/> +A partner of thy throne—<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—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—breath'd not—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"—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—<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—<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—<br/> +<a name="fr24">Apart</a>—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—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—and one moon adore—<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>—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—<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—<br/> +Of rosy head, that towering far away<br/> +Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray<br/> +Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,<br/> +While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +And every sculptured cherub thereabout<br/> +That from his marble dwelling peered out,<br/> +Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche—<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>—<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—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—<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—<br/> +Is <a name="fr30">not</a> its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?<a href="#f30"><sup>20</sup></a><br/> +But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings<br/> +A music with it—'tis the rush of wings—<br/> +A pause—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—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—<br/> +Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—<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—<br/> +Or tufted wild spray<br/> +That keeps, from the dreamer,<br/> +<a name="fr32">The</a> moonbeam away—<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—eyes of the maiden<br/> +Who calls on you now—<br/> +Arise! from your dreaming<br/> +In violet bowers,<br/> +To duty beseeming<br/> +These star-litten hours—<br/> +And shake from your tresses<br/> +Encumber'd with dew<br/> +<br/> +The breath of those kisses<br/> +That cumber them too—<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—<br/> +It would weigh down your flight;<br/> +And true love caresses—<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—<br/> +But the strains still arise<br/> +Which <i>thy</i> vigilance keep—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +To lone lake that smiles,<br/> +In its dream of deep rest,<br/> +At the many star-isles<br/> +That enjewel its breast—<br/> +Where wild flowers, creeping,<br/> +Have mingled their shade,<br/> +On its margin is sleeping<br/> +Full many a maid—<br/> +Some have left the cool glade, and<br/> +<a name="fr35">Have</a> slept with the bee—<a href="#f35"><sup>25</sup></a><br/> +Arouse them, my maiden,<br/> +On moorland and lea—<br/> +<br/> +Go! breathe on their slumber,<br/> +All softly in ear,<br/> +The musical number<br/> +They slumber'd to hear—<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—<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—sweeter still that death—<br/> +Sweet was that error—ev'n with <i>us</i> the breath<br/> +Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—<br/> +To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy—<br/> +For what (to them) availeth it to know<br/> +That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?<br/> +Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife<br/> +With the last ecstasy of satiate life—<br/> +Beyond that death no immortality—<br/> +But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"—<br/> +And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—<br/> +<a name="fr36">Apart</a> from Heaven's Eternity—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—<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—'mid "tears of perfect moan."<a href="#f37"><sup>27</sup></a><br/><br/> + +He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:<br/> +A wanderer by mossy-mantled well—<br/> +A gazer on the lights that shine above—<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—<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—<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—his dark eye bent<br/> +With eagle gaze along the firmament:<br/> +Now turn'd it upon her—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—nor mourned to leave,<br/> +That eve—that eve—I should remember well—<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—<br/> +And on my eyelids—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!—I slumbered—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—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—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—<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—<br/> +And greener fields than in yon world above,<br/> +And woman's loveliness—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—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—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—<br/> +Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,<br/> +A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."<br/><br/> + +"We came—and to thy Earth—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—<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—<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—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—attained, in a few days, a brilliancy +surpassing that of Jupiter—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—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—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.—<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—you then perceive it gradually open its petals—expand +them—fade and die.—<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—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.—<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.—<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.—<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.—<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. + +—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—too small to be seen.—<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—mais un palais +érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles—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"—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 <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—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—<br/> +Un dia puro—allegre—libre<br/> +Quiera—<br/> +Libre de amor—de zelo—<br/> +De odio—de esperanza—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—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—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.—<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—<br/> +I will not madly deem that power<br/> +Of Earth may shrive me of the sin<br/> +Unearthly pride hath revelled in—<br/> +I have no time to dote or dream:<br/> +You call it hope—that fire of fire!<br/> +It is but agony of desire:<br/> +If I <i>can</i> hope—O God! I can—<br/> +Its fount is holier—more divine—<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—<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—a knell.<br/><br/> + +I have not always been as now:<br/> +The fevered diadem on my brow<br/> +I claimed and won usurpingly—<br/> +Hath not the same fierce heirdom given<br/> +Rome to the Cæsar—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—that dew—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!—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—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—<br/> +The torrent of the chilly air<br/> +Gurgled within my ear the crush<br/> +Of empires—with the captive's prayer—<br/> +The hum of suitors—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—be it so:<br/> +But, father, there lived one who, then,<br/> +Then—in my boyhood—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—alas!—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—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—with their meaning—melt<br/> +To fantasies—with none.<br/><br/> + +O, she was worthy of all love!<br/> +Love as in infancy was mine—<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—then a goodly gift,<br/> +For they were childish and upright—<br/> +Pure—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—and love—together—<br/> +Roaming the forest, and the wild;<br/> +My breast her shield in wintry weather—<br/> +And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.<br/> +And she would mark the opening skies,<br/> +<i>I</i> saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.<br/> +Young Love's first lesson is——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—<br/> +There was no need to speak the rest—<br/> +No need to quiet any fears<br/> +Of her—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—<br/> +I had no being—but in thee:<br/> +The world, and all it did contain<br/> +In the earth—the air—the sea—<br/> +Its joy—its little lot of pain<br/> +That was new pleasure—the ideal,<br/> +Dim, vanities of dreams by night—<br/> +And dimmer nothings which were real—<br/> +(Shadows—and a more shadowy light!)<br/> +Parted upon their misty wings,<br/> +And, so, confusedly, became<br/> +Thine image and—a name—a name!<br/> +Two separate—yet most intimate things.<br/><br/> + +I was ambitious—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—<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—the hour—the day—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—<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—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—<br/> +A mingled feeling with my own—<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—<br/> +Yet it was not that Fantasy<br/> +Had thrown her mantle over me—<br/> +But that, among the rabble—men,<br/> +Lion ambition is chained down—<br/> +And crouches to a keeper's hand—<br/> +Not so in deserts where the grand—<br/> +The wild—the terrible conspire<br/> +With their own breath to fan his fire.<br/><br/> + +Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!—<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—her veriest stepping-stone<br/> +Shall form the pedestal of a throne—<br/> +And who her sovereign? Timour—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—<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—<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—tho' the white moon<br/> +Shed all the splendor of her noon,<br/> +<i>Her</i> smile is chilly—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—<br/> +For all we live to know is known,<br/> +And all we seek to keep hath flown—<br/> +Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall<br/> +With the noon-day beauty—which is all.<br/> +I reached my home—my home no more—<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—<br/> +O, I defy thee, Hell, to show<br/> +On beds of fire that burn below,<br/> +An humbler heart—a deeper woe.<br/><br/> + +Father, I firmly do believe—<br/> +I <i>know</i>—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——<br/> +I do believe that Eblis hath<br/> +A snare in every human path—<br/> +Else how, when in the holy grove<br/> +I wandered of the idol, Love,—<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—no tiniest fly—<br/> +The light'ning of his eagle eye—<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—<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—<br/> +Over the lilies that wave<br/> +And weep above a nameless grave!<br/> +They wave:—from out their fragrant tops<br/> +Eternal dews come down in drops.<br/> +They weep:—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—<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—<br/> +Where Love's a grow-up God—<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—<br/> +Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,<br/> +With the fervor of thy lute—<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—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 ——</h3> + +<p> +I heed not that my earthly lot<br/> +Hath—little of Earth in it—<br/> +That years of love have been forgot<br/> +In the hatred of a minute:—<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 ——</h3> + +<p> +The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see<br/> +The wantonest singing birds,<br/><br/> + +Are lips—and all thy melody<br/> +Of lip-begotten words—<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—<br/><br/> + +Thy heart—<i>thy</i> heart!—I wake and sigh,<br/> +And sleep to dream till day<br/><br/> + +Of the truth that gold can never buy—<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—the unhidden heart—<br/> +The playful maziness of art<br/> +In old Alberto's daughter;<br/><br/> + +But when within thy wave she looks—<br/> +Which glistens then, and trembles—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +As such it well may pass—<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—for then<br/> +The spirits of the dead who stood<br/> +In life before thee are again<br/> +In death around thee—and their will<br/> +Shall overshadow thee: be still.<br/> +The night—tho' clear—shall frown—<br/> +And the stars shall not look down<br/> +From their high thrones in the Heaven,<br/> +With light like Hope to mortals given—<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—<br/> +Now are visions ne'er to vanish—<br/> +From thy spirit shall they pass<br/> +No more—like dew-drops from the grass.<br/> +The breeze—the breath of God—is still—<br/> +And the mist upon the hill<br/> +Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,<br/> +Is a symbol and a token—<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—<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—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—<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—a most familiar bird—<br/> +Taught me my alphabet to say—<br/> +To lisp my very earliest word<br/> +While in the wild wood I did lie,<br/> +A child—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—<br/> +That little time with lyre and rhyme<br/> +To while away—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—and shadowy floods—<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—<br/> +Again—again—again—<br/> +Every moment of the night—<br/> +Forever changing places—<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—still down—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—<br/> +O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—<br/> +Over spirits on the wing—<br/> +Over every drowsy thing—<br/> +And buries them up quite<br/> +In a labyrinth of light—<br/> +And then, how deep!—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—almost any thing—<br/> +Or a yellow Albatross.<br/> +They use that moon no more<br/> +For the same end as before—<br/> +Videlicet a tent—<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—<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—<br/> +Then—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—<br/> +A feeling not the jewelled mine<br/> +Could teach or bribe me to define—<br/> +Nor Love—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—<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—too cold for me—<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—<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—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—<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—<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—the happiest hour<br/> +Mine eyes shall see—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—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—fell<br/> +An essence—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—<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—that dream eternally<br/> +Continuing—as dreams have been to me<br/> +In my young boyhood—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,—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—what more could I have seen?<br/> +'Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour<br/> +From my remembrance shall not pass—some power<br/> +Or spell had bound me—'twas the chilly wind<br/> +Came o'er me in the night, and left behind<br/> +Its image on my spirit—or the moon<br/> +Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon<br/> +Too coldly—or the stars—howe'er it was<br/> +That dream was that that night-wind—let it pass.<br/> +<i>I have been</i> happy, though in a dream.<br/> +I have been happy—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—and all my own!—<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?—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—her wilds—her mountains—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—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—<br/> +And yet that spirit knew—not in the hour<br/> +Of its own fervor—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—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—so the tear to the lid<br/> +Will start, which lately slept in apathy?<br/> +And yet it need not be—(that object) hid<br/> +From us in life—but common—which doth lie<br/> +Each hour before us—but then only bid<br/> +With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken<br/> +T' awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token—</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—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—with godliness—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"?—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!—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—<br/> +And they hated her for her pride—<br/> +But she grew in feeble health,<br/> +And they <i>love</i> her—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—<br/> +That I should not sing at all—</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—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.—</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><span style="font-size: 100%;">VII</span></td> +<td align="center">Of the dead—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—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—<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.—</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—<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—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—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—<br/> +On the sweetest air doth float<br/> +The most sad and solemn note—<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—<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—<br/> +And by strange alchemy of brain<br/> +His pleasures always turned to pain—<br/> +His naïveté to wild desire—<br/> +His wit to love—his wine to fire—<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—<br/> +I could not love except where Death<br/> +Was mingling his with Beauty's breath—<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—<br/> +Gone are the glory and the gloom—<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—<br/> +I revell'd, and I now would sleep—<br/> +And after drunkenness of soul<br/> +Succeeds the glories of the bowl—<br/> +An idle longing night and day<br/> +To dream my very life away.<br/><br/> + +But dreams—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—<br/> +Why not an imp the greybeard hath,<br/> +Will shake his shadow in my path—<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—I have not seen<br/> +As others saw—I could not bring<br/> +My passions from a common spring—<br/> +From the same source I have not taken<br/> +My sorrow—I could not awaken<br/> +My heart to joy at the same tone—<br/> +And all I loved—<i>I</i> loved alone—<br/> +<i>Thou</i>—in my childhood—in the dawn<br/> +Of a most stormy life—was drawn<br/> +From every depth of good and ill<br/> +The mystery which binds me still—<br/> +From the torrent, or the fountain—<br/> +From the red cliff of the mountain—<br/> +From the sun that round me roll'd<br/> +In its autumn tint of gold—<br/> +From the lightning in the sky<br/> +As it passed me flying by—<br/> +From the thunder and the storm—<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—<br/> +Under the lilac's tremulous leaves—<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—<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,—<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:—<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,—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +That in the sun<br/> +Did rivulets run,<br/> +And all around rare flowers did blow—<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—<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—<br/> +Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—<br/> +Its ashes, whence will spring and grow<br/> +Sweet flowers, ere long,—<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—"<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,—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 <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—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— + +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—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?—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! —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?</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—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—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!—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—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—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—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.</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—one to whom the <i>perfection</i> 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 <i>given the air</i>, must <i>in +the end</i> impress every individual thing that exists <i>within the +universe;</i>— 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, <i>in their creation +of new</i>—until he found them reflected—unimpressive <i>at +last</i>—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 <i>all</i> epochs, <i>all</i> effects to +<i>all</i> 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.</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—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 —and the source of all thought is—</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—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—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.</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Agathos.</i></td> +<td>They <i>are</i>!—they <i>are</i>!—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 <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>—<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 —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—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—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 +<i>analogy</i> 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 <i>mirth</i> 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 <i>gradation</i> 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 <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—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 <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!—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!—"<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:—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 <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—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—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 +<i>sound</i>— 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. <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—you, sweet Una, +gaspingly, with loud cries.<br/> +<br/> +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 <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—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.<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—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—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 <i>duration</i>—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.<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—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) —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 <i>Shadow</i>, came <i>that</i> light which +alone might have had power to startle—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— instead of all +things, dominant and perpetual—the autocrats <i>Place</i> and +<i>Time.</i> For <i>that</i> which <i>was not</i>—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. </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—of that which +recognizes the beautiful—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>.—<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;—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—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 <i>the new</i>.</td> +</tr> +<tr align="left" valign="top"> +<td><i>Charmion.</i></td> +<td>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. </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!—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. </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—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!—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?—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—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. </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—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. <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—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.<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—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;— 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—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 <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 — 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—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 <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 — 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—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—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,—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 <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—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;—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;—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;—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—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.<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—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 +<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—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.<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—fails—a revulsion ensues—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—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.<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—which I doubt—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—yet we are indebted for it to the +Quarterly Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere <i>size</i>, +abstractly considered—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—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—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—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.<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—who knows how?—<br/> +To thy chamber-window, sweet!<br/><br/> + +The wandering airs they faint<br/> +On the dark the silent stream—<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—<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—<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—<br/> +For heart was cold to all but gold,<br/> +And the rich came not to woo—<br/> +But honor'd well her charms to sell,<br/> +If priests the selling do.<br/><br/> + +Now walking there was one more fair—<br/> +A slight girl, lily-pale;<br/> +And she had unseen company<br/> +To make the spirit quail—<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!—<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:—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—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—this struggle, on the +part of souls fittingly constituted—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—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 <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—and +Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, +perfecting them as poems.<br/> +<br/> +To recapitulate then:—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—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 <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 + +—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—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 <i>the tone</i>, 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 <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—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—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<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,—<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—<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:—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—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:—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—"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—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,—<br/> +Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,<br/> +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 <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—more weirdly <i>imaginative,</i> 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.<br/> +<br/> +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?<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,—<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,—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,<br/> +Weary of breath,<br/> +Rashly importunate<br/> +Gone to her death!<br/><br/> + +Take her up tenderly,<br/> +Lift her with care;—<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—<br/> +Anywhere, anywhere<br/> +Out of the world!<br/><br/> + +In she plunged boldly,<br/> +No matter how coldly<br/> +The rough river ran,—<br/> +Over the brink of it,<br/> +Picture it,—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—<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,—kindly,—<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,—<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—it shall not be its slave.<br/> +There is many a pang to pursue me:<br/> +They may crush, but they shall not contemn—<br/> +They may torture, but shall not subdue me—<br/> +'Tis of <i>thee</i> that I think—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,—<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—<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—<i>not</i> because the poetical excitement +which he induces is at <i>all</i> 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,<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—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 <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—<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—<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,—<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—"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—and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in +accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea—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—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.<br/> +<br/> +I prefer commencing with the consideration of an <i>effect.</i> Keeping +originality <i>always</i> 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.<br/> +<br/> +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 <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— 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—or say the necessity—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—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—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, <i>inevitably</i>, with corresponding +depressions—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—the limit of a single sitting—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—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.<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—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—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 <i>soul</i> +—<i>not</i> 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 <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—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.<br/> +<br/> +Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the +<i>tone</i> of its highest manifestation—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—some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully +thinking over all the usual artistic effects—or more properly +<i>points</i>, in the theatrical sense—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—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 <i>of the +application</i> of the <i>refrain</i>—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—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—"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—"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—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 +<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—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 <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—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.<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—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—<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—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—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—but it has always appeared to me that a close +<i>circumscription of space</i> 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.<br/> +<br/> +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.<br/> +<br/> +The <i>locale</i> 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.<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—it being understood that +the bust was absolutely <i>suggested</i> by the bird—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—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 <i>least obeisance made he</i>—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—<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—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—<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—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 <i>dénouement</i>—which is now brought about as rapidly and as +<i>directly</i> as possible.<br/> +<br/> +With the <i>dénouement</i> 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.<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—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—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.<br/> +<br/> +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!"<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—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—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—we mean to the simple +love of the antique—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>—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—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 <i>school</i>—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 <i>abandon</i>—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 (<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>—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.<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—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—<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—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<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—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 <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—the <i>wonder</i> 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 <i>should</i> 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<br/> +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<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> + |