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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76996 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+  THE POEMS OF
+  EDGAR ALLAN POE
+
+
+
+
+  _The Endymion Series_
+
+
+  POEMS BY JOHN KEATS. Illustrated and decorated by Robert Anning
+    Bell. With an Introduction by Professor Walter Raleigh, M.A. Second
+    Edition, revised, with several New Illustrations. Post 8vo. 7_s._
+    6_d._
+      Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum (_all sold_).
+
+  POEMS BY ROBERT BROWNING. Illustrated and decorated by Byam Shaw.
+    With an Introduction by Richard Garnett, LL.D., C.B. Second Edition.
+    Post 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._
+      Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum (_all sold_).
+
+  ENGLISH LYRICS FROM SPENSER TO MILTON. Illustrated and decorated by
+    R. Anning Bell. With an Introduction by John Dennis. Post 8vo. 6_s._
+      Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21_s._ net.
+
+  MILTON’S MINOR POEMS. Illustrated and decorated by Alfred Garth
+    Jones. Post 8vo. 6_s._
+      Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21_s._ net.
+
+  THE POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Illustrated and decorated by W. Heath
+    Robinson. With an Introduction by Noel Williams. Post 8vo. 6_s._
+      Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21_s._ net.
+
+LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS
+
+
+
+
+  THE POEMS
+  OF
+  EDGAR ALLAN POE
+
+
+  ILLUSTRATED AND
+  DECORATED BY
+  W·HEATH·ROBINSON
+  WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+  BY H·NOEL·WILLIAMS
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  LONDON: GEORGE BELL & SONS
+  NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
+  1900
+
+  CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
+  TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+                                                                  PAGE
+
+  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS                                             xi
+
+  INTRODUCTION                                                      xv
+
+  PREFACE AND DEDICATION TO THE VOLUME OF 1845                  xxxiii
+
+  POEMS
+    THE RAVEN                                                        3
+    THE BELLS                                                       13
+    ULALUME                                                         23
+    BRIDAL BALLAD                                                   29
+    LENORE                                                          30
+    A VALENTINE                                                     34
+    AN ENIGMA                                                       37
+    TO HELEN                                                        38
+    ANNABEL LEE                                                     41
+    FOR ANNIE                                                       42
+    TO F——S S. O——D                                                 46
+    TO —— ——                                                        46
+    THE CITY IN THE SEA                                             48
+    THE CONQUEROR WORM                                              50
+    THE SLEEPER                                                     54
+    THE COLISEUM                                                    57
+    DREAMLAND                                                       58
+    EULALIE                                                         62
+    TO MY MOTHER                                                    63
+    ELDORADO                                                        64
+    TO F——                                                          67
+    TO ONE IN PARADISE                                              68
+    HYMN                                                            71
+    A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM                                          72
+    TO ZANTE                                                        75
+    THE HAUNTED PALACE                                              76
+    SILENCE                                                         82
+    ISRAFEL                                                         85
+    TO M. L. S——                                                    89
+    THE VALLEY OF UNREST                                            90
+
+  POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH
+
+    TO HELEN                                                        93
+    SONNET: TO SCIENCE                                              94
+    SPIRITS OF THE DEAD                                             95
+    EVENING STAR                                                    96
+    FAIRYLAND                                                       99
+    THE LAKE: TO ——                                                101
+    A DREAM                                                        102
+    A PÆAN                                                         103
+    “THE HAPPIEST DAY”                                             105
+    ALONE                                                          106
+    STANZAS (“In youth I have known one”)                          107
+    TO —— (“The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see”)                 110
+    TO THE RIVER                                                   111
+    TO —— (“I heed not that my earthly lot”)                       111
+    SONG                                                           112
+    DREAMS                                                         113
+    ROMANCE                                                        114
+    TAMERLANE                                                      115
+    AL AARAAF                                                      127
+    NOTES TO AL AARAAF                                             144
+
+  SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”                                           149
+
+  LETTER TO MR. ——: Introduction to Poems (1831)                   171
+
+  ESSAY ON THE POETIC PRINCIPLE                                    185
+
+  ESSAY ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION                           211
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  FRONTISPIECE: “AL AARAAF.”                                      PAGE
+
+  TITLE-PAGE.
+
+  CONTENTS (_headpiece_)                                           vii
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   ix
+
+  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS (_headpiece_)                               xi
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                  xiv
+
+  INTRODUCTION (_headpiece_)                                        xv
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                xxxii
+
+  PREFACE AND DEDICATION OF THE VOLUME OF 1845
+    (_decorated title_)                                         xxxiii
+
+  HEADPIECE TO PREFACE                                            xxxv
+
+  BORDER TO DEDICATION                                          xxxvii
+
+  POEMS (_decorated title_)                                          1
+
+  THE RAVEN (_headpiece_)                                            3
+    “THE NIGHT’S PLUTONIAN SHORE”                                 8, 9
+
+  THE BELLS (_decorated title_)                                     13
+    (_Headpiece_)                                                   15
+    “THE SWINGING AND THE RINGING OF THE BELLS”                     17
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   20
+
+  ULALUME (_frontispiece_)                                          22
+    ASTARTE                                                         24
+    “IN AGONY SOBBED”                                               25
+    “IT WAS DOWN BY THE DANK TARN OF AUBER”                         27
+
+  BRIDAL BALLAD (_headpiece_)                                       29
+
+  LENORE (_headpiece_)                                              30
+    LENORE                                                          31
+
+  A VALENTINE (_tailpiece_)                                         34
+    A VALENTINE                                                     35
+
+  AN ENIGMA (_headpiece_)                                           37
+
+  TO HELEN (_headpiece_)                                            38
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   40
+
+  ANNABEL LEE (_headpiece_)                                         41
+
+  FOR ANNIE (_headpiece_)                                           42
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   45
+
+  TO F——S S. O——D (_headpiece_)                                     46
+
+  TO —— —— (_tailpiece_)                                            47
+
+  THE CITY IN THE SEA (_headpiece_)                                 48
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   50
+
+  THE CONQUEROR WORM
+    “WITH ITS PHANTOM CHASED FOR EVERMORE
+      BY A CROWD THAT SEIZE IT NOT”                                 51
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   53
+
+  THE SLEEPER (_headpiece_)                                         54
+    “THE LADY SLEEPS”                                               55
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   56
+
+  THE COLISEUM (_headpiece_)                                        57
+
+  “WHERE AN EIDOLON, NAMED NIGHT,
+    ON A BLACK THRONE REIGNS UPRIGHT”                               59
+
+  EULALIE                                                           62
+
+  TO MY MOTHER (_headpiece_)                                        63
+
+  ELDORADO: “HE MET A PILGRIM SHADOW”                               64
+    “IN SEARCH OF ELDORADO”                                         65
+
+  TO F—— (_head- and tailpiece_)                                    67
+
+  TO ONE IN PARADISE                                                71
+
+  HYMN (_head- and tailpiece_)                                      71
+
+  A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM (_headpiece_)                              72
+    “I STAND AMID THE ROAR
+      OF A SURF-TORMENTED SHORE”                                    73
+
+  TO ZANTE (_headpiece_)                                            75
+
+  THE HAUNTED PALACE (_headpiece_)                                  76
+    “BUT EVIL THINGS, IN ROBES OF SORROW,
+      ASSAILED THE MONARCH’S HIGH ESTATE”                       78, 79
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                   81
+
+  SILENCE (_head-and tailpiece_)                                    82
+    SILENCE                                                         83
+
+  ISRAFEL (_headpiece_)                                             85
+    ISRAFEL                                                         87
+
+  TO M. L. S—— (_headpiece_)                                        89
+
+  THE VALLEY OF UNREST (_headpiece_)                                90
+
+  POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH (_decorated title_)                        91
+
+  TO HELEN (_decorated border_)                                     93
+
+  SONNET: TO SCIENCE (_headpiece_)                                  94
+
+  SPIRITS OF THE DEAD (_headpiece_)                                 95
+
+  EVENING STAR (_headpiece_)                                        96
+    EVENING STAR                                                    97
+
+  FAIRYLAND (_headpiece_)                                           99
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                  100
+
+  THE LAKE: TO —— (_headpiece_)                                    101
+
+  A DREAM (_headpiece_)                                            102
+
+  A PÆAN (_headpiece_)                                             103
+
+  THE HAPPIEST DAY (_headpiece_)                                   105
+
+  ALONE (_headpiece_)                                              106
+    ALONE                                                          107
+
+  STANZAS (_headpiece_)                                            109
+
+  TO —— (_headpiece_)                                              110
+
+  TO THE RIVER (_headpiece_)                                       111
+
+  SONG (_head- and tailpiece_)                                     112
+
+  DREAMS (_headpiece_)                                             113
+
+  ROMANCE (_headpiece_)                                            114
+
+  TAMERLANE (_decorated title_)                                    115
+    (_Headpiece_)                                                  117
+    “ON THE MOUNTAIN PEAK ALONE”                                   121
+    TIMOUR                                                         126
+
+  AL AARAAF (_decorated title_)                                    127
+    (_Headpiece to Part I._)                                       129
+    “SHE CEASED—AND BURIED THEN HER BURNING CHEEK
+     ABASHED, AMID THE LILIES”                                     133
+    (_Headpiece to Part II._)                                      136
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                  143
+    (_Headpiece to Notes_)                                         144
+
+  Scenes from “Politian” (_decorated title_)                       149
+    (_Headpiece_)                                                  151
+    “I CANNOT PRAY!— MY SOUL IS AT WAR WITH GOD”                   157
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                  170
+
+  LETTER TO MR. —— (_headpiece_)                                   173
+    (_Tailpiece_)                                                  181
+
+  THE POETIC PRINCIPLE (_frontispiece_)                            184
+    (_Headpiece_)                                                  185
+
+  THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION (_headpiece_)                      211
+
+  FINIS                                                            225
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+“A lie,” says an American proverb, “will run from Maine to Mexico while
+Truth is putting on its boots,” and the memories of few celebrated men
+have been more freely aspersed or more tardily vindicated than has that
+of Edgar Allan Poe. No sooner was the breath out of his body than his
+enemies addressed themselves to the congenial task of bespattering his
+reputation, and continued to do so, unchecked and almost unchallenged,
+for many years. Amongst other charges so contemptible as to be unworthy
+of a moment’s consideration, he was held up to public execration as a
+confirmed inebriate and denounced as a shameless plagiarist. At this
+distance of time it is hardly necessary to remark that the former charge
+was a particularly cruel perversion of the truth, while the latter was
+entirely without foundation. But it is a well-known axiom that, if only
+a sufficiency of mud is thrown, some of it is sure to stick; and in
+consequence Poe was for a long time denied that place on the roll of
+fame to which his remarkable talents, both as a poet and a romancer,
+fairly entitled him. The present generation, however, has witnessed a
+signal reaction in his favour. Thanks to the untiring efforts of several
+prominent men of letters both in his own country and in England, the
+darker shadows which rested upon his name have been effectually
+dispersed; the world has gradually come to take a more just view both of
+his character and his genius; and in this, the closing year of the
+nineteenth century, we find Poe’s reputation more firmly established
+than at any time since his untimely death in 1849.
+
+To a right understanding of the works of any author some knowledge of
+his life is essential, for a man’s writings are always to a greater or
+less extent the reflection of his character and his surroundings. Of
+course there are exceptions to this as to other rules. There are authors
+whose forte lies in describing the passions and the impossibility of
+controlling them, and who in private life are confirmed misogynists;
+while there are others, whose most entertaining books have been dictated
+upon a bed of suffering from which there was little chance of their ever
+rising again. But Poe was not one of these exceptions: in his
+writings—and more especially in his poetry—his character is mirrored
+for all men to behold it.
+
+Naturally of a morbid temperament, Poe’s innate propensity to look upon
+the dark side of things was strengthened by the circumstances in which
+he was placed. His life was one of continuous disappointment. He
+laboured incessantly, and hardly earned enough to keep body and soul
+together; he was, perhaps, the most original genius of his time, and was
+accused of pilfering from the work of vastly inferior minds; he was
+intensely ambitious, and remained a literary hack to the end of his
+days; he was of a most affectionate disposition, and was compelled to
+witness the one whom he loved best upon earth in the grip of a cruel and
+lingering disease, without possessing the means of procuring her the
+comforts which might have alleviated her sufferings. Knowing all this,
+can we wonder at the tone of settled melancholy which pervades his
+poetry—the regret for what might have been, the yearning for what can
+never be? Here and there, it is true, he strikes a different note, as in
+“Eulalie” and the charming little lyric “To Helen,” which latter poem,
+however, was written when he was still a boy; but these variations, like
+glimpses of blue sky on a dark and lowering horizon, only serve to
+intensify the general gloom. And yet, in spite of their sadness, there
+is a pathetic sweetness in his verses, which appeals irresistibly to the
+heart, and makes the reader fain to admit that in his particular strain
+Poe is indeed a master.
+
+Born at Boston on January 19th, 1809—the son of one David Poe, a man
+of good family, who had married an actress and subsequently adopted his
+wife’s profession—Edgar Allan Poe had the misfortune to lose both his
+parents in infancy, after which he was adopted by his godfather, Mr.
+John Allan, a wealthy and childless Richmond merchant, with the
+intention, it is thought, of making him his heir. The boy was handsome,
+witty, and precocious, and was petted and indulged by his adopted father
+to his heart’s content; indeed, it is to the injudicious treatment which
+he then received that Poe himself ascribes many of the difficulties
+which beset his path in after life.
+
+When eight years old he was brought to England and placed at a school
+at Stoke Newington kept by a Dr. Bransby, who is amusingly depicted in
+“William Wilson,” one of Poe’s finest stories. Here he remained five
+years, when he returned to America, and after studying until he was
+seventeen at a Richmond academy, matriculated at the University of
+Virginia, at Charlottesville. At the University he seems to have
+acquired some reputation as a scholar; but at the end of his first
+session a difference of opinion with his godfather in respect of some
+gambling debts, which the old gentlemen very properly refused to pay,
+led to an open quarrel, and Poe, instead of returning to
+Charlottesville, set out for Europe, with the intention of assisting the
+Greeks, then struggling to free themselves from the intolerable yoke of
+Turkey. It does not appear, however, that he took any part in the war,
+nor even beheld, except in his mind’s eye, the remains of “the glory
+that _was_ Greece.” After wandering about the Continent for a couple of
+years he returned home, became reconciled to Mr. Allan, and, having
+expressed a wish to enter the army, was accordingly nominated to a
+cadetship at West Point. But, alas, the “Imp of the Perverse” was ever
+at his heels, and in less than twelve months he was cashiered “for
+various neglects of duty and disobedience of orders.”
+
+The loss of his profession—no great matter in itself, for anyone less
+fitted for the strict discipline of a military life it would be
+difficult to imagine—was followed by another and far more serious
+quarrel with his adopted father, with the result that the young man
+found himself thrown upon his own resources. He had already published a
+small volume of poems—those comprised in his last collection as “Poems
+written in Youth”—which included the delightful stanzas beginning
+“Helen, thy beauty is to me,” and he now determined to turn to
+literature for a livelihood. Nothing is known of his career for the next
+two years; but in 1833 with a tale, “A MS. found in a Bottle,” and a
+poem, “The Coliseum,” he carried off two prizes offered for competition
+by a Baltimore newspaper, and having attracted the notice of one of the
+judges—Mr. John Kennedy, a well-known literary man—he obtained through
+his influence employment on “The Southern Literary Messenger,” at
+Richmond.
+
+Henceforth, until his death, Poe was intimately connected with
+American journalism, and more than one moribund periodical was indebted
+to his eloquent pen for a fresh lease of life. He was an indefatigable
+worker, pouring forth poems, essays, stories, and reviews with feverish
+energy; and, at the same time, so fastidious that he never permitted a
+manuscript to leave his hands until he was satisfied that he had given
+the public of his very best. Unfortunately in America in those days
+literary work was very inadequately remunerated, while copyright was a
+mere farce; so that even for his finest poems and his most powerful
+tales Poe never received more than fifty or sixty dollars, and generally
+very much less, and was in consequence seldom free from pecuniary
+embarrassment. “The Raven,” which appeared in 1845 in Cotton’s “American
+Review,” brought him immediate fame, and—ten dollars; and while his
+poem was being read, and recited, and parodied all over the
+English-speaking world, the author was actually in want of the common
+necessaries of life. To add to his troubles, his wife, Virginia Clemm, a
+beautiful and charming girl whom he had married in 1836, and to whom he
+was most devotedly attached, had soon after their marriage contracted a
+fatal malady, and was slowly fading away before his eyes; and his
+anxiety on her behalf thoroughly unnerved him and weakened his power of
+self-restraint, never at any time very great. It was this, combined with
+ill-health and the strain of overwork, which drove him to the use of the
+stimulants which ultimately proved his ruin; but the statement that he
+habitually drank to excess was a malicious fabrication. The fact was
+that poor Poe, in common with many other people of a nervous,
+highly-strung temperament, was, as one of his most intimate friends
+assures us, unable to take “even a single glass of wine” with impunity.
+
+Mrs. Poe died in 1847, and in the autumn of the following year Poe
+became engaged to a widow, named Mrs. Whitman, a lady of considerable
+literary attainments. This engagement, from which his friends hoped
+much, was unfortunately soon broken off, for reasons which have never
+been satisfactorily explained, and on October 7th, 1849, the poet died
+under painful circumstances at Baltimore.
+
+It is frequently asserted that Poe is a single-poem poet—that he is
+indebted for the niche he now occupies in the Temple of Song mainly to
+his wonderful poem “The Raven”; and that if “The Raven” had never been
+written, Poe would now be remembered merely as a skilful weaver of
+sensational romances, who wrote passable, if somewhat fantastic, verses
+in his leisure moments. But those who hold this opinion not only do Poe
+a grave injustice, but admit themselves incapable of appreciating some
+of the very finest lyrics in the English language. “The Raven,” it is
+true, is the poem whose artificial qualities appeal most strongly to the
+fancy of the general reader, and for this reason, if for no other, is
+entitled to all due respect from the critic; but remarkable as it
+undoubtedly is, it is open to question whether, considered purely as a
+poem, it is quite on the same plane with that masterpiece of imagination
+“The City in the Sea,” the mystical town where “Death has reared himself
+a throne,” or with that exquisite lyric “The Sleeper,” in which Poe’s
+inimitable power as a word-painter rises to such a height that we almost
+seem to see the beautiful dead woman lying pale and still in her “length
+of tress” waiting to exchange her death-chamber
+
+              “For one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy.”
+
+Again, if neither “The Raven” nor either of the two poems we have just
+mentioned had been given to the world, such productions as “The Haunted
+Palace,” “Annabel Lee,” and “To Helen,” to say nothing of “Israfel,”
+“Ulalume,” and “The Bells,” containing as they do passages of the rarest
+charm, would surely have sufficed to keep their author’s memory green
+for all time. What can one possibly desire finer of their kind than
+those lines from that splendid piece of verbal music, “The Haunted
+Palace,” which no lover of Poe can resist quoting?—
+
+  “Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This—all this—was in the olden
+    Time long ago,)
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A wingèd odour went away.”
+
+However, although, as we have said, “The Raven” is, in its poetical
+constituents, probably inferior to some of Poe’s other poems, yet it is
+in the mind of the average reader so inseparably connected with its
+author’s claim to rank among
+
+        “The bards sublime,
+  Whose distant footsteps echo
+  Through the corridors of Time,”
+
+that it may not be out of place to say something about the way in which
+it came to be written. And first let us remark that the impression that
+still very generally prevails that “The Raven” was inspired by the death
+of the poet’s wife—that she is the “Lost Lenore” of the poem—is
+altogether erroneous, inasmuch as Virginia Poe’s death did not take
+place until January, 1847, while “The Raven” was first published in
+February, 1845—nearly two years earlier.
+
+Poe himself, in his essay “The Philosophy of Composition,” in which he
+treats us to a very elaborate analysis of the methods employed in
+writing this poem, while ridiculing the suggestion that it was the
+offspring of any sudden impulse—of “any species of fine frenzy” under
+the influence of which poets are popularly believed to compose their
+masterpieces—does not admit that he is indebted for either the rhythm
+or the idea of “The Raven” to any extraneous sources. Several of his
+critics, however, regard this essay as not the least imaginative of his
+writings, and even hint that it is nothing more or less than an
+ingenious attempt to throw dust in the eyes of a too inquisitive public.
+One of the ablest and most discriminating of Poe’s critics, Mr. Stedman,
+in the admirable essay which is prefaced to Gustave Doré’s illustrations
+of this poem, while not going so far as this, is of the opinion that the
+rhythm of “The Raven” was suggested by Mrs. Browning’s (then Elizabeth
+Barrett) charming poem “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,” in proof of which
+he points out a very remarkable similarity between certain verses in the
+two poems. Thus in Mrs. Browning’s poem we have:
+
+  “With a murmurous stir uncertain in the air the purple curtain
+  Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows.”
+
+While in “The Raven” we find:
+
+  “And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.”
+
+The fact that it was very largely due to the influence of Poe that Mrs.
+Browning’s works received such a favourable reception in America (she
+was a frequent contributor to “Graham’s Magazine” while it was edited by
+him); that he always professed the most intense admiration both for her
+genius and her lyrical methods; and that he subsequently dedicated to
+her, as “the noblest of her sex,” “The Raven and Other Poems,” would
+certainly seem to lend colour to this suggestion. Mr. Stedman, it may be
+added, does not insinuate that there is anything in this similarity
+which can possibly be construed into an act of plagiarism on the part of
+the American writer; indeed, the whole motive of the two poems—the one
+a love-story pure and simple with an ideal ending; the other a weird,
+fantastic creation, breathing an atmosphere of doubt and despair, of
+desires unfulfilled and hope abandoned—is altogether different.
+
+Another theory, propounded by Mr. Ingram, who has, perhaps, done more
+than anyone to vindicate the memory of Poe from the calumnies of his
+_soi-disant_ biographer, Griswold, is that the inspiration of “The
+Raven” is to be found in a poem called “Isidore,” which was contributed
+by Albert Pike, the Arkansas poet, to “The New Mirror,” at a time when
+Poe was writing for the same journal. In this poem a bird “whose song
+enhances depression”—a mocking-bird to wit—also figures, while the
+refrain is not unlike that of “The Raven.” However, even if we are
+prepared to admit that “The Raven” is not so entirely the fruit of its
+author’s imagination as was at first supposed, this fact does not
+sensibly detract from the merits of a work which must always retain its
+place amongst the masterpieces of English verse.
+
+Poe then, as we have endeavoured to show, is very far from being a
+single-poem poet; but, on the other hand, he is undoubtedly the poet of
+a single mood—a mood which by no stretch of the imagination can be
+called a pleasing one in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but
+withal so striking and so original as to command—nay, even to
+compel—the reader’s attention. Poe does not sing of “emerald fields”
+and “ambient streams,” like Wordsworth; of wide, rolling prairies and
+dense forests of murmuring pines, like Longfellow; of “stainless
+knights” and “lily maids,” like Tennyson; nor of love both within and
+without the limits of the conscience, like Byron. No, his theme is a
+widely different one from all these. As with his prose romances so with
+his poetry. Just as in his romances he concerns himself in the main with
+subjects which most writers of fiction leave severely alone—with death
+in strange and awful forms; with the horrors of insanity and remorse;
+with men who under mesmeric influences continue to speak long after the
+King of Terrors has laid his icy finger upon them; with others who are
+prematurely buried, and who explore the secrets of the charnel-house—in
+a word, with what his friend honest John Kennedy called “the terrific”:
+so in his poetry his song is of phantom cities sinking into fathomless
+seas; of demon shapes flitting through enchanted palaces; of
+ghoul-haunted tarns; of “sheeted memories of the past”; of loved ones
+who have been taken from us, and of the utter hopelessness of reunion
+with them in “the distant Aidenn.” Sadness, as we have said elsewhere,
+is the dominant note of all his poetry; but sadness, as he himself tells
+us in his “Philosophy of Composition,” was his conception of the highest
+tone of Beauty, and therefore the most legitimate of all the poetical
+tones. Thus we understand why it is that the death of a beautiful
+woman—the saddest of all losses—forms the burden of so many of his
+finest lyrics. How different is all this from Shelley, who defines
+poetry as what redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in
+man, and is the record of the best and happiest moments of the best and
+happiest minds; and yet Poe in his earlier efforts, such as “Tamerlane”
+and “Al Aaraaf,” was obviously the disciple of Shelley!
+
+As we read these wonderful poems we are alternately repelled and
+attracted; still, strive as we may, we cannot escape the spell of those
+weird, mystic measures. When once we begin a poem, whether it be “The
+Raven,” “The City in the Sea,” or even “The Conqueror Worm,” we are
+compelled, in spite of ourselves, to read on to the end; and when the
+end is reached, it is not seldom with a sigh of regret that we close the
+book.
+
+Poe confined himself almost entirely to simple ballad forms—which is
+the case even in poems like “Ulalume” and “The Bells,” where the
+measures certainly seem at first sight to be somewhat intricate—and
+relied for his effect upon the melody. With him everything was
+subordinate to sound. Here and there, as in “Ulalume,” it must be
+admitted that, in striving to please the ear, he approaches perilously
+near the point where “sense swoons into nonsense”; but, on the whole, as
+a melodist he achieved wonders, and no poet has used the refrain and the
+repetend in quite the same way or so effectively. What, for instance, in
+“The Bells” could possibly be more telling than the constant repetition
+of the word which gives its name to the poem? The repetend, his free use
+of which did so much for the success of “The Raven,” he employed even
+more lavishly in some of his later poems, such as “Lenore,” “Annabel
+Lee,” “Ulalume,” and “For Annie,” and with the happiest results. Thus:
+
+  “An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
+  A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.”
+
+And again:
+
+  “It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+    In the misty mid region of Weir—
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+    In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
+
+In the management of his metres, too, Poe stands almost without a
+rival. Unlike the majority of poets, who, in determining the length of a
+poem, are guided by the sense rather than by the sound, he regarded the
+melody as of equal if not of primary importance, and one famous critic
+has declared that “it would be impossible to omit a line or stanza
+without injuring the metrical as well as the intelligible effect.”
+
+Regret is often expressed that—with the single exception of “Al
+Aaraaf,” which, however, was written when his intellect was still in its
+adolescent stage, and has done comparatively little to enhance his
+reputation—Poe, almost alone among the great poets of the nineteenth
+century, should never have given us a poem of any considerable length.
+But as a journalistic hack, forced to write by the column for his daily
+bread, Poe had but scant leisure for the composition of a “Childe
+Harold,” an “Endymion,” or a “Hiawatha,” and, moreover, it is extremely
+doubtful whether, even if the range of his possibilities had not been
+limited by his poverty, he would have done so, as he seems to have had a
+most profound contempt for prolixity in poetry. In his essay, “The
+Poetic Principle,” he maintains that “the phrase ‘a long poem’ is simply
+a flat contradiction in terms,”—that a poem deserves its title only
+inasmuch as it excites by elevating the soul; and that, as all such
+emotions are, by a psychical necessity, transient, it is obviously
+impossible for the necessary degree of excitement to be maintained
+throughout a composition of any great length. “After the lapse of half
+an hour at the very utmost,” he says, “it flags—fails—a revulsion
+ensues—and then the poem is, in effect and in fact, no longer such.”
+This theory of Poe’s gave rise to much hostile criticism, and justly so;
+still, it cannot be doubted that the time-honoured notion that no poem
+can be termed great that is not a long one, and no poet worthy of the
+name who has not written a long poem, has deprived the world of much
+fine lyric poetry by compelling able men to expend their time and energy
+in the production of bulky epics, for which in many cases their genius
+was but ill-adapted, instead of confining themselves to the lighter
+forms of verse. While thus condemning prolixity, however, Poe does not
+deny that a poem may be “improperly brief,” and thus “degenerate into
+mere epigrammatism”; and that “a _very_ short poem,” however great its
+intrinsic merits may be, can never hope to produce a profound or a
+lasting effect. He mentions Shelley’s exquisite “Lines to an Indian
+Air,” and his own friend Willis’s pathetic ballad, “Unseen Spirits,” as
+instances of poems which had failed to receive adequate recognition by
+reason of undue brevity.
+
+The secret of Poe’s hostility to the long poem is probably to be found
+in the fact that he had the strongest possible aversion to the
+introduction of metaphysics into poetry, which he regarded as the “child
+of Taste,” whose sole function ought to be “the rhythmical creation of
+Beauty”; and the long poem had to a very large extent become identified
+with the Didactic school of poets, of which Wordsworth was the principal
+exponent.
+
+Poe was not the first to raise a protest against what he termed “the
+_heresy_ of the Didactic.” Years before, Keats had declared that “people
+hated poetry that had a palpable design upon them,” and that “poetry
+should be great and unobtrusive.” Poe, however, went very much farther
+than the author of “Endymion” would have been likely to accompany him,
+for he maintains that “poetry has only collateral relations with the
+intellect and the conscience, and, unless incidentally, no concern
+whatever with either duty or truth.” To anyone who has even a
+superficial acquaintance with the great masters of verse the fallacy of
+such a proposition is obvious. Without the conception of duty and of
+truth, from which spring noble passions and great deeds—religious
+enthusiasm, love of humanity, love of liberty, self-sacrifice, loyalty,
+and patriotism—we should have had no Æschylus, no Sophocles, no
+Euripides, no Homer, no Shakespeare, no Milton, and no Tennyson—which
+reflection may enable us to bear with comparative equanimity the
+platitudes of the latter-day poet.
+
+What Poe might have done or have left undone, had not “unmerciful
+Disaster” dogged his footsteps, and carried him off, as it had carried
+off Burns, and Keats, and Shelley, and Byron, and many another child of
+genius, before he had reached the meridian of his days, it were idle to
+speculate; but this much is certain—that, when the works of far greater
+poets have fallen into neglect, Poe will still be read and still
+appreciated, for, in the domain which he made so peculiarly his own, it
+is hardly possible to imagine that he will ever have to encounter
+anything approaching serious rivalry, while the feelings which he
+appeals to are universal.
+
+  NOEL WILLIAMS.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE AND DEDICATION OF VOLUME OF 1845
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+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.
+
+  E. A. P.
+
+  1845.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+DEDICATION OF THE VOLUME OF 1845
+
+  TO
+  THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX—
+
+  TO THE AUTHOR OF
+  “THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—
+
+  TO
+  MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
+  OF ENGLAND,
+
+  _I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME_
+
+  WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND
+  WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
+
+  E. A. P.
+
+
+
+
+Poems
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE RAVEN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
+  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
+  While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
+  As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
+  “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
+                Only this and nothing more.”
+
+  Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
+  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
+  Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
+  From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
+  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
+                Nameless here for evermore.
+
+  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
+  Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
+  So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
+  “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
+  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
+                This it is and nothing more.”
+
+  Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
+  “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
+  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
+  And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber door,
+  That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door:—
+                Darkness there and nothing more.
+
+  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
+  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
+  But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
+  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
+  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
+                Merely this and nothing more.
+
+  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
+  Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
+  “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
+  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
+  Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—
+                ’Tis the wind and nothing more.”
+
+  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
+  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
+  Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
+  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
+  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
+                Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
+  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
+  “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
+                Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
+                With such name as “Nevermore.”
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
+  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
+  Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
+  Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before—
+  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
+                Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
+
+  Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
+  “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
+  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
+  Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
+  Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
+                Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
+
+  But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
+  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
+  Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
+  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
+  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
+                Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
+
+[Illustration: THE NIGHT’S]
+
+[Illustration: PLUTONIAN SHORE]
+
+  This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
+  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
+  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
+  On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
+  But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
+                _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
+
+  Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
+  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
+  “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
+  Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
+  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
+                Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
+  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
+  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
+  On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
+  Is there—_is_ there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
+                Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
+  By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
+                Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
+  “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
+  Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
+  Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
+  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
+                Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
+  And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
+                Shall be lifted—nevermore!
+
+
+
+
+THE BELLS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration: THE BELLS]
+
+  I
+
+          Hear the sledges with the bells—
+                  Silver bells!
+  What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
+          How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
+              In the icy air of night!
+          While the stars, that oversprinkle
+          All the heavens, seem to twinkle
+              With a crystalline delight;
+            Keeping time, time, time,
+            In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+  To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
+        From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+                Bells, bells, bells—
+    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
+
+  II
+
+          Hear the mellow wedding bells,
+                Golden bells!
+  What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
+          Through the balmy air of night
+          How they ring out their delight!
+            From the molten-golden notes,
+                And all in tune,
+            What a liquid ditty floats
+    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
+                On the moon!
+
+          Oh, from out the sounding cells,
+  What a gush of euphony voluminously wells
+                How it swells!
+                How it dwells
+            On the future! how it tells
+            Of the rapture that impels
+          To the swinging and the ringing
+            Of the bells, bells, bells,
+          Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+                Bells, bells, bells—
+      To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
+
+  III
+
+          Hear the loud alarum bells—
+                Brazen bells!
+  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
+          In the startled ear of night
+          How they scream out their affright!
+            Too much horrified to speak,
+            They can only shriek, shriek,
+                Out of tune,
+  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
+  In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
+            Leaping higher, higher, higher,
+            With a desperate desire,
+          And a resolute endeavour
+          Now—now to sit or never,
+        By the side of the pale-faced moon.
+            Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
+            What a tale their terror tells
+                  Of Despair!
+          How they clang, and crash, and roar!
+          What a horror they outpour
+      On the bosom of the palpitating air!
+            Yet the ear it fully knows,
+                By the twanging,
+                And the clanging,
+            How the danger ebbs and flows;
+          Yet the ear distinctly tells,
+                In the jangling,
+                And the wrangling,
+          How the danger sinks and swells,
+  By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
+                  Of the bells—
+          Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+              Bells, bells, bells—
+    In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  IV
+
+          Hear the tolling of the bells—
+                  Iron bells!
+  What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
+          In the silence of the night,
+          How we shiver with affright
+      At the melancholy menace of their tone!
+          For every sound that floats
+          From the rust within their throats
+                  Is a groan.
+          And the people—ah, the people—
+          They that dwell up in the steeple,
+                  All alone,
+          And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
+            In that muffled monotone,
+          Feel a glory in so rolling
+            On the human heart a stone—
+      They are neither man nor woman—
+      They are neither brute nor human—
+                  They are Ghouls:
+        And their king it is who tolls;
+        And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
+                      Rolls
+            A pæan from the bells!
+            And his merry bosom swells
+              With the pæan of the bells!
+            And he dances, and he yells;
+            Keeping time, time, time,
+            In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+              To the pæan of the bells—
+                  Of the bells:
+            Keeping time, time, time,
+            In a sort of Runic rhyme,
+              To the throbbing of the bells—
+            Of the bells, bells, bells—
+              To the sobbing of the bells;
+            Keeping time, time, time,
+              As he knells, knells, knells,
+            In a happy Runic rhyme,
+              To the rolling of the bells—
+            Of the bells, bells, bells—
+              To the tolling of the bells,
+          Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
+                Bells, bells, bells—
+      To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ULALUME
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  The skies they were ashen and sober;
+      The leaves they were crispèd and sere—
+      The leaves they were withering and sere;
+  It was night in the lonesome October
+      Of my most immemorial year;
+  It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
+      In the misty mid region of Weir—
+  It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
+      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  Here once, through an alley Titanic,
+      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
+      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
+  These were days when my heart was volcanic
+      As the scoriac rivers that roll—
+      As the lavas that restlessly roll
+  Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
+      In the ultimate climes of the pole—
+  That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
+      In the realms of the boreal pole.
+
+  Our talk had been serious and sober,
+      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
+      Our memories were treacherous and sere—
+  For we knew not the month was October,
+      And we marked not the night of the year—
+      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
+  We noted not the dim lake of Auber—
+      (Though once we had journeyed down here)—
+  Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
+      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
+
+  And now, as the night was senescent
+      And star-dials pointed to morn—
+      As the sun-dials hinted of morn—
+  At the end of our path a liquescent
+      And nebulous lustre was born,
+  Out of which a miraculous crescent
+      Arose with a duplicate horn—
+  Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
+      Distinct with its duplicate horn.
+
+[Illustration: ASTARTE]
+
+  And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:
+      She rolls through an ether of sighs—
+      She revels in a region of sighs:
+  She has seen that the tears are not dry on
+      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
+  And has come past the stars of the Lion
+      To point us the path to the skies—
+      To the Lethean peace of the skies—
+  Come up, in despite of the Lion,
+      To shine on us with her bright eyes—
+  Come up through the lair of the Lion,
+      With love in her luminous eyes.”
+
+  But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
+      Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—
+      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—
+  Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!
+      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”
+  In terror she spoke, letting sink her
+      Wings till they trailed in the dust—
+  In agony sobbed, letting sink her
+      Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
+      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming:
+      Let us on by this tremulous light!
+      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
+  Its Sibyllic splendour is beaming
+      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—
+      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
+  Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
+      And be sure it will lead us aright—
+  We safely may trust to a gleaming
+      That cannot but guide us aright,
+      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
+
+  Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
+      And tempted her out of her gloom—
+      And conquered her scruples and gloom;
+  And we passed to the end of a vista,
+      But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
+      By the door of a legended tomb;
+  And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,
+      On the door of this legended tomb?”
+      She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—
+      ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
+
+  Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
+      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—
+      As the leaves that were withering and sere;
+  And I cried—“It was surely October
+      On _this_ very night of last year
+      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—
+      That I brought a dread burden down here!
+      On this night of all nights in the year,
+      Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
+  Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
+      This misty mid region of Weir—
+  Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—
+      This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
+
+[Illustration: ULALUME.]
+
+
+
+
+BRIDAL BALLAD
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  The ring is on my hand,
+    And the wreath is on my brow;
+  Satins and jewels grand
+  Are all at my command,
+    And I am happy now.
+
+  And my lord he loves me well;
+    But, when first he breathed his vow,
+  I felt my bosom swell—
+  For the words rang as a knell,
+  And the voice seemed _his_ who fell
+  In the battle down the dell,
+    And who is happy now.
+
+  But he spoke to reassure me,
+    And he kissed my pallid brow,
+  While a reverie came o’er me,
+  And to the churchyard bore me,
+  And I sighed to him before me,
+  Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
+    “Oh, I am happy now!”
+
+  And thus the words were spoken,
+    And thus the plighted vow,
+  And, though my faith be broken,
+  And, though my heart be broken,
+  Behold the golden token
+    That _proves_ me happy now!
+
+  Would to God I could awaken!
+    For I dream I know not how,
+  And my soul is sorely shaken
+  Lest an evil step be taken,—
+  Lest the dead who is forsaken
+    May not be happy now.
+
+
+
+
+LENORE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!
+  Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
+  And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?—weep now or never more!
+  See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
+  Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
+  An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
+  A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
+
+  “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
+  And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her— that she died!
+  How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
+  By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
+  That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
+
+[Illustration: LENORE]
+
+  _Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
+  Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
+  The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
+  Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—
+  For her, the fair and _débonnaire_, that now so lowly lies,
+  The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
+  The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
+
+  “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
+  But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
+  Let _no_ bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
+  Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd Earth.
+  To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
+  From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
+  From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”
+
+
+
+
+A VALENTINE
+
+
+  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
+    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
+  Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
+    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
+  Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure
+    Divine—a talisman—an amulet
+  That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure—
+    The words—the syllables! Do not forget
+  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour!
+    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
+  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
+    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
+  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
+    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
+  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
+    Of poets by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.
+  Its letters, although naturally lying
+    Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—
+  Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!
+    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
+
+     [To find the name, 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.]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: A VALENTINE]
+
+
+
+
+AN ENIGMA
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  “Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
+    “Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
+  Through all the flimsy things we see at once
+    As easily as through a Naples bonnet—
+    Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it?
+  Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—
+  Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
+    Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”
+  And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
+  The general tuckermanities are arrant
+  Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent—
+    But _this_ is, now—you may depend upon it—
+  Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint
+  Of the dear names that lie concealed within ’t.
+
+     [To find the name, read as in the preceding poem.]
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
+  I must not say how many—but not many.
+  It was a July midnight; and from out
+  A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
+  Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
+  There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
+  With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
+  Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand
+  Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
+  Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
+  Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
+  That gave out, in return for the love-light,
+  Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
+  Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
+  That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
+  By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
+  Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
+  I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon
+  Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
+  And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!
+
+  Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—
+  Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),
+  That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
+  To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
+  No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
+  Save only thee and me—(O Heaven!—O God!
+  How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)—
+  Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—
+  And in an instant all things disappeared.
+  (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
+  The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
+  The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
+  The happy flowers and the repining trees,
+  Were seen no more: the very roses’ odours
+  Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
+  All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:
+  Save only the divine light in thine eyes—
+  Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
+  I saw but them—they were the world to me.
+  I saw but them—saw only them for hours—
+  Saw only them until the moon went down.
+  What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
+  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
+  How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!
+  How silently serene a sea of pride!
+  How daring an ambition! yet how deep—
+  How fathomless a capacity for love!
+
+  But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
+  Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
+  And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
+  Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._
+  They _would not_ go—they never yet have gone.
+  Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
+  _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
+  They follow me—they lead me through the years.
+  They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
+  Their office is to illumine and enkindle—
+  My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,
+  And purified in their electric fire,
+  And sanctified in their elysian fire.
+  They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
+  And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to
+  In the sad, silent watches of my night;
+  While even in the meridian glare of day
+  I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
+  Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ANNABEL LEE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  It was many and many a year ago
+      In a kingdom by the sea,
+  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
+      By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
+  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
+      Than to love and be loved by me.
+
+  _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,
+      In this kingdom by the sea:
+  But we loved with a love that was more than love—
+      I and my ANNABEL LEE;
+  With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
+      Coveted her and me.
+
+  And this was the reason that, long ago,
+      In this kingdom by the sea,
+  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
+      My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  So that her highborn kinsmen came
+      And bore her away from me,
+  To shut her up in a sepulchre
+      In this kingdom by the sea.
+
+  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
+      Went envying her and me—
+  Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
+      In this kingdom by the sea)
+  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
+      Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
+      Of those who were older than we—
+      Of many far wiser than we—
+  And neither the angels in heaven above,
+      Nor the demons down under the sea,
+  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
+      Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
+
+  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
+      Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
+      Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
+  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
+  Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
+      In her sepulchre there by the sea—
+      In her tomb by the side of the sea.
+
+
+
+
+FOR ANNIE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Thank Heaven! the crisis—
+    The danger is past,
+  And the lingering illness
+    Is over at last—
+  And the fever called “Living”
+    Is conquered at last.
+
+  Sadly, I know,
+    I am shorn of my strength,
+  And no muscle I move
+    As I lie at full length—
+  But no matter!—I feel
+    I am better at length.
+
+  And I rest so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  That any beholder
+    Might fancy me dead—
+  Might start at beholding me,
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  The moaning and groaning,
+    The sighing and sobbing,
+  Are quieted now,
+    With that horrible throbbing
+  At heart:—ah, that horrible,
+    Horrible throbbing!
+
+  The sickness—the nausea—
+    The pitiless pain—
+  Have ceased, with the fever
+    That maddened my brain—
+  With the fever called “Living”
+    That burned in my brain.
+
+  And oh! of all tortures
+    _That_ torture the worst
+  Has abated—the terrible
+    Torture of thirst
+  For the naphthaline river
+    Of Passion accurst:
+  I have drank of a water
+    That quenches all thirst:—
+
+  Of a water that flows,
+    With a lullaby sound,
+  From a spring but a very few
+    Feet under ground—
+  From a cavern not very far
+    Down under ground.
+
+  And ah! let it never
+    Be foolishly said
+  That my room it is gloomy
+    And narrow my bed—
+  For man never slept
+    In a different bed;
+  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
+    In just such a bed.
+
+  My tantalised spirit
+    Here blandly reposes,
+  Forgetting, or never
+    Regretting its roses—
+  Its old agitations
+    Of myrtles and roses:
+
+  For now, while so quietly
+    Lying, it fancies
+  A holier odour
+    About it, of pansies—
+  A rosemary odour,
+    Commingled with pansies—
+  With rue and the beautiful
+    Puritan pansies.
+
+  And so it lies happily,
+    Bathing in many
+  A dream of the truth
+    And the beauty of Annie—
+  Drowned in a bath
+    Of the tresses of Annie.
+
+  She tenderly kissed me,
+    She fondly caressed,
+  And then I fell gently
+    To sleep on her breast—
+  Deeply to sleep
+    From the heaven of her breast.
+
+  When the light was extinguished
+    She covered me warm,
+  And she prayed to the angels
+    To keep me from harm—
+  To the queen of the angels
+    To shield me from harm.
+
+  And I lie so composedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (Knowing her love)
+    That you fancy me dead—
+  And I rest so contentedly,
+    Now in my bed,
+  (With her love at my breast)
+    That you fancy me dead—
+  That you shudder to look at me,
+    Thinking me dead.
+
+  But my heart it is brighter
+    Than all of the many
+  Stars in the sky,
+    For it sparkles with Annie—
+  It glows with the light
+    Of the love of my Annie—
+  With the thought of the light
+    Of the eyes of my Annie.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO F—S S. O—D
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
+    From its present pathway part not;
+  Being everything which now thou art,
+    Be nothing which thou art not.
+  So with the world thy gentle ways,
+    Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
+  Shall be an endless theme of praise,
+    And love a simple duty.
+
+
+
+
+TO —— ——
+
+
+  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
+  In the mad pride of intellectuality,
+  Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever
+  A thought arose within the human brain
+  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
+  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
+  Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—
+  Italian tones, made only to be murmured
+  By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
+  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—
+  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
+  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
+  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
+  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
+  (Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)
+  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
+  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
+  With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
+  I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—
+  Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling,
+  This standing motionless upon the golden
+  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
+  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
+  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
+  Upon the left, and all the way along,
+  Amid empurpled vapours, far away
+  To where the prospect terminates—_thee only!_
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE CITY IN THE SEA
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
+  In a strange city lying alone
+  Far down within the dim West,
+  Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
+  Have gone to their eternal rest.
+  There shrines and palaces and towers
+  (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
+  Resemble nothing that is ours.
+  Around, by lifting winds forgot,
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+
+  No rays from the holy Heaven come down
+  On the long night-time of that town;
+  But light from out the lurid sea
+  Streams up the turrets silently—
+  Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
+  Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
+  Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
+  Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
+  Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
+  Up many and many a marvellous shrine,
+  Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine
+  The viol, the violet, and the vine.
+
+  Resignedly beneath the sky
+  The melancholy waters lie.
+  So blend the turrets and shadows there
+  That all seem pendulous in air,
+  While from a proud tower in the town
+  Death looks gigantically down.
+
+  There open fanes and gaping graves
+  Yawn level with the luminous waves;
+  But not the riches there that lie
+  In each idol’s diamond eye—
+  Not the gaily-jewelled dead
+  Tempt the waters from their bed;
+  For no ripples curl, alas!
+  Along that wilderness of glass—
+  No swellings tell that winds may be
+  Upon some far-off happier sea—
+  No heavings hint that winds have been
+  On seas less hideously serene.
+
+  But lo, a stir is in the air!
+  The wave—there is a movement there!
+  As if the towers had thrust aside,
+  In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
+  As if their tops had feebly given
+  A void within the filmy Heaven.
+  The waves have now a redder glow—
+  The hours are breathing faint and low—
+  And when, amid no earthly moans,
+  Down, down that town shall settle hence,
+  Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
+  Shall do it reverence.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE CONQUEROR WORM
+
+
+  Lo! ’tis a gala night
+    Within the lonesome latter years!
+  An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
+    In veils, and drowned in tears,
+  Sit in a theatre, to see
+    A play of hopes and fears,
+  While the orchestra breathes fitfully
+    The music of the spheres.
+
+  Mimes, in the form of God on high,
+    Mutter and mumble low,
+  And hither and thither fly—
+    Mere puppets they, who come and go
+  At bidding of vast formless things
+    That shift the scenery to and fro,
+  Flapping from out their Condor wings
+    Invisible Woe!
+
+[Illustration: WITH ITS PHANTOM CHASED FOR EVERMORE BY A CROWD THAT
+SEIZE IT NOT]
+
+  That motley drama—oh, be sure
+  It shall not be forgot!
+  With its Phantom chased for evermore,
+  By a crowd that seize it not,
+  Through a circle that ever returneth in
+  To the self-same spot,
+  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
+  And Horror the soul of the plot.
+
+  But see, amid the mimic rout
+  A crawling shape intrude!
+  A blood-red thing that writhes from out
+  The scenic solitude!
+  It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
+  The mimes become its food,
+  And the angels sob at vermin fangs
+  In human gore imbued.
+
+  Out—out are the lights—out all!
+  And, over each quivering form,
+  The curtain, a funeral pall,
+  Comes down with the rush of a storm,
+  And the angels, all pallid and wan,
+  Uprising, unveiling, affirm
+  That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
+  And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+The SLEEPER
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  At midnight, in the month of June,
+  I stand beneath the mystic moon.
+  An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
+  Exhales from out her golden rim,
+  And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
+  Upon the quiet mountain top,
+  Steals drowsily and musically
+  Into the universal valley.
+  The rosemary nods upon the grave;
+  The lily lolls upon the wave;
+  Wrapping the fog about its breast,
+  The ruin moulders into rest;
+  Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
+  A conscious slumber seems to take,
+  And would not, for the world, awake.
+  All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
+  (Her casement open to the skies)
+  Irene, with her Destinies!
+
+  Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
+  This window open to the night?
+  The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
+  Laughingly through the lattice drop—
+  The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
+  Flit through thy chamber in and out,
+  And wave the curtain canopy
+  So fitfully—so fearfully—
+  Above the closed and fringed lid
+  ’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
+  That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
+  Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
+  Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
+  Why and what art thou dreaming here?
+  Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
+  A wonder to these garden trees!
+  Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
+  Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
+  And this all-solemn silentness!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  Which is enduring, so be deep!
+  Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
+  This chamber changed for one more holy,
+  This bed for one more melancholy,
+  I pray to God that she may lie
+  For ever with unopened eye,
+  While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
+
+  My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
+  As it is lasting, so be deep;
+  Soft may the worms about her creep!
+  Far in the forest, dim and old,
+  For her may some tall vault unfold—
+  Some vault that oft hath flung its black
+  And wingèd panels fluttering back,
+  Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
+  Of her grand family funerals—
+  Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
+  Against whose portal she hath thrown,
+  In childhood many an idle stone—
+  Some tomb from out whose sounding door
+  She ne’er shall force an echo more,
+  Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
+  It was the dead who groaned within.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE COLISEUM
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
+  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
+  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
+  At length—at length—after so many days
+  Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
+  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
+  I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
+  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
+  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
+
+  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
+  Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
+  I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
+  O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
+  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
+  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
+  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
+
+  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
+  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
+  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
+  Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
+  Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
+  Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
+  Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
+  Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon,
+  The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
+
+  But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
+  These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
+  These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
+  These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
+  These stones—alas! these grey stones—are they all—
+  All of the famed, and the colossal left
+  By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
+
+  “Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!
+  Prophetic sounds and loud, arise for ever
+  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
+  As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
+  We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
+  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
+  We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
+  Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
+  Not all the magic of our high renown—
+  Not all the wonder that encircles us—
+  Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
+  Not all the memories that hang upon
+  And cling around about us as a garment,
+  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
+
+
+
+
+DREAMLAND
+
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have reached these lands but newly
+  From an ultimate dim Thule—
+  From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime
+      Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
+
+[Illustration: WHERE AN EIDOLON NAMED NIGHT ON A BLACK THRONE REIGNS
+UPRIGHT]
+
+  Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
+  And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods
+  With forms that no man can discover
+  For the dews that drip all over;
+  Mountains toppling evermore
+  Into seas without a shore;
+  Seas that restlessly aspire,
+  Surging, unto skies of fire;
+  Lakes that endlessly outspread
+  Their lone waters—lone and dead,
+  Their still waters—still and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily.
+
+  By the lakes that thus outspread
+  Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
+  Their sad waters, sad and chilly
+  With the snows of the lolling lily,—
+  By the mountains—near the river
+  Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
+  By the grey woods,—by the swamp
+  Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
+  By the dismal tarns and pools
+      Where dwell the Ghouls,—
+  By each spot the most unholy—
+  In each nook most melancholy,—
+  There the traveller meets aghast
+  Sheeted Memories of the Past—
+  Shrouded forms that start and sigh
+  As they pass the wanderer by—
+  White-robed forms of friends long given,
+  In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
+
+  For the heart whose woes are legion
+  ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
+  For the spirit that walks in shadow
+  ’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
+  But the traveller, travelling through it,
+  May not—dare not openly view it;
+  Never its mysteries are exposed
+  To the weak human eye unclosed;
+  So wills its King, who hath forbid
+  The uplifting of the fringèd lid;
+  And thus the sad Soul that here passes
+  Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
+
+  By a route obscure and lonely,
+  Haunted by ill angels only,
+  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
+  On a black throne reigns upright,
+  I have wandered home but newly
+  From this ultimate dim Thule.
+
+
+
+
+EULALIE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+              I dwelt alone
+              In a world of moan,
+          And my soul was a stagnant tide,
+  Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
+  Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
+
+              Ah, less—less bright
+              The stars of the night
+  Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
+              And never a flake
+              That the vapour can make
+  With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
+  Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—
+  Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.
+
+              Now Doubt—now Pain
+              Come never again,
+          For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
+              And all day long
+              Shines, bright and strong,
+          Astarte within the sky,
+  While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
+  While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
+
+
+
+
+TO MY MOTHER
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
+    The angels, whispering to one another,
+  Can find, among their burning terms of love,
+    None so devotional as that of “Mother,”
+  Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
+    You who are more than mother unto me,
+  And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
+    In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
+  My mother, my own mother, who died early,
+    Was but the mother of myself; but you
+  Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
+    And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
+  By that infinity with which my wife
+    Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
+
+
+
+
+ELDORADO
+
+
+      Gaily bedight,
+      A gallant knight,
+  In sunshine and in shadow,
+      Had journeyed long,
+      Singing a song,
+  In search of Eldorado.
+
+      But he grew old—
+      This knight so bold—
+  And o’er his heart a shadow
+      Fell as he found
+      No spot of ground
+  That looked like Eldorado.
+
+      And, as his strength
+      Failed him at length,
+  He met a pilgrim shadow—
+      “Shadow,” said he,
+      “Where can it be—
+  This land of Eldorado?”
+
+      “Over the Mountains
+      Of the Moon,
+  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
+      Ride, boldly ride,”
+      The shade replied,
+  “If you seek for Eldorado!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: IN SEARCH OF ELDORADO]
+
+
+
+
+TO F——
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  BELOVED! amid the earnest woes
+    That crowd around my earthly path—
+  (Drear path, alas! where grows
+  Not even one lonely rose)—
+    My soul at least a solace hath
+  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
+  An Eden of bland repose.
+
+  And thus thy memory is to me
+    Like some enchanted far-off isle
+ In some tumultuous sea—
+ Some ocean throbbing far and free
+   With storm—but where meanwhile
+ Serenest skies continually
+   Just o’er that one bright island smile.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO ONE IN PARADISE
+
+
+  Thou wast that all to me, love,
+    For which my soul did pine—
+  A green isle in the sea, love,
+    A fountain and a shrine,
+  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
+    And all the flowers were mine.
+
+  Ah, dream too bright to last!
+    Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
+  But to be overcast!
+    A voice from out the Future cries,
+  “On! on!”—but o’er the Past
+   (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
+  Mute, motionless, aghast!
+
+  For, alas! alas! with me
+    The light of Life is o’er!
+  “No more—no more—no more”—
+  (Such language holds the solemn sea
+    To the sands upon the shore)
+  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
+    Or the stricken eagle soar!
+
+  And all my days are trances,
+    And all my nightly dreams
+  Are where thy dark eye glances,
+    And where thy footstep gleams—
+  In what ethereal dances,
+    By what eternal streams!
+
+  Alas! for that accursèd time
+    They bore thee o’er the billow,
+  From love to titled age and crime,
+    And an unholy pillow!—
+  From me, and from our misty clime,
+    Where weeps the silver willow!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+HYMN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
+  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
+  In joy and woe—in good and ill—
+  Mother of God, be with me still!
+  When the Hours flew brightly by,
+  And not a cloud obscured the sky,
+  My soul, lest it should truant be,
+  Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
+  Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
+  Darkly my Present and my Past,
+  Let my Future radiant shine
+  With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Take this kiss upon the brow!
+  And, in parting from you now,
+  Thus much let me avow—
+  You are not wrong, who deem
+  That my days have been a dream:
+  Yet if hope has flown away
+  In a night, or in a day,
+  In a vision, or in none,
+  Is it therefore the less _gone_?
+  _All_ that we see or seem
+  Is but a dream within a dream.
+
+  I stand amid the roar
+  Of a surf-tormented shore,
+  And I hold within my hand
+  Grains of the golden sand—
+  How few! yet how they creep
+  Through my fingers to the deep,
+  While I weep—while I weep!
+  O God! can I not grasp
+  Them with a tighter clasp?
+  O God! can I not save
+  _One_ from the pitiless wave?
+  Is _all_ that we see or seem
+  But a dream within a dream?
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO ZANTE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
+    Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
+  How many memories of what radiant hours
+    At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
+  How many scenes of what departed bliss!
+    How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
+  How many visions of a maiden that is
+    No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!
+  _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
+    Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_—
+  Thy memory _no more!_ Accursèd ground
+    Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
+  O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
+    “Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”
+
+
+
+
+The HAUNTED PALACE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  In the greenest of our valleys
+    By good angels tenanted,
+  Once a fair and stately palace—
+    Radiant palace—reared its head.
+  In the monarch Thought’s dominion—
+    It stood there!
+  Never seraph spread a pinion
+    Over fabric half so fair!
+
+  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
+    On its roof did float and flow,
+  (This—all this—was in the olden
+    Time long ago,)
+  And every gentle air that dallied,
+    In that sweet day,
+  Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
+    A wingèd odour went away.
+
+  Wanderers in that happy valley,
+    Through two luminous windows, saw
+  Spirits moving musically,
+    To a lute’s well-tunèd law,
+  Round about a throne where, sitting
+    (Porphyrogene!)
+  In state his glory well befitting,
+    The ruler of the realm was seen.
+
+  And all with pearl and ruby glowing
+    Was the fair palace door,
+  Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
+    And sparkling evermore,
+  A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
+    Was but to sing,
+  In voices of surpassing beauty,
+    The wit and wisdom of their king.
+
+  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
+    Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
+  (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
+    Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
+  And round about his home the glory
+    That blushed and bloomed,
+  Is but a dim-remembered story
+    Of the old time entombed.
+
+[Illustration: BUT EVIL THINGS, IN ROBES OF SORROW]
+
+[Illustration: ASSAILED THE MONARCH’S HIGH ESTATE]
+
+  And travellers now within that valley,
+    Through the red-litten windows see
+  Vast forms that move fantastically
+    To a discordant melody;
+  While, like a ghastly rapid river,
+    Through the pale door
+  A hideous throng rush out for ever
+    And laugh—but smile no more.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+SILENCE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
+    That have a double life, which thus is made
+  A type of that twin entity which springs
+    From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
+  There is a two-fold _Silence_—sea and shore—
+    Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
+    Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,
+  Some human memories and tearful lore,
+  Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”
+  He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
+    No power hath he of evil in himself;
+  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
+    Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
+  That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
+  No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: SILENCE]
+
+
+
+
+ISRAFEL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+     And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and
+     who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—_Koran._
+
+
+  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
+    “Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
+  None sing so wildly well
+  As the angel Israfel,
+  And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
+  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
+    Of his voice, all mute.
+
+  Tottering above
+    In her highest noon,
+    The enamoured Moon
+  Blushes with love,
+    While, to listen, the red levin
+    (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
+    Which were seven),
+    Pauses in Heaven.
+
+  And they say (the starry choir
+    And the other listening things)
+  That Israfeli’s fire
+  Is owing to that lyre
+    By which he sits and sings—
+  The trembling living wire
+    Of those unusual strings.
+
+  But the skies that angel trod,
+    Where deep thoughts are a duty—
+  Where Love’s a grown-up God—
+    Where the Houri glances are
+  Imbued with all the beauty
+    Which we worship in a star.
+
+  Therefore, thou art not wrong,
+    Israfeli, who despisest
+  An unimpassioned song;
+  To thee the laurels belong,
+    Best bard, because the wisest!
+  Merrily live and long!
+
+  The ecstasies above
+    With thy burning measures suit—
+  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
+    With the fervour of thy lute—
+    Well may the stars be mute!
+
+  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
+    Is a world of sweets and sours;
+    Our flowers are merely—flowers,
+  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
+    Is the sunshine of ours.
+
+  If I could dwell
+  Where Israfel
+    Hath dwelt, and he where I,
+  He might not sing so wildly well
+    A mortal melody,
+  While a bolder note than this might swell
+    From my lyre within the sky.
+
+[Illustration: ISRAFEL]
+
+
+
+
+TO M. L. S——
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—
+  Of all to whom thine absence is the night—
+  The blotting utterly from out high heaven
+  The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee
+  Hourly for hope—for life—ah, above all,
+  For the resurrection of deep buried faith
+  In truth, in virtue, in humanity—
+  Of all who, on despair’s unhallowed bed
+  Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
+  At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”
+  At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
+  In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—
+  Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
+  Nearest resembles worship,—oh, remember
+  The truest, the most fervently devoted,
+  And think that these weak lines are written by him—
+  By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
+  His spirit is communing with an angel’s.
+
+
+
+
+The VALLEY of UNREST
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Once it smiled a silent dell
+  Where the people did not dwell;
+  They had gone unto the wars,
+  Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
+  Nightly, from their azure towers,
+  To keep watch above the flowers,
+  In the midst of which all day
+  The red sunlight lazily lay.
+  Now each visitor shall confess
+  The sad valley’s restlessness.
+  Nothing there is motionless—
+  Nothing save the airs that brood
+  Over the magic solitude.
+
+  Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
+  That palpitate like the chill seas
+  Around the misty Hebrides!
+  Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
+  That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
+  Unceasingly, from morn till even,
+  Over the violets there that lie
+  In myriad types of the human eye—
+  Over the lilies there that wave
+  And weep above a nameless grave!
+  They wave:—from out their fragrant tops
+  Eternal dews come down in drops.
+  They weep:—from off their delicate stems
+  Perennial tears descend in gems.
+
+
+
+
+POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+     NOTE (1845)
+
+     Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin
+     of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson’s first
+     poems—have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish
+     these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They
+     are printed _verbatim_—without alteration from the original
+     edition—the date of which is too remote to be judiciously
+     acknowledged.—E. A. P.
+
+
+
+
+TO HELEN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Helen, thy beauty is to me
+    Like those Nicean barks of yore,
+  That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
+    The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
+    To his own native shore.
+
+  On desperate seas long wont to roam,
+    Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
+  Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
+    To the glory that was Greece,
+  To the grandeur that was Rome.
+
+  Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,
+    How statue-like I see thee stand,
+    The agate lamp within thy hand!
+  Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
+    Are Holy Land!
+
+
+
+
+SONNET—TO SCIENCE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
+    Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
+  Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
+    Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
+  How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
+    Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
+  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
+    Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
+  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
+    And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
+  To seek a shelter in some happier star?
+    Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
+  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
+    The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
+
+
+
+
+SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Thy soul shall find itself alone
+  ’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone—
+  Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
+  Into thine hour of secrecy.
+  Be silent in that solitude
+    Which is not loneliness—for then
+  The spirits of the dead who stood
+    In life before thee are again
+  In death around thee—and their will
+  Shall overshadow thee: be still.
+  The night—tho’ clear—shall frown—
+  And the stars shall not look down
+  From their high thrones in the Heaven,
+  With light like Hope to mortals given—
+  But their red orbs, without beam,
+  To thy weariness shall seem
+  As a burning and a fever
+  Which would cling to thee for ever.
+  Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—
+  Now are visions ne’er to vanish—
+  From thy spirit shall they pass
+  No more—like dew-drops from the grass.
+  The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
+  And the mist upon the hill
+  Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
+  Is a symbol and a token—
+  How it hangs upon the trees,
+  A mystery of mysteries!
+
+
+
+
+EVENING STAR
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  ’Twas noontide of summer,
+    And midtime of night,
+  And stars, in their orbits,
+    Shone pale, through the light
+  Of the brighter, cold moon,
+    ’Mid planets her slaves,
+  Herself in the Heavens,
+    Her beam on the waves.
+
+    I gazed awhile
+    On her cold smile,
+  Too cold—too cold for me;
+    There passed, as a shroud,
+    A fleecy cloud,
+  And I turned away to thee,
+    Proud Evening Star,
+    In thy glory afar
+  And dearer thy beam shall be;
+    For joy to my heart
+    Is the proud part
+  Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
+    And more I admire
+    Thy distant fire,
+  Than that colder, lowly light.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+FAIRY LAND
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
+  And cloudy-looking woods,
+  Whose forms we can’t discover
+  For the tears that drip all over!
+  Huge moons there wax and wane—
+  Again—again—again—
+  Every moment of the night—
+  For ever changing places—
+  And they put out the star-light
+  With the breath from their pale faces.
+  About twelve by the moon-dial
+  One more filmy than the rest
+  (A kind which, upon trial,
+  They have found to be the best)
+  Comes down—still down—and down
+  With its centre on the crown
+  Of a mountain’s eminence,
+  While its wide circumference
+  In easy drapery falls
+  Over hamlets, over halls,
+  Wherever they may be—
+  O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—
+  Over spirits on the wing—
+  Over every drowsy thing—
+  And buries them up quite
+  In a labyrinth of light—
+  And then, how deep!—O, deep!
+  Is the passion of their sleep.
+  In the morning they arise,
+  And their moony covering
+  Is soaring in the skies,
+  With the tempests as they toss,
+  Like——almost any thing—
+  Or a yellow Albatross.
+  They use that moon no more
+  For the same end as before—
+  Videlicet a tent—
+  Which I think extravagant:
+  Its atomies, however,
+  Into a shower dissever,
+  Of which those butterflies,
+  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
+  And so come down again
+  (Never-contented things!)
+  Have brought a specimen
+  Upon their quivering wings.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE LAKE—
+
+TO ——
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  In spring of youth it was my lot
+  To haunt of the wide world a spot
+  The which I could not love the less—
+  So lovely was the loneliness
+  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
+  And the tall pines that towered around.
+
+  But when the Night had thrown her pall
+  Upon that spot, as upon all,
+  And the mystic wind went by
+  Murmuring in melody—
+  Then—ah, then, I would awake
+  To the terror of the lone lake.
+
+  Yet that terror was not fright,
+  But a tremulous delight—
+  A feeling not the jewelled mine
+  Could teach or bribe me to define—
+  Nor Love—although the Love were thine.
+
+  Death was in that poisonous wave,
+  And in its gulf a fitting grave
+  For him who thence could solace bring
+  To his lone imagining—
+  Whose solitary soul could make
+  An Eden of that dim lake.
+
+
+
+
+A DREAM
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  In visions of the dark night
+    I have dreamed of joy departed—
+  But a waking dream of life and light
+    Hath left me broken-hearted.
+
+  Ah! what is not a dream by day
+    To him whose eyes are cast
+  On things around him with a ray
+    Turned back upon the past?
+
+  That holy dream—that holy dream,
+    While all the world were chiding,
+  Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
+    A lonely spirit guiding.
+
+  What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
+    So trembled from afar—
+  What could there be more purely bright
+    In Truth’s day-star?
+
+
+
+
+A PÆAN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  How shall the burial rite be read?
+    The solemn song be sung?
+  The requiem for the loveliest dead,
+    That ever died so young?
+
+  Her friends are gazing on her,
+    And on her gaudy bier,
+  And weep!—oh! to dishonour
+    Dead beauty with a tear!
+
+  They loved her for her wealth—
+    And they hated her for her pride—
+  But she grew in feeble health,
+    And they _love_ her—that she died.
+
+  They tell me (while they speak
+    Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
+  That my voice is growing weak—
+    That I should not sing at all—
+
+  Or that my tone should be
+    Tuned to such solemn song
+  So mournfully—so mournfully,
+    That the dead may feel no wrong.
+
+  But she is gone above,
+    With young Hope at her side,
+  And I am drunk with love
+    Of the dead, who is my bride.—
+
+  Of the dead—dead who lies
+    All perfumed there,
+  With the death upon her eyes,
+    And the life upon her hair.
+
+  Thus on the coffin loud and long
+    I strike—the murmur sent
+  Through the grey chambers to my song,
+    Shall be the accompaniment.
+
+  Thou diedst in thy life’s June—
+    But thou didst not die too fair:
+  Thou didst not die too soon,
+    Nor with too calm an air.
+
+  From more than friends on earth,
+    Thy life and love are riven,
+  To join the untainted mirth
+    Of more than thrones in heaven.—
+
+  Therefore, to thee this night
+    I will no requiem raise,
+  But waft thee on thy flight,
+    With a Pæan of old days.
+
+
+
+
+THE HAPPIEST DAY
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  The happiest day—the happiest hour
+    My seared and blighted heart hath known,
+  The highest hope of pride and power,
+    I feel hath flown.
+
+  Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
+    But they have vanished long, alas!
+  The visions of my youth have been—
+    But let them pass.
+
+  And pride, what have I now with thee?
+    Another brow may ev’n inherit
+  The venom thou hast poured on me—
+    Be still my spirit!
+
+  The happiest day—the happiest hour
+    Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen
+  The brightest glance of pride and power
+    I feel have been:
+
+  But were that hope of pride and power
+    Now offered with the pain
+  Ev’n _then_ I felt—that brightest hour
+    I would not live again:
+
+  For on its wing was dark alloy
+    And as it fluttered—fell
+  An essence—powerful to destroy
+    A soul that knew it well.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ALONE
+
+
+  From childhood’s hour I have not been
+  As others were—I have not seen
+  As others saw—I could not bring
+  My passions from a common spring.
+  From the same source I have not taken
+  My sorrow—I could not awaken
+  My heart to joy at the same tone—
+  And all I loved, _I_ loved alone.
+  Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
+  Of a most stormy life—was drawn
+  From every depth of good and ill
+  The mystery which binds me still—
+  From the torrent, or the fountain—
+  From the red cliff of the mountain—
+  From the sun that round me rolled
+  In its autumn tint of gold—
+  From the lightning in the sky
+  As it passed me flying by—
+  From the thunder and the storm—
+  And the cloud that took the form
+  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
+  Of a demon in my view.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+STANZAS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  _How often we forget all time, when lone
+  Admiring Nature’s universal throne;
+  Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense
+  Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_
+                                    BYRON.
+
+
+  I
+
+  In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
+    In secret communing held—as he with it,
+  In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
+    Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
+  From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
+    A passionate light such for his spirit was fit—
+  And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
+  Of its own fervour, what had o’er it power.
+
+  II
+
+  Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
+    To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,
+  But I will half believe that wild light fraught
+    With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
+  Hath ever told—or is it of a thought
+    The unembodied essence, and no more
+  That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass
+  As dew of the night-time o’er the summer grass?
+
+  III
+
+  Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
+    To the loved object—so the tear to the lid
+  Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
+    And yet it need not be—that object—hid
+  From us in life, but common—which doth lie
+    Each hour before us—but then only bid
+  With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
+  To awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token
+
+  IV
+
+  Of what in other worlds shall be—and given
+    In beauty by our God, to those alone
+  Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven,
+    Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,
+  That high tone of the spirit, which hath striven
+    Though not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne
+  With desperate energy ’t hath beaten down;
+  Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
+
+
+
+
+TO ——.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
+    The wantonest singing birds,
+  Are lips—and all thy melody
+    Of lip-begotten words—
+
+  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
+    Then desolately fall,
+  O God! on my funereal mind
+    Like starlight on a pall—
+
+  Thy heart—_thy_ heart!—I wake and sigh,
+    And sleep to dream till day
+  Of the truth that gold can never buy—
+    Of the baubles that it may.
+
+
+
+
+TO THE RIVER
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
+    Of crystal, wandering water,
+  Thou art an emblem of the glow
+        Of beauty—the unhidden heart—
+        The playful maziness of art
+    In old Alberto’s daughter;
+
+  But when within thy wave she looks—
+    Which glistens then, and trembles—
+  Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
+    Her worshipper resembles;
+  For in his heart, as in thy stream,
+    Her image deeply lies—
+  His heart which trembles at the beam
+    Of her soul-searching eyes.
+
+
+
+
+TO ——
+
+
+  I heed not that my earthly lot
+    Hath little of Earth in it,
+  That years of love have been forgot
+    In the hatred of a minute:—
+  I mourn not that the desolate
+    Are happier, sweet, than I,
+  But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate
+    Who am a passer-by.
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  I saw thee on thy bridal day—
+    When a burning blush came o’er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee:
+
+  And in thine eye a kindling light
+    (Whatever it might be)
+  Was all on Earth my aching sight
+    Of loveliness could see.
+
+  That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—
+    As such it well may pass—
+  Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
+    In the breast of him, alas!
+
+  Who saw thee on that bridal day,
+    When that deep blush _would_ come o’er thee,
+  Though happiness around thee lay,
+    The world all love before thee.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+DREAMS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
+  My spirit not awakening, till the beam
+  Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
+  Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
+  ’Twere better than the cold reality
+  Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
+  And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
+  A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
+  But should it be—that dream eternally
+  Continuing—as dreams have been to me
+  In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,
+  ’Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
+  For I have revelled, when the sun was bright
+  In the summer sky, in dreams of living light
+  And loveliness,—have left my very heart
+  In climes of mine imagining, apart
+  From mine own home, with beings that have been
+  Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?
+  ’Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour
+  From my remembrance shall not pass—some power
+  Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly wind
+  Came o’er me in the night, and left behind
+  Its image on my spirit—or the moon
+  Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
+  Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was
+  That dream was as that night-wind—let it pass.
+  _I have been_ happy, though in a dream.
+  I have been happy—and I love the theme:
+  Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life
+  As in that fleeting; shadowy, misty strife
+  Of semblance with reality, which brings
+  To the delirious eye more lovely things
+  Of Paradise and Love—and all our own!—
+  Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
+  With drowsy head and folded wing,
+  Among the green leaves as they shake
+  Far down within some shadowy lake,
+  To me a painted paroquet
+  Hath been—a most familiar bird—
+  Taught me my alphabet to say—
+  To lisp my very earliest word
+  While in the wild wood I did lie,
+  A child—with a most knowing eye.
+
+  Of late, eternal condor years
+  So shake the very Heaven on high
+  With tumult as they thunder by,
+  I have no time for idle cares
+  Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
+  And when an hour with calmer wings
+  Its down upon my spirit flings—
+  That little time with lyre and rhyme
+  To while away—forbidden things!
+  My heart would feel to be a crime
+  Unless it trembled with the strings.
+
+
+
+
+TAMERLANE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+  Kind solace in a dying hour!
+    Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
+  I will not madly deem that power
+      Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
+      Unearthly pride hath revelled in—
+    I have no time to dote or dream:
+  You call it hope—that fire of fire!
+  It is but agony of desire:
+  If I _can_ hope—O God! I can—
+    Its fount is holier—more divine—
+  I would not call thee fool, old man,
+    But such is not a gift of thine.
+
+  Know thou the secret of a spirit
+    Bowed from its wild pride into shame.
+  O yearning heart! I did inherit
+    Thy withering portion with the fame,
+  The searing glory which hath shone
+  Amid the jewels of my throne,
+  Halo of Hell! and with a pain
+  Not Hell shall make me fear again—
+  O craving heart, for the lost flowers
+  And sunshine of my summer hours!
+  The undying voice of that dead time,
+  With its interminable chime,
+  Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
+  Upon thy emptiness—a knell.
+
+  I have not always been as now:
+  The fevered diadem on my brow
+    I claimed and won usurpingly—
+  Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
+    Rome to the Cæsar—this to me?
+      The heritage of a kingly mind,
+  And a proud spirit which hath striven
+      Triumphantly with human kind.
+  On mountain soil I first drew life:
+    The mists of the Taglay have shed
+    Nightly their dews upon my head,
+  And, I believe, the wingèd strife
+    And tumult of the headlong air
+    Have nestled in my very hair.
+
+  So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell
+    (’Mid dreams of an unholy night)
+  Upon me with the touch of Hell,
+    While the red flashing of the light
+  From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
+    Appeared to my half-closing eye
+    The pageantry of monarchy;
+  And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar
+    Came hurriedly upon me, telling
+      Of human battle, where my voice,
+    My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
+      (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
+  And leap within me at the cry)
+  The battle-cry of Victory!
+
+  The rain came down upon my head
+    Unsheltered—and the heavy wind
+    Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
+  It was but man, I thought, who shed
+  Laurels upon me: and the rush—
+    The torrent of the chilly air
+  Gurgled within my ear the crush
+    Of empires—with the captive’s prayer—
+  The hum of suitors—and the tone
+  Of flattery round a sovereign’s throne.
+
+  My passions, from that hapless hour,
+    Usurped a tyranny which men
+  Have deemed since I have reached to power,
+      My innate nature—be it so:
+    But, father, there lived one who, then,
+  Then—in my boyhood—when their fire
+      Burned with a still intenser glow
+  (For passion must, with youth, expire)
+    E’en _then_ who knew this iron heart
+    In woman’s weakness had a part.
+
+  I have no words—alas!—to tell
+  The loveliness of loving well!
+  Nor would I now attempt to trace
+  The more than beauty of a face
+  Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
+  Are——shadows on th’ unstable wind:
+  Thus I remember having dwelt
+    Some page of early lore upon,
+  With loitering eye, till I have felt
+  The letters—with their meaning—melt
+    To fantasies with none.
+
+  O, she was worthy of all love!
+    Love as in infancy was mine—
+  ’Twas such as angel minds above
+    Might envy; her young heart the shrine
+  On which my every hope and thought
+    Were incense—then a goodly gift,
+      For they were childish and upright—
+  Pure as her young example taught:
+    Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
+      Trust to the fire within, for light?
+
+  We grew in age and love together—
+    Roaming the forest and the wild;
+  My breast her shield in wintry weather—
+    And, when the friendly sunshine smiled
+  And she would mark the opening skies,
+  _I_ saw no Heaven but in her eyes.
+  Young Love’s first lesson is the heart:
+    For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
+  When, from our little cares apart,
+   And laughing at her girlish wiles,
+  I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
+    And pour my spirit out in tears—
+  There was no need to speak the rest—
+    No need to quiet any fears
+  Of her—who asked no reason why,
+  But turned on me her quiet eye!
+
+  Yet _more_ than worthy of the love
+  My spirit struggled with, and strove,
+  When on the mountain peak alone
+  Ambition lent it a new tone—
+  I had no being but in thee:
+    The world, and all it did contain
+  In the earth—the air—the sea—
+    Its joy—its little lot of pain
+  That was new pleasure—the ideal,
+    Dim vanities of dreams by night—
+  And dimmer nothings which were real—
+    (Shadows, and a more shadowy light!)
+  Parted upon their misty wings,
+      And so confusedly became
+      Thine image and—a name—a name!
+  Two separate yet most intimate things.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  I was ambitious—have you known
+      The passion, father? You have not:
+  A cottager, I marked a throne
+  Of half the world as all my own,
+      And murmured at such lowly lot;
+  But, just like any other dream,
+      Upon the vapour of the dew
+  My own had past, did not the beam
+      Of beauty which did while it thro’
+  The minute—the hour—the day—oppress
+  My mind with double loveliness.
+
+  We walked together on the crown
+  Of a high mountain which looked down
+  Afar from its proud natural towers
+    Of rock and forest, on the hills—
+  The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
+    And shouting with a thousand rills.
+
+  I spoke to her of power and pride,
+    But mystically—in such guise
+  That she might deem it nought beside
+    The moment’s converse; in her eyes
+  I read, perhaps too carelessly,
+    A mingled feeling with my own—
+  The flush on her bright cheek, to me
+    Seemed to become a queenly throne
+  Too well that I should let it be
+    Light in the wilderness alone.
+
+  I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
+    And donned a visionary crown—
+      Yet it was not that Fantasy
+      Had thrown her mantle over me;
+  But that, among the rabble—men,
+    Lion ambition is chained down
+  And crouches to a keeper’s hand:
+  Not so in deserts where the grand,
+  The wild, the terrible, conspire
+  With their own breath to fan his fire.
+
+  Look round thee now on Samarcand!—
+    Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
+  Above all cities? in her hand
+    Their destinies? in all beside
+  Of glory which the world hath known
+  Stands she not nobly and alone?
+  Falling—her veriest stepping-stone
+  Shall form the pedestal of a throne—
+  And who her sovereign? Timour—he
+    Whom the astonished people saw
+  Striding o’er empires haughtily
+    A diademed outlaw!
+
+  O, human love! thou spirit given,
+  On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
+  Which fall’st into the soul like rain
+  Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
+  And, failing in thy power to bless,
+  But leav’st the heart a wilderness!
+  Idea! which bindest life around
+  With music of so strange a sound
+  And beauty of so wild a birth—
+  Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
+
+  When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
+    No cliff beyond him in the sky,
+  His pinions were bent droopingly—
+    And homeward turned his softened eye.
+  ’Twas sunset: when the sun will part
+  There comes a sullenness of heart
+  To him who still would look upon
+  The glory of the summer sun.
+  That soul will hate the evening mist
+  So often lovely, and will list
+  To the sound of the coming darkness (known
+  To those whose spirits hearken) as one
+  Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly,
+  But _cannot_, from a danger nigh.
+
+  What tho’ the moon—the white moon
+  Shed all the splendour of her noon?
+  Her smile is chilly—and her beam,
+  In that time of dreariness, will seem
+  (So like you gather in your breath)
+  A portrait taken after death.
+  And boyhood is a summer sun
+  Whose waning is the dreariest one—
+  For all we live to know is known,
+  And all we seek to keep hath flown.
+  Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
+  With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
+
+  I reached my home—my home no more—
+    For all had flown who made it so.
+  I passed from out its mossy door,
+    And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,
+  A voice came from the threshold stone
+  Of one whom I had earlier known—
+    O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
+    On beds of fire that burn below,
+    An humbler heart—a deeper woe.
+
+  Father, I firmly do believe—
+    I _know_—for Death who comes for me
+      From regions of the blest afar,
+  Where there is nothing to deceive,
+      Hath left his iron gate ajar,
+    And rays of truth you cannot see
+    Are flashing thro’ Eternity——
+  I do believe that Eblis hath
+  A snare in every human path;
+  Else how, when in the holy grove
+  I wandered of the idol, Love,—
+  Who daily scents his snowy wings
+  With incense of burnt offerings
+  From the most unpolluted things,
+  Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
+  Above with trellised rays from Heaven
+  No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—
+  The lightning of his eagle eye—
+  How was it that Ambition crept,
+    Unseen, amid the revels there,
+  Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
+    In the tangles of Love’s very hair?
+
+[Illustration: TIMOUR]
+
+
+
+
+AL AARAAF
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+AL AARAAF. PART I.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  O! nothing earthly save the ray
+  (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,
+  As in those gardens where the day
+  Springs from the gems of Circassy—
+  O! nothing earthly save the thrill
+  Of melody in woodland rill—
+  Or (music of the passion-hearted)
+  Joy’s voice so peacefully departed
+  That like the murmur in the shell,
+  Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
+  O! nothing of the dross of ours—
+  Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
+  That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
+  Adorn yon world afar, afar
+  The wandering star.
+
+    ’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there
+  Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
+  Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—
+  An oasis in desert of the blest.
+  Away—away—’mid seas of rays that roll
+  Empyrean splendour o’er th’ unchained soul—
+  The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
+  Can struggle to its destined eminence—
+  To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
+  And late to ours, the favoured one of God—
+  But, now, the ruler of an anchored realm,
+  She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,
+  And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
+  Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
+
+    Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
+  Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
+  (Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
+  Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar,
+  It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt,)
+  She looked into Infinity—and knelt.
+  Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—
+  Fit emblems of the model of her world—
+  Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight—
+  Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—
+  A wreath that twined each starry form around,
+  And all the opal’d air in colour bound.
+
+    All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
+  Of flowers: of lilies such as reared the head
+  On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
+  So eagerly around about to hang
+  Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—
+  Of her who loved a mortal—and so died.
+  The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
+  Upreared its purple stem around her knees:
+  And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed—
+  Inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed
+  All other loveliness: its honied dew
+  (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
+  Deliriously sweet, was dropped from Heaven,
+  And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
+  In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower
+  So like its own above that, to this hour,
+  It still remaineth, torturing the bee
+  With madness, and unwonted reverie:
+  In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
+  And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
+  Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
+  Repenting follies that full long have fled,
+  Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
+  Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more fair:
+  Nyctanthes, too, as sacred as the light
+  She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
+  And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
+  While pettish tears adown her petals run:
+  And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—
+  And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
+  Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
+  Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
+  And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
+  From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
+  And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
+  Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!
+  And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
+  With Indian Cupid down the holy river—
+  Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
+  To bear the Goddess’ song, in odours, up to Heaven:
+
+          “Spirit! that dwellest where,
+            In the deep sky,
+          The terrible and fair,
+            In beauty vie!
+          Beyond the line of blue—
+            The boundary of the star
+          Which turneth at the view
+            Of thy barrier and thy bar—
+          Of the barrier overgone
+            By the comets who were cast
+          From their pride, and from their throne
+            To be drudges till the last—
+          To be carriers of fire
+            (The red fire of their heart)
+          With speed that may not tire
+            And with pain that shall not part—
+          Who livest—_that_ we know—
+            In Eternity—we feel—
+          But the shadow of whose brow
+            What spirit shall reveal?
+          Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,
+            Thy messenger hath known
+          Have dreamed for thy Infinity
+            A model of their own—
+          Thy will is done, O God!
+            The star hath ridden high
+          Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
+            Beneath thy burning eye;
+          And here, in thought, to thee—
+            In thought that can alone
+          Ascend thy empire and so be
+            A partner of thy throne—
+          By wingèd Fantasy,
+            My embassy is given,
+          Till secrecy shall knowledge be
+            In the environs of Heaven.”
+
+  She ceased—and buried then her burning cheek
+  Abashed, amid the lilies there, to seek
+  A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
+  For the stars trembled at the Deity.
+  She stirred not—breathed not—for a voice was there
+  How solemnly pervading the calm air!
+  A sound of silence on the startled ear,
+  Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
+  Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
+  “Silence”—which is the merest word of all.
+  All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
+  Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings—
+  But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
+  The eternal voice of God is passing by,
+  And the red winds are withering in the sky!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+    “What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
+  Linked to a little system, and one sun—
+  Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
+  Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
+  The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath—
+  (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
+  What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
+  The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
+  Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
+  To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
+  Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
+  With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
+  Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
+  And wing to other worlds another light!
+  Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
+  To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be
+  To every heart a barrier and a ban
+  Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”
+
+    Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
+  The single-moonèd eve!—on Earth we plight
+  Our faith to one love, and one moon adore:
+  The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
+  As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
+  Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
+  And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
+  Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign.
+
+PART II.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  High on a mountain of enamelled head—
+  Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
+  Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
+  Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
+  With many a muttered “hope to be forgiven”
+  What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven—
+  Of rosy head that, towering far away
+  Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
+  Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,
+  While the moon danced with the fair stranger light—
+  Upreared upon such height arose a pile
+  Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthened air,
+  Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
+  Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
+  And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
+  Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
+  Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall
+  Of their own dissolution, while they die—
+  Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
+  A dome, by linkèd light from Heaven let down,
+  Sat gently on these columns as a crown—
+  A window of one circular diamond, there,
+  Looked out above into the purple air,
+  And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
+  And hallowed all the beauty twice again,
+  Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,
+  Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing.
+  But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
+  The dimness of this world: that greyish green
+  That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave
+  Lurked in each cornice, round each architrave—
+  And every sculptured cherub thereabout
+  That from his marble dwelling peerèd out,
+  Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche—
+  Achaian statues in a world so rich?
+  Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis—
+  From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
+  Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave
+  Is now upon thee—but too late to save!
+
+    Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
+  Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
+  That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
+  Of many a wild star-gazer long ago—
+  That stealeth ever on the ear of him
+  Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
+  And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—
+  Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?
+
+    But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings
+  A music with it—’tis the rush of wings—
+  A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain,
+  And Nesace is in her halls again.
+  From the wild energy of wanton haste
+    Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
+  The zone that clung around her gentle waist
+    Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
+  Within the centre of that hall to breathe
+  She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
+  The fairy light that kissed her golden hair
+  And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
+
+    Young flowers were whispering in melody
+  To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree;
+  Fountains were gushing music as they fell
+  In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
+  Yet silence came upon material things—
+  Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—
+  And sound alone, that from the spirit sprang,
+  Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
+
+        “Neath blue-bell or streamer—
+          Or tufted wild spray
+        That keeps, from the dreamer,
+          The moonbeam away—
+        Bright beings! that ponder,
+          With half-closing eyes,
+        On the stars which your wonder
+          Hath drawn from the skies,
+        Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
+          Come down to your brow
+        Like—eyes of the maiden
+          Who calls on you now—
+        Arise! from your dreaming
+          In violet bowers,
+        To duty beseeming
+          These star-litten hours—
+        And shake from your tresses
+          Encumbered with dew
+        The breath of those kisses
+          That cumber them too—
+        (O! how, without you, Love!
+          Could angels be blest?)
+        Those kisses of true love
+          That lulled ye to rest!
+        Up! shake from your wing
+        Each hindering thing:
+        The dew of the night—
+        It would weigh down your flight;
+        And true love caresses—
+          O! leave them apart!
+        They are light on the tresses,
+          But lead on the heart.
+
+        “Ligeia! Ligeia!
+          My beautiful one!
+        Whose harshest idea
+          Will to melody run,
+        O! is it thy will
+          On the breezes to toss?
+        Or, capriciously still,
+          Like the lone Albatross,
+        Incumbent on night
+          (As she on the air)
+        To keep watch with delight
+          On the harmony there?
+
+        “Ligeia! wherever
+          Thy image may be,
+        No magic shall sever
+          Thy music from thee.
+        Thou hast bound many eyes
+          In a dreamy sleep—
+        But the strains still arise
+          Which thy vigilance keep—
+        The sound of the rain
+          Which leaps down to the flower,
+        And dances again
+          In the rhythm of the shower—
+        The murmur that springs
+          From the growing of grass
+        Are the music of things—
+          But are modelled, alas!—
+        Away, then, my dearest,
+          O! hie thee away
+        To springs that lie clearest
+          Beneath the moon-ray—
+        To lone lake that smiles,
+          In its dream of deep rest,
+        At the many star-isles
+          That enjewel its breast—
+        Where wild flowers, creeping,
+          Have mingled their shade,
+        On its margin is sleeping
+          Full many a maid—
+        Some have left the cool glade, and
+          Have slept with the bee—
+        Arouse them, my maiden,
+          On moorland and lea—
+        Go! breathe on their slumber,
+          All softly in ear,
+        The musical number
+          They slumbered to hear—
+        For what can awaken
+          An angel so soon
+        Whose sleep hath been taken
+          Beneath the cold moon,
+        As the spell which no slumber
+          Of witchery may test,
+        The rhythmical number
+          Which lulled him to rest?”
+
+  Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
+  A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,
+  Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—
+  Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light
+  That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds afar,
+  O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
+  Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
+  Sweet was that error—ev’n with _us_ the breath
+  Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—
+  To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy.
+  For what (to them) availeth it to know
+  That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
+  Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
+  With the last ecstasy of satiate life—
+  Beyond that death no immortality—
+  But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—
+  And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
+  Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
+
+  What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
+  Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
+  But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
+  To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
+  A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—
+  O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
+  Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
+  Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.”
+
+  He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:
+  A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well—
+  A gazer on the lights that shine above—
+  A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
+  What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
+  And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—
+  And they, and every mossy spring were holy
+  To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
+  The night had found (to him a night of woe)
+  Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
+  Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
+  And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
+  Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
+  With eagle gaze along the firmament:
+  Now turned it upon her—but ever then
+  It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
+
+  “Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
+  How lovely ’tis to look so far away!
+  She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
+  I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned to leave.
+  That eve—that eve—I should remember well—
+  The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
+  On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
+  Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall—
+  And on my eye-lids—O, the heavy light!
+  How drowsily it weighed them into night!
+  On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
+  With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
+  But O, that light!—I slumbered—Death, the while,
+  Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
+  So softly that no single silken hair
+  Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there.
+
+  “The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon
+  Was a proud temple called the Parthenon;
+  More beauty clung around her columned wall
+  Than even thy glowing bosom beats withal,
+  And when old Time my wing did disenthral
+  Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower,
+  And years I left behind me in an hour.
+  What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
+  One half the garden of her globe was flung
+  Unrolling as a chart unto my view—
+  Tenantless cities of the desert too!
+  Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
+  And half I wished to be again of men.”
+
+  “My Angelo! and why of them to be?
+  A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—
+  And greener fields than in yon world above,
+  And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.”
+
+  “But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
+  Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft,
+  Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world
+  I left so late was into chaos hurled,
+  Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
+  And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
+  Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
+  And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,
+  But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
+  Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
+  Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
+  For nearest of all stars was thine to ours—
+  Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
+  A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.”
+
+  “We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us
+  Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
+  We came, my love; around, above, below,
+  Gay fire-fly of the night, we come and go,
+  Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
+  _She_ grants to us as granted by her God.
+  But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurled
+  Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world!
+  Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
+  Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
+  When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
+  Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea—
+  But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
+  As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
+  We paused before the heritage of men,
+  And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”
+
+  Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
+  The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
+  They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
+  Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+NOTES TO AL AARAAF
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Page 129. _Al Aaraaf._ 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.
+
+Page 130. _Capo Deucato._ On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.
+
+Page 130. _Her who loved a mortal—and so died._ Sappho.
+
+Page 130. _And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed._ This flower is much
+noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, feeding upon its blossom,
+becomes intoxicated.
+
+Page 131. _Clytia._ Clytia—the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ
+a better-known term, the turnsol—which turns continually towards the
+sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with
+dewy clouds, which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent
+heat of the day.—_B. de St. Pierre._
+
+Page 131. _That aspiring flower that sprang on Earth._ 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
+odour of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very
+short. It does not blow till towards the month of July—you then
+perceive it gradually open its petals—expand them—fade and die.—_St.
+Pierre._
+
+Page 131. _Valisnerian lotus._ 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.
+
+Page 131. _Thy most lovely purple perfume._ The Hyacinth.
+
+Page 131. _The Nelumbo bud._ 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.
+
+Page 131. _To bear the Goddess’ song, etc._ And golden vials full of
+odours which are the prayers of the saints.—_Rev. St. John._
+
+Page 132. _A model of their own._ The Humanitarians held that God was to
+be understood as having really a human form.—_Vide Clarke’s Sermons_,
+vol. i., page 26, fol. edit.
+
+The drift of Milton’s argument leads him to employ language which would
+appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be
+seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having
+adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the
+Church.—_Dr. Sumner’s Notes on Milton’s Christian Doctrine._
+
+This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never
+have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned
+for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth
+century. His disciples were called Anthropomorphites.—_Vide du Pin._
+
+Among Milton’s minor poems are these lines:
+
+  Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, etc.
+  Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
+  Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
+  Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
+  Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.
+
+And afterwards—
+
+  Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
+  Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.
+
+Page 132. _Wingèd Fantasy._
+
+  Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
+  Seinem Schosskinde
+  Der Phantasie.—_Goethe._
+
+Page 135. _Sightless cycles._ Sightless—too small to be seen.—_Legge._
+
+Page 135. _Fire-flies._ 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.
+
+Page 135. _Therasæan reign._ Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned
+by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of
+astonished mariners.
+
+Page 136. _Molten stars, etc._
+
+  Some star which, from the ruined roof
+  Of shaked Olympus, by mischance did fall.—_Milton._
+
+Page 137. _Persepolis._ Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je
+connois bien l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais érigé
+au pied d’une chaîne des rochers sterils—peut il être un chef
+d’œuvre des arts?”
+
+Page 137. _Gomorrah._ Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on
+its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. 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 (engulfed)—but
+the last is out of all reason.
+
+It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau,
+Maundrell, Troilo, D’Arvieux], that after an excessive drought, the
+vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are seen above the surface. At _any_
+season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the
+transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of
+many settlements in the space now usurped by the “Asphaltites.”
+
+Page 137. _Eyraco._ Chaldea.
+
+Page 137. _Palpable and loud._ I have often thought I could distinctly
+hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.
+
+Page 137. _Young flowers were whispering, etc._ Fairies use flowers for
+their charactery.—_Merry Wives of Windsor._
+
+Page 138. _The moonbeam._ 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
+circumstance the passage evidently alludes.
+
+Page 139. _The lone Albatross._ The Albatross is said to sleep on the
+wing.
+
+Page 139. _The murmur that springs, etc._ 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.”
+
+Page 140. _Have slept with the bee._ The wild bee will not sleep in the
+shade if there be moonlight.
+
+The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an
+appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott,
+or rather from Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:
+
+  O! were there an island,
+    Tho’ ever so wild,
+  Where woman might smile, and
+    No man be beguiled, etc.
+
+Page 141. _Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell._
+With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men
+suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even
+happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
+
+  Un no rompido sueno—
+  Un dia puro—allegre—libre
+  Quiera—
+  Libre de amor—de zelo—
+  De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.
+                    _Luis Ponce de Leon._
+
+Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that sorrow which the
+living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles
+the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the
+buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy
+pleasures—the price of which, to those souls who make choice of “Al
+Aaraaf” as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.
+
+Page 141. _Tears of perfect moan._
+
+  There be tears of perfect moan
+  Wept for thee in Helicon.—_Milton._
+
+Page 142. _The Parthenon._ It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot
+in Athens.
+
+Page 142. _More beauty clung, etc._
+
+  Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
+  Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.
+                                             _Marlowe._
+
+Page 142. _My pennoned spirit._ Pennon, for pinion.—_Milton._
+
+
+
+
+SCENES FROM POLITIAN
+
+[Illustration]
+
+SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+I
+
+     ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE.
+
+  _Alessandra._ Thou art sad, Castiglione.
+
+  _Castiglione._                           Sad!—not I.
+  Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
+  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
+  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
+
+  _Aless._ Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
+  Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
+  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
+
+  _Cas._                         Did I sigh?
+  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
+  A silly—a most silly fashion I have
+  When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
+
+  _Aless._ Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
+  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
+  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
+  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
+  Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
+  The constitution as late hours and wine.
+
+  _Cas._ (_musing_). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow—
+  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
+  I will amend.
+
+  _Aless._      Do it! I would have thee drop
+  Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born;
+  Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir
+  And Alessandra’s husband.
+
+  _Cas._                    I will drop them.
+
+  _Aless._ Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
+  To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
+  For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
+  Upon appearances.
+
+  _Cas._            I’ll see to it.
+
+  _Aless._ Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
+  To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
+  In dignity.
+
+  _Cas._      Much, much, oh, much I want
+  In proper dignity.
+
+  _Aless._ (_haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
+
+  _Cas._ (_abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
+
+  _Aless._                                       Heard I aright?
+  I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!
+  Sir Count! (_places her hand on his shoulder_) what art thou dreaming?
+    He’s not well!
+  What ails thee, sir?
+
+  _Cas._ (_starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
+  I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
+  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
+  This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
+
+     _Enter Di Broglio._
+
+  _Di Broglio._ My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the matter?
+    (_observing Alessandra._)
+  I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
+  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
+  I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
+  Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
+  We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit
+  To the imperial city.
+
+  _Aless._              What! Politian
+  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
+
+  _Di Brog._                     The same, my love.
+  We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
+  In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him
+  But rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
+  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
+  And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.
+
+  _Aless._ I have heard much of this Politian.
+  Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not,
+  And little given to thinking?
+
+  _Di Brog._                    Far from it, love.
+  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
+  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
+  Learnèd as few are learnèd.
+
+  _Aless._                    ’Tis very strange!
+  I have known men have seen Politian
+  And sought his company. They speak of him
+  As of one who entered madly into life,
+  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
+
+  _Cas._ Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
+  And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
+  He is a dreamer, and a man shut out
+  From common passions.
+
+  _Di Brog._            Children, we disagree.
+  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
+  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
+  Politian was a _melancholy_ man? (_Exeunt._)
+
+
+II
+
+     ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking
+     into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a
+     table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the
+     background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a
+     chair.
+
+  _Lalage._ Jacinta! is it thou?
+
+  _Jacinta_ (_pertly_).          Yes, ma’am, I’m here.
+
+  _Lal._ I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
+  Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you—
+  Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.
+
+  _Jac._ (_aside_). ’Tis time.
+
+     (_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the
+     chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her
+     mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to
+     read._)
+
+  _Lal._ “It in another climate, so he said,
+  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
+
+     (_pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes._)
+
+  “No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
+  But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
+  Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”
+  Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like
+  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
+  O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!—the maiden died!
+  O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
+  Jacinta!
+
+     (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes._)
+
+           Again!—a similar tale
+  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
+  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
+  “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
+  “I think not so—her infelicity
+  Seemed to have years too many”—Ah, luckless lady!
+  Jacinta! (_still no answer_).
+           Here’s a far sterner story—
+  But like—oh, very like in its despair—
+  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
+  A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.
+  She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
+  Lean over her and weep—two gentle maids
+  With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!
+  Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta!
+
+  _Jac._ (_pettishly_).      Madam, what _is_ it?
+
+  _Lal._ Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
+  As go down in the library and bring me
+  The Holy Evangelists?
+
+  _Jac._                Pshaw! (_Exit._)
+
+  _Lal._                       If there be balm
+  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
+  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
+  Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that
+  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”
+
+     (_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table._)
+
+  _Jac._ There, ma’am, ’s the book. (_aside._) Indeed she is very
+    troublesome.
+
+  _Lal._ (_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
+  To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.
+  For thou hast served me long and ever been
+  Trustworthy and respectful. (_resumes her reading._)
+
+  _Jac._ (_aside._)           I can’t believe
+  She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all.
+
+  _Lal._ What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
+  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
+  How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?
+  Can I do aught?—is there no further aid
+  Thou needest, Jacinta?
+
+  _Jac._ (_aside._)      Is there no _further_ aid?
+  That’s meant for me. (_aloud._) I’m sure, madam, you need not
+  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
+
+  _Lal._ Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,
+  I thought not of the jewels.
+
+  _Jac._                       Oh, perhaps not!
+  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
+  There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
+  For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never
+  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
+  And at the best I’m certain, madam, you cannot
+  Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it. (_Exit._)
+
+     (_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the
+     table—after a short pause raises it._)
+
+  _Lal._ Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?
+  Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper
+  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
+  (_taking up the mirror._)
+  Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much a friend
+  In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.
+  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
+  A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not
+  Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
+  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
+  And Beauty long deceased—remembers me,
+  Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,
+  Inurnèd and entombed!—now, in a tone
+  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
+  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
+  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not!
+  _Thou_ hast no end to gain—no heart to break—
+  Castiglione lied who said he loved——
+  Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
+
+     (_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and
+     approaches unobserved._)
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  _Monk._                           Refuge thou hast,
+  Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
+  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
+
+  _Lal._ (_arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!—My soul is at war
+    with God!
+  The frightful sounds of merriment below
+  Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—
+  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
+  Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment
+  Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix
+  With horror and awe!
+
+  _Monk._              Think of thy precious soul!
+
+  _Lal._ Think of my early days!—think of my father
+  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
+  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
+  Think of my little sisters!—think of them!
+  And think of me!—think of my trusting love
+  And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think
+  Of my unspeakable misery!——begone!
+  Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer
+  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
+  And vows before the throne?
+
+  _Monk._                     I did.
+
+  _Lal._                             ’Tis well.
+  There _is_ a vow ’twere fitting should be made—
+  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
+  A solemn vow!
+
+  _Monk._       Daughter, this zeal is well!
+
+  _Lal._ Father, this zeal is anything but well!
+  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
+  A crucifix whereon to register
+  This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own._)
+  Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (_shuddering._)
+  Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
+  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
+  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
+  _I_ have a crucifix! Methinks ’twere fitting
+  The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
+  And the deed’s register should tally, father!
+  (_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high._)
+  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
+  Is written in Heaven!
+
+  _Monk._               Thy words are madness, daughter,
+  And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
+  Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!
+  Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!
+  Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!
+
+  _Lal._ ’Tis sworn!
+
+
+III
+
+     An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
+
+  _Baldazzar._ Arouse thee now, Politian!
+  Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
+  Give way unto these humours. Be thyself!
+  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
+  And live, for now thou diest!
+
+  _Politian._                   Not so, Baldazzar!
+  Surely I live.
+
+  _Bal._         Politian, it doth grieve me
+  To see thee thus!
+
+  _Pol._            Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
+  To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
+  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
+  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
+  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
+  Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
+  And be no more Politian, but some other.
+  Command me, sir!
+
+  _Bal._           To the field then—to the field—
+  To the senate or the field.
+
+  _Pol._                      Alas! alas!
+  There is an imp would follow me even there!
+  There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
+  There is——what voice was that?
+
+  _Bal._                         I heard it not.
+  I heard not any voice except thine own,
+  And the echo of thine own.
+
+  _Pol._                     Then I but dreamed.
+
+  _Bal._ Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court
+  Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—
+  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
+  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
+  And phantom voices.
+
+  _Pol._              It _is_ a phantom voice!
+  Didst thou not hear it _then_?
+
+  _Bal._                         I heard it not.
+
+  _Pol._ Thou heardst it not!——Baldazzar, speak no more
+  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
+  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
+  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
+  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
+  We have been boys together—school-fellows—
+  And now are friends—yet shall not be so long—
+  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
+  A kind and gentle office, and a Power—
+  A Power august, benignant, and supreme—
+  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
+  Unto thy friend.
+
+  _Bal._           Thou speakest a fearful riddle
+  I _will_ not understand.
+
+  _Pol._                   Yet now as Fate
+  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
+  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
+  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
+  I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
+  So keen a relish for the beautiful
+  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
+  Is balmier now than it was wont to be—
+  Rich melodies are floating in the winds—
+  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—
+  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
+  Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say
+  Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
+
+  _Bal._                             Indeed I hear not.
+
+  _Pol._ Not hear it!—listen now—listen!—the faintest sound
+  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
+  A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone!
+  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
+  Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls
+  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
+  Surely I never heard—yet it were well
+  Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
+  In earlier days!
+
+  _Bal._           I myself hear it now.
+  Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
+  Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see
+  Very plainly through the window—it belongs,
+  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
+  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
+  The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps
+  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
+  As the betrothèd of Castiglione,
+  His son and heir.
+
+  _Pol._            Be still!—it comes again!
+
+  _Voice_ (_very faintly_). “And is thy heart so strong
+      As for to leave me thus,
+      That have loved thee so long,
+      In wealth and woe among?
+      And is thy heart so strong
+      As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!”
+
+  _Bal._ The song is English, and I oft have heard it
+  In merry England—never so plaintively—
+  Hist! hist! it comes again!
+
+  _Voice_ (_more loudly_). “Is it so strong
+      As for to leave me thus,
+      That have loved thee so long,
+      In wealth and woe among?
+      And is thy heart so strong
+      As for to leave me thus?
+                  Say nay! say nay!”
+
+  _Bal._ ’Tis hushed and all is still!
+
+  _Pol._                               All _is not_ still.
+
+  _Bal._ Let us go down.
+
+  _Pol._                 Go down, Baldazzar, go!
+
+  _Bal._ The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits us,—
+  Thy presence is expected in the hall
+  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
+
+  _Voice_ (_distinctly_). “Who have loved thee so long,
+      In wealth and woe among,
+      And is thy heart so strong?
+                  Say nay! say nay!”
+
+  _Bal._ Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give
+  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
+  Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness
+  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
+
+  _Pol._ Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember. (_going._)
+  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
+  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
+  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—
+  “To gaze upon that veilèd face, and hear
+  Once more that silent tongue.”
+
+  _Bal._                         Let me beg you, sir,
+  Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.
+  Let us go down, I pray you.
+
+  _Voice_ (_loudly_).         “Say nay!—say nay!”
+
+  _Pol._ (_aside_). ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the voice
+  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
+  (_approaching the window._)
+  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
+  Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
+  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
+  Apology unto the Duke for me;
+  I go not down to-night.
+
+  _Bal._                  Your lordship’s pleasure
+  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
+
+  _Pol._ Good-night, my friend, good-night.
+
+
+IV
+
+     The Gardens of a Palace—Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
+
+  _Lalage._ And dost thou speak of love
+  To _me_, Politian?—dost thou speak of love
+  To Lalage?—ah woe—ah woe is me!
+  This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed!
+
+  _Politian._ Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears
+  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—
+  Be comforted! I know—I know it all,
+  And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
+  And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes!
+  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
+  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
+  Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee—
+  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling._)
+  Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_—_love thee_—_love thee_;
+  Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and woe, _I love thee_.
+  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
+  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
+  Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,
+  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
+  Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love? (_arising._)
+  Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes—
+  Thy beauty and thy woes.
+
+  _Lal._                   Alas, proud Earl,
+  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
+  How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens
+  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
+  Could the dishonoured Lalage abide?
+  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory?—
+  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
+  With the ancestral honours of thy house,
+  And with thy glory?
+
+  _Pol._              Speak not to me of glory!
+  I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor
+  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
+  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
+  Do I not love—art thou not beautiful—
+  What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
+  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn—
+  By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter—
+  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven—
+  There is no deed I would more glory in,
+  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
+  And trample it under foot. What matters it—
+  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
+  That we go down unhonoured and forgotten
+  Into the dust—so we descend together?
+  Descend together—and then—and then perchance—
+
+  _Lal._ Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+  _Pol._                                And then perchance
+  _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam
+  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
+  And still—
+
+  _Lal._     Why dost thou pause, Politian?
+
+  _Pol._ And still _together_—_together_!
+
+  _Lal._                                  Now, Earl of Leicester!
+  Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
+  I feel thou lovest me truly.
+
+  _Pol._                       O Lalage!
+  (_throwing himself upon his knee._)
+  And lovest thou _me_?
+
+  _Lal._                Hist! hush! within the gloom
+  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed—
+  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—
+  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
+  (_walks across and returns._)
+  I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough
+  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
+
+  _Pol._ My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?
+  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self,
+  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
+  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
+  Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs
+  Throw over all things a gloom.
+
+  _Lal._                         Politian!
+  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
+  With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
+  Miraculously found by one of Genoa—
+  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
+  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,—
+  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
+  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
+  Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe
+  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
+  In days that are to come?
+
+  _Pol._                    Oh, wilt thou—wilt thou
+  Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou
+  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
+  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
+  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
+  For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be
+  No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys
+  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
+  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
+  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
+  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
+  My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,
+  Fly thither with me?
+
+  _Lal._               A deed is to be done—
+  Castiglione lives!
+
+  _Pol._             And he shall die! (_Exit._)
+
+  _Lal._ (_after a pause_). And—he—shall—die!——alas!
+  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
+  Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!
+  Thou _art_ not gone—thou art not _gone_, Politian!
+  I _feel_ thou art not gone—yet dare not look,
+  Lest I behold thee not—thou _couldst_ not go
+  With those words upon thy lips—oh, speak to me!
+  And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,
+  To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,
+  To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate
+  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone—
+  Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
+  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.
+  Villain, thou _art_ not gone—thou mockest me!
+  And thus I clutch thee—thus!——He is gone, he is gone—
+  Gone—gone. Where am I?——’tis well—’tis very well!
+  So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,
+  ’Tis well, ’tis _very_ well—alas! alas!
+
+
+V
+
+     The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.
+
+  _Politian._ This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
+  And much I fear me, ill—it will not do
+  To die ere I have lived!—Stay—stay thy hand,
+  O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers
+  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!
+  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
+  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
+  Give me to live yet—yet a little while:
+  ’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late
+  Demanded but to die!—What sayeth the Count?
+
+     _Enter Baldazzar._
+
+  _Baldazzar._ That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
+  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
+  He doth decline your cartel.
+
+  _Pol._                       _What_ didst thou say?
+  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
+  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
+  Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,
+  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
+  No mortal eyes have seen!—_what_ said the Count?
+
+  _Bal._ That he, Castiglione, not being aware
+  Of any feud existing, or any cause
+  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
+  Cannot accept the challenge.
+
+  _Pol._                       It is most true—
+  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
+  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
+  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
+  A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free
+  From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?
+
+  _Bal._ No more, my lord, than I have told you:
+  The Count Castiglione will not fight,
+  Having no cause for quarrel.
+
+  _Pol._                       Now this is true—
+  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
+  And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me
+  A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
+  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
+  Hold him a villain?—thus much, I pr’ythee, say
+  Unto the Count—it is exceeding just
+  He should have cause for quarrel.
+
+  _Bal._                            My lord!—my friend!——
+
+  _Pol._ (_aside_). ’Tis he—he comes himself! (_aloud._)
+    Thou reasonest well.
+  I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—
+  Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.
+  Now pr’ythee, leave me—hither doth come a person
+  With whom affairs of a most private nature
+  I would adjust.
+
+  _Bal._          I go—to-morrow we meet,
+  Do we not?—at the Vatican.
+
+  _Pol._                     At the Vatican. (_Exit Baldazzar._)
+
+     _Enter Castiglione._
+
+  _Cas._ The Earl of Leicester here!
+
+  _Pol._ I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
+  Dost thou not? that I am here.
+
+  _Cas._                         My lord, some strange,
+  Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
+  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
+  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
+  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
+  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
+  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
+  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
+  Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?
+  ’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
+  Do err at times.
+
+  _Pol._ Draw, villain, and prate no more!
+
+  _Cas._ Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,
+  Proud Earl! (_draws._)
+
+  _Pol._ (_drawing_). Thus to the expiatory tomb,
+  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
+  In the name of Lalage!
+
+  _Cas._ (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
+    stage._)
+                         Of Lalage!
+  Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!
+  Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.
+
+  _Pol._ Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
+  Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;
+  Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
+
+  _Cas._                           I dare not—dare not—
+  Hold off thy hand—with that belovèd name
+  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—
+  I cannot—dare not—
+
+  _Pol._             Now, by my halidom,
+  I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!
+
+  _Cas._ Ha!—coward!—this may not be!
+
+     (_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his
+     purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon
+     his knee at the feet of the Earl._)
+
+                                      Alas! my lord,
+  It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
+  I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
+
+  _Pol._ (_greatly softened_). Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.
+
+  _Cas._ And Lalage——
+
+  _Pol._              Scoundrel!—arise and die!
+
+  _Cas._ It needeth not be—thus—thus—Oh, let me die
+  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
+  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
+  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
+  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
+  (_baring his bosom._)
+  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
+  Strike home. I will not fight thee.
+
+  _Pol._ Now’s Death and Hell!
+  Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
+  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
+  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
+  For public insult in the streets—before
+  The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee—
+  Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
+  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—
+  Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,
+  Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
+  Thou liest! thou shalt! (_Exit._)
+
+  _Cas._ Now this indeed is just!
+  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
+
+[Illustration: LALAGE]
+
+
+
+
+LETTER TO MR. ——
+
+INTRODUCTION TO POEMS (1831)
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+[Illustration: LETTER TO MR. ——]
+
+WEST POINT, 1831.
+
+DEAR B——
+
+Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second
+edition—that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
+present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein
+combined “Al Aaraaf” and “Tamerlane” with other poems hitherto
+unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the “Minor Poems,” now
+omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed
+in a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were
+embedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
+
+It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by
+one who is no poet himself. This, according to _your_ idea and _mine_
+of poetry, I feel to be false—the less poetical the critic, the less
+just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because
+there are but few B——s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of
+the world’s good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself
+might here observe, “Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good
+opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then
+that the world judge correctly; why should you be ashamed of their
+favourable 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
+neighbour, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head
+(that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to
+be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day
+actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which
+that superiority is ascertained, which _but_ for them would never have
+been discovered—this neighbour asserts that Shakespeare is a great
+poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion_.
+This neighbour’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from
+one above _him_, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who
+kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who
+stands upon the pinnacle.
+
+You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
+He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established
+wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as
+with law or empire—an established name is an estate in tenure, or a
+throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their
+authors, improve by travel—their having crossed the sea is, with us,
+so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our
+very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page,
+where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are
+precisely so many letters of recommendation.
+
+I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
+notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings
+is another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical
+talent would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad
+poet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
+infallibly bias his little judgment in his favour; but a poet, who is
+indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique.
+Whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
+on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short,
+we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one’s
+own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than
+good. There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is
+a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the
+“Paradise Regained” is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
+circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
+believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But,
+in fact, the “Paradise Regained” is little, if at all, inferior to the
+“Paradise Lost,” and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
+epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and reading those of
+Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
+derive any pleasure from the second.
+
+I dare say Milton preferred “Comus” to either—if so—justly.
+
+As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly
+upon the most singular heresy in its modern history—the heresy of
+what is called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I
+might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt
+a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a
+work of supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men
+as Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical
+theories so prosaically exemplified.
+
+Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
+philosophical of all writings[1]—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.
+
+[Footnote 1: Σπουδιοτατον και φιλοσοφικοτατον γενος.]
+
+To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to
+his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
+pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
+means of obtaining.
+
+I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
+themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
+refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
+respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt
+for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal,
+since their writings are professedly to be understood by the few,
+and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I
+should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in “Melmoth,” who
+labours indefatigably, through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the
+destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have
+demolished one or two thousand.
+
+Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study—not a
+passion—it becomes the metaphysician to reason—but the poet to protest.
+Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
+contemplation from his childhood, the other a giant in intellect and
+learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
+authority, would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
+heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination—intellect
+with the passions—or age with poetry.
+
+    Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
+    He who would search for pearls must dive below,
+
+are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
+men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; the
+depth 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. Poetry, above all things, is a beautiful painting
+whose tints to minute inspection are confusion worse confounded, but
+start boldly out to the cursory glance of the connoisseur.
+
+We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his “Biographia
+Literaria”—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
+treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis_. He goes wrong by reason
+of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
+contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
+it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray—while he who
+surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
+useful to us below—its brilliancy and its beauty.
+
+As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
+feelings of a poet I believe—for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
+in his writings—(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom—his _El
+Dorado_)—but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
+glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
+that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
+glacier.
+
+He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the
+end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment
+the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment
+consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,—but the old
+Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters
+of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when
+sober—sober that they might not be deficient in formality—drunk lest
+they should be destitute of vigour.
+
+The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
+admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favour: they are
+full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
+random)—‘Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
+worthy to be done, and what was never done before;’—indeed? then it
+follows that in doing what is _un_worthy to be done, or what _has_ been
+done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
+unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
+the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
+comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.
+
+Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
+Ossian’s or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
+order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
+the controversy. _Tantæne animis?_ Can great minds descend to such
+absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
+favour of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
+abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the
+beginning of the epic poem “Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in
+light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
+heads in the breeze.” And this—this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
+all is alive and panting with immortality—this, William Wordsworth, the
+author of “Peter Bell,” has _selected_ for his contempt. We shall see
+what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
+
+    And now she’s at the pony’s head,
+    And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
+    On that side now, and now on this;
+    And, almost stifled with her bliss—
+    A few sad tears does Betty shed,
+    She pats the pony, where or when
+    She knows not: happy Betty Foy!
+    Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!
+
+Secondly:
+
+    The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink;
+    I heard a voice: it said,—“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
+    And, looking o’er the hedge, be—fore me I espied
+    A snow-white mountain lamb, with a—maiden at its side.
+    No other sheep were near,—the lamb was all alone,
+    And by a slender cord was—tether’d to a stone.
+
+Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it, indeed we
+will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wished to excite? I love
+a sheep from the bottom of my heart.
+
+But there are occasions, dear B——, there are occasions when even
+Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
+and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
+extract from his preface:
+
+“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers,
+if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_)
+will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha!
+ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be
+induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been
+permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
+
+Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a waggon, and
+the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
+a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
+
+Of Coleridge, I cannot but speak with reverence. His towering
+intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
+“_J’ai trouvé souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une
+bonne partie de ce qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles
+nient_;” and to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own
+conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others.
+It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in
+metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night
+alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon
+a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting from the crater,
+of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
+
+What is Poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
+appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! “Give me,” I demanded
+of a scholar some time ago, “give me a definition of poetry.”
+“_Très-volontiers_;” and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
+Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal
+Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon
+the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear
+B——, think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of
+all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and
+unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then—and then think
+of the “Tempest”—the “Midsummer Night’s Dream”—Prospero—Oberon—and
+Titania!
+
+A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for
+its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
+its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being
+a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
+perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations,
+to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet
+sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
+pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;
+the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
+
+What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his
+soul?
+
+To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——, what you, no doubt,
+perceive, for the metaphysical poets, _as_ poets, the most sovereign
+contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—
+
+    No Indian prince has to his palace
+    More followers than a thief to the gallows.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ESSAYS ON THE POETIC PRINCIPLE AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
+thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the
+essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to
+cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems
+which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the
+most definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of
+little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words
+in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or
+wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
+the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the
+phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
+
+I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as
+it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio
+of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
+necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a
+poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a
+composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at
+the very utmost, it flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem
+is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
+
+There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
+critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired
+throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,
+during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum
+would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical
+only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,
+Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its
+Unity—its totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would be
+necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation
+of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
+poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
+critical pre-judgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing
+the work, we read it again; omitting the first book—that is to say,
+commencing with the second—we shall be surprised at now finding that
+admirable which we before condemned—that damnable which we had
+previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
+aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
+nullity—and this is precisely the fact.
+
+In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very
+good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,
+granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an
+imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day
+of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
+_were_ popular in reality—which I doubt—it is at least clear that no
+very long poem will ever be popular again.
+
+That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus_, the measure
+of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
+sufficiently absurd—yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
+Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere _size_, abstractly
+considered—there can be nothing in mere _bulk_, so far as a volume is
+concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these
+saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of
+physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of
+the sublime—but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the
+material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have not
+instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not
+_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
+the pound—but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating
+about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any little
+gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the
+effort—if this indeed be a thing commendable—but let us forbear
+praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that common
+sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
+rather by the impression it makes—by the effect it produces—than by
+the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained
+effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
+fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor
+can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
+proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received
+as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as
+falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
+
+On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.
+Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem,
+while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
+profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of
+the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,
+pungent and spirit-stirring; but in general they have been too
+imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and
+thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be
+whistled down the wind.
+
+A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
+poem—in keeping it out of the popular view—is afforded by the
+following exquisite little Serenade:
+
+    I arise from dreams of thee
+      In the first sweet sleep of night,
+    When the winds are breathing low,
+      And the stars are shining bright.
+    I arise from dreams of thee,
+      And a spirit in my feet
+    Has led me—who knows how?—
+      To thy chamber-window, sweet!
+
+    The wandering airs they faint
+      On the dark, the silent stream—
+    The champak odours fail
+      Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+    The nightingale’s complaint,
+      It dies upon her heart,
+    As I must die on thine,
+      O, beloved as thou art!
+
+    O, lift me from the grass!
+      I die, I faint, I fail!
+    Let thy love in kisses rain
+      On my lips and eyelids pale.
+    My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+      My heart beats loud and fast:
+    O! press it close to thine again,
+      Where it will break at last!
+
+Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet than
+Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
+imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
+him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved, to bathe in
+the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
+
+One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which he
+has ever written—has, no doubt, through this same defect of undue
+brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
+critical than in the popular view:
+
+    The shadows lay along Broadway,
+      ’Twas near the twilight-tide—
+    And slowly there a lady fair
+      Was walking in her pride.
+    Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
+      Walked spirits at her side.
+
+    Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
+      And Honour charmed the air;
+    And all astir looked kind on her,
+      And called her good as fair—
+    For all God ever gave to her
+      She kept with chary care.
+
+    She kept with care her beauties rare
+      From lovers warm and true—
+    For her heart was cold to all but gold,
+      And the rich came not to woo—
+    But honoured well her charms to sell,
+      If priests the selling do.
+
+    Now walking there was one more fair—
+      A slight girl, lily-pale;
+    And she had unseen company
+      To make the spirit quail—
+    ’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,
+      And nothing could avail.
+
+    No mercy now can clear her brow
+      From this world’s peace to pray,
+    For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
+      Her woman’s heart gave way!—
+    But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,
+      By man is cursed alway!
+
+In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has
+written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly
+ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness—an evident
+sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the
+other works of this author.
+
+While the epic mania—while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
+is indispensable—has for some years past been gradually dying out of
+the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity—we find it succeeded
+by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in
+the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have
+accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all
+its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It
+has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that
+the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said,
+should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the
+work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy
+idea, and we Bostonians, very especially, have developed it in full. We
+have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem’s
+sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to
+confess ourselves radically wanting in the true Poetic dignity and
+force:—but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to
+look into our own souls, we should immediately there discover that under
+the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly
+dignified—more supremely noble, than this very poem—this poem _per
+se_—this poem which is a poem and nothing more—this poem written
+solely for the poem’s sake.
+
+With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,
+I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
+would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.
+The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.
+All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_
+with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
+flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a
+truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be
+simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,
+we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact
+converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not
+perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the
+poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption
+who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to
+reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
+
+Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
+distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
+place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which, in the
+mind, it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
+from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that
+Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the
+virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio
+marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns
+itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral
+Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
+obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
+displaying the charms;—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her
+deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting, to the
+appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.
+
+An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus, plainly, a
+sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in
+the manifold forms, and sounds, and odours, 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 colours, and odours, 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 odours, and
+colours, and sentiments which greet _him_ in common with all
+mankind—he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is
+still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We
+have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the
+crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at
+once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is
+the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the
+Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired
+by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle
+by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to
+attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps
+appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry—or when by Music,
+the most entrancing of the poetic moods—we find ourselves melted into
+tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess
+of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our
+inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever,
+those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or
+_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.
+
+The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on the
+part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all _that_
+which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and
+_to feel_ as poetic.
+
+The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—in
+Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very especially
+in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition
+of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to
+its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic
+of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
+various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in
+Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an
+adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
+now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
+that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
+by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal Beauty.
+It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then,
+attained in _fact_. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,
+that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been
+unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the
+union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
+widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
+had advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his
+own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
+
+To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as
+_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty_. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the
+Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.
+Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with
+Truth.
+
+A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once
+the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I
+maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
+of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable
+elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognise as the Poetic
+Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
+satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
+the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of the
+sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an
+obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as
+possible from their causes:—no one as yet having been weak enough to
+deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_
+attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the
+incitements of Passion, or the Precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of
+Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
+may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
+work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in
+proper subjection to that _Beauty_ which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.
+
+I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
+consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longellow’s “Waif”:
+
+    The day is done, and the darkness
+      Falls from the wings of Night,
+    As a feather is wafted downward
+      From an Eagle in his flight.
+
+    I see the lights of the village
+      Gleam through the rain and the mist,
+    And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
+      That my soul cannot resist;
+
+    A feeling of sadness and longing,
+      That is not akin to pain,
+    And resembles sorrow only
+      As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+    Come, read to me some poem,
+      Some simple and heartfelt lay,
+    That shall soothe this restless feeling,
+      And banish the thoughts of day.
+
+    Not from the grand old masters,
+      Not from the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+      Through the corridors of Time.
+
+    For, like strains of martial music,
+      Their mighty thoughts suggest
+    Life’s endless toil and endeavour;
+      And to-night I long for rest.
+
+    Read from some humbler poet,
+      Whose songs gushed from his heart,
+    As showers from the clouds of summer,
+      Or tears from the eyelids start;
+
+    Who through long days of labour,
+      And nights devoid of ease,
+    Still heard in his soul the music
+      Of wonderful melodies.
+
+    Such songs have power to quiet
+      The restless pulse of care,
+    And come like the benediction
+      That follows after prayer.
+
+    Then read from the treasured volume
+      The poem of thy choice,
+    And lend to the rhyme of the poet
+      The beauty of thy voice.
+
+    And the night shall be filled with music,
+      And the cares that infest the day,
+    Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
+      And as silently steal away.
+
+With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
+for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
+Nothing can be better than—
+
+      ————————————the bards sublime,
+    Whose distant footsteps echo
+        Down the corridors of Time.
+
+The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
+whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_
+of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
+sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This
+“ease” or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
+to regard as ease in appearance alone—as a point of really difficult
+attainment. But not so: a natural manner is difficult only to him who
+should never meddle with it—to the unnatural. It is but the result of
+writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,
+in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would
+adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The
+author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be
+upon _all_ occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily upon _many_
+occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
+considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
+sleeping Beauty in the wax-works.
+
+Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the
+one which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:
+
+    There, through the long, long summer hours,
+        The golden light should lie,
+    And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
+        Stand in their beauty by.
+    The oriole should build and tell
+    His love-tale, close beside my cell;
+        The idle butterfly
+    Should rest him there, and there be heard
+    The housewife-bee and humming bird.
+
+    And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,
+        Come, from the village sent,
+    Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
+        With fairy laughter blent?
+    And what if, in the evening light,
+    Betrothed lovers walk in sight
+        Of my low monument?
+    I would the lovely scene around
+    Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
+
+    I know, I know I should not see
+        The season’s glorious show,
+    Nor would its brightness shine for me,
+        Nor its wild music flow;
+    But if, around my place of sleep,
+    The friends I love should come to weep,
+        They might not haste to go.
+    Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,
+    Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
+
+    These to their softened hearts should bear
+        The thought of what has been,
+    And speak of one who cannot share
+        The gladness of the scene;
+    Whose part in all the pomp that fills
+    The circuit of the summer hills,
+        Is—that his grave is green!
+    And deeply would their hearts rejoice
+    To hear again his living voice.
+
+The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more
+melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
+intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of
+all the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to
+the soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
+impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the
+remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or
+less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or
+why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected
+with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
+
+    A feeling of sadness and longing
+      That is not akin to pain,
+    And resembles sorrow only
+      As the mist resembles the rain.
+
+The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
+of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coote Pinkney:
+
+    I fill this cup to one made up
+      Of loveliness alone,
+    A woman, of her gentle sex
+      The seeming paragon;
+    To whom the better elements
+      And kindly stars have given
+    A form so fair, that like the air,
+      ’Tis less of earth than heaven.
+
+    Her every tone is music’s own,
+      Like those of morning birds,
+    And something more than melody
+      Dwells ever in her words;
+    The coinage of her heart are they,
+      And from her lips each flows
+    As one may see the burdened bee
+      Forth issue from the rose.
+
+    Affections are as thoughts to her,
+      The measures of her hours;
+    Her feelings have the fragrancy,
+      The freshness of young flowers;
+    And lovely passions, changing oft,
+      So fill her, she appears
+    The image of themselves by turns,—
+      The idol of past years!
+
+    Of her bright face one glance will trace
+      A picture on the brain,
+    And of her voice in echoing hearts
+      A sound must long remain;
+    But memory, such as mine of her,
+      So very much endears,
+    When death is nigh my latest sigh
+      Will not be life’s, but hers.
+
+    I filled this cup to one made up
+      Of loveliness alone,
+    A woman, of her gentle sex
+      The seeming paragon—
+    Her health! and would on earth there stood,
+      Some more of such a frame,
+    That life might be all poetry,
+      And weariness a name.
+
+It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.
+Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been
+ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which
+has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting
+the thing called _The North American Review_. The poem just cited is
+especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must
+refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his
+hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
+
+It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_ of
+what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.
+Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus
+once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable
+book:—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He
+replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,
+Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all
+the chaff_ for his reward.
+
+Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by no
+means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
+the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
+Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
+axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is
+_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to
+point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that
+they are _not_ merits altogether.
+
+Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
+character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of
+view. I allude to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The
+intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in
+Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that
+embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment
+which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,
+human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:
+
+    Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
+    Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
+    Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,
+    And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
+
+    Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same
+    Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
+    I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
+    I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
+
+    Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
+    And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this,—
+    Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
+    And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!
+
+It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
+granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than whom
+no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,
+that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
+faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
+naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only_. But never was there a
+greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
+In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
+profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative_, in the best sense, than the
+lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which are the
+composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember
+them.
+
+One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most singularly
+fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always
+for me an inexpressible charm:
+
+    O saw ye not fair Ines?
+      She’s gone into the West,
+    To dazzle when the sun is down
+      And rob the world of rest;
+    She took our daylight with her,
+      The smiles that we love best,
+    With morning blushes on her cheek,
+      And pearls upon her breast.
+
+    O turn again, fair Ines,
+      Before the fall of night,
+    For fear the moon should shine alone,
+      And stars unrivalled bright;
+    And blessed will the lover be
+      That walks beneath their light,
+    And breathes the love against thy cheek
+      I dare not even write!
+
+    Would I had been, fair Ines,
+      That gallant cavalier,
+    Who rode so gaily by thy side,
+      And whispered thee so near!
+    Were there no bonny dames at home,
+      Or no true lovers here,
+    That he should cross the seas to win
+      The dearest of the dear?
+
+    I saw thee, lovely Ines,
+      Descend along the shore,
+    With bands of noble gentlemen,
+      And banners waved before;
+    And gentle youth and maidens gay,
+      And snowy plumes they wore;
+    It would have been a beauteous dream,
+      If it had been no more!
+
+    Alas, alas, fair Ines,
+      She went away with song,
+    With Music waiting on her steps,
+      And shoutings of the throng;
+    But some were sad and felt no mirth,
+      But only Music’s wrong,
+    In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
+      To her you’ve loved so long.
+
+    Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
+      That vessel never bore
+    So fair a lady on its deck,
+      Nor danced so light before,—
+    Alas for pleasure on the sea,
+      And sorrow on the shore!
+    The smile that blest one lover’s heart
+      Has broken many more!
+
+“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
+written,—one of the _truest_, one of the most unexceptionable, one of
+the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It
+is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length
+renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
+permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:
+
+    One more Unfortunate,
+    Weary of breath,
+    Rashly importunate
+    Gone to her death!
+
+    Take her up tenderly,
+    Lift her with care;—
+    Fashioned so tenderly,
+    Young and so fair!
+
+    Look at her garments
+    Clinging like cerements;
+    Whilst the wave constantly
+    Drips from her clothing;
+    Take her up instantly,
+    Loving, not loathing.
+
+    Touch her not scornfully;
+    Think of her mournfully,
+    Gently and humanly;
+    Not of the stains of her,
+    All that remains of her
+    Now is pure womanly.
+
+    Make no deep scrutiny
+    Into her mutiny
+    Rash and undutiful;
+    Past all dishonour,
+    Death has left on her
+    Only the beautiful.
+
+    Where the lamps quiver
+    So far in the river,
+    With many a light
+    From window and casement,
+    From garret to basement,
+    She stood, with amazement,
+    Houseless by night.
+
+    The bleak wind of March
+    Made her tremble and shiver;
+    But not the dark arch,
+    Or the black flowing river;
+    Mad from life’s history,
+    Glad to death’s mystery,
+    Swift to be hurl’d—
+    Anywhere, anywhere
+    Out of the world!
+
+    In she plunged boldly,
+    No matter how coldly
+    The rough river ran,—
+    Over the brink of it,
+    Picture it,—think of it,
+    Dissolute Man!
+    Lave in it, drink of it
+    Then, if you can!
+
+    Still, for all slips of hers,
+    One of Eve’s family—
+    Wipe those poor lips of hers
+    Oozing so clammily;
+    Loop up her tresses
+    Escaped from the comb,
+    Her fair auburn tresses;
+    Whilst wonderment guesses
+    Where was her home?
+
+    Who was her father?
+    Who was her mother?
+    Had she a sister?
+    Had she a brother?
+    Or was there a dearer one
+    Still, and a nearer one
+    Yet, than all other?
+
+    Alas! for the rarity
+    Of Christian charity
+    Under the sun!
+    Oh! it was pitiful!
+    Near a whole city full,
+    Home she had none.
+
+    Sisterly, brotherly,
+    Fatherly, motherly,
+    Feelings had changed:
+    Love, by harsh evidence,
+    Thrown from its eminence;
+    Even God’s providence
+    Seeming estranged.
+
+    Take her up tenderly;
+    Lift her with care;
+    Fashioned so slenderly,
+    Young, and so fair!
+    Ere her limbs frigidly
+    Stiffen too rigidly,
+    Decently,—kindly,—
+    Smooth and compose them;
+    And her eyes, close them,
+    Staring so blindly!
+
+    Dreadfully staring
+    Through muddy impurity,
+    As when with the daring
+    Last look of despairing
+    Fixed on futurity.
+
+    Perishing gloomily,
+    Spurred by contumely,
+    Cold inhumanity,
+    Burning insanity,
+    Into her rest,—
+    Cross her hands humbly,
+    As if praying dumbly,
+    Over her breast!
+    Owning her weakness,
+    Her evil behaviour,
+    And leaving, with meekness,
+    Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+The vigour of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
+versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
+fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which
+is the thesis of the poem.
+
+Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
+the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:
+
+    Though the day of my destiny’s over,
+      And the star of my fate hath declined,
+    Thy soft heart refused to discover
+      The faults which so many could find;
+    Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
+      It shrunk not to share it with me,
+    And the love which my spirit hath painted
+      It never hath found but in _thee_.
+
+    Then when nature around me is smiling,
+      The last smile which answers to mine,
+    I do not believe it beguiling,
+      Because it reminds me of thine;
+    And when winds are at war with the ocean,
+      As the breasts I believed in with me,
+    If their billows excite an emotion,
+      It is that they bear me from _thee_.
+
+    Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
+      And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
+    Though I feel that my soul is delivered
+      To pain—it shall not be its slave.
+    There is many a pang to pursue me:
+      They may crush, but they shall not contemn—
+    They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
+      ’Tis of _thee_ that I think—not of them.
+
+    Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
+      Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
+    Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
+      Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—
+    Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
+      Though parted, it was not to fly,
+    Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,
+      Nor mute, that the world might belie.
+
+    Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
+      Nor the war of the many with one—
+    If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
+      ’Twas folly not sooner to shun:
+    And if dearly that error hath cost me,
+      And more than I once could foresee,
+    I have found that whatever it lost me,
+      It could not deprive me of _thee_.
+
+    From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
+      Thus much I at least may recall,
+    It hath taught me that which I most cherished
+      Deserved to be dearest of all:
+    In the desert a fountain is springing,
+      In the wide waste there still is a tree,
+    And a bird in the solitude singing,
+      Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.
+
+Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
+could scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme_ ever engaged the pen of
+poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
+entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
+unwavering love of woman.
+
+From Alfred Tennyson—although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
+noblest poet that ever lived—I have left myself time to cite only a
+very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,
+_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most
+profound—_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at
+_all_ times the most intense—but because it is at all times the most
+ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
+so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his
+last long poem, “The Princess”:
+
+      Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
+    Tears from the depth of some divine despair
+    Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
+    In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
+    And thinking of the days that are no more.
+
+      Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
+    That brings our friends up from the underworld,
+    Sad as the last which reddens over one
+    That sinks with all we love below the verge;
+    So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
+
+      Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
+    The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
+    To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
+    The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
+    So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
+
+      Dear as remembered kisses after death,
+    And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
+    On lips that are for others; deep as love,
+    Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
+    O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
+
+Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have
+endeavoured to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It
+has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is,
+strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the
+manifestation of the Principle is always found in _an elevating
+excitement of the soul_—quite independent of that passion which is the
+intoxication of the Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of
+the Reason. For in regard to Passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade
+rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary—Love—the true,
+the divine Eros—the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionæan 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
+the 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 odour 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
+endurances, but above all—ah, far above all—he kneels to it, he
+worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the
+altogether divine majesty of her _love_.
+
+Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very
+different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
+Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern
+and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,
+we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathise
+with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the
+poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul
+of the old cavalier:
+
+    A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!
+      A sword of metal keene!
+    Al else to noble heartes is drosse—
+      Al else on earth is meane.
+    The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
+      The rowleing of the drum,
+    The clangour of the trumpet lowde—
+      Be soundes from heaven that come.
+    And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
+      When as their war-cryes welle,
+    May tole from heaven an angel bright,
+      And rowse a fiend from hell.
+
+    Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all
+      And don your helmes amaine:
+    Death’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call
+      Us to the field againe.
+    No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
+      When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—
+    Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe
+      For the fayrest of the land;
+    Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
+      Thus weepe and puling crye,
+    Our business is like men to fight,
+      And hero-like to die!
+
+
+
+
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
+examination I once made of the mechanism of “Barnaby Rudge,” says—“By
+the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his ‘Caleb Williams’ backwards?
+He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
+volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
+accounting for what had been done.”
+
+I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of
+Godwin—and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in
+accordance with Mr. Dickens’s idea—but the author of “Caleb Williams”
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at
+least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every
+plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_
+constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of
+consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the
+tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.
+
+There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing
+a story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an
+incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in
+the combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
+narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
+or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page
+to page, render themselves apparent.
+
+I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect_. Keeping
+originality _always_ in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to
+dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of
+interest—I say to myself, in the first place, “Of the innumerable
+effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more
+generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present
+occasion, select?” Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid
+effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or
+tone—whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,
+or by peculiarity both of incident and tone—afterwards looking about me
+(or rather within) for such combinations of event or tone as shall best
+aid me in the construction of the effect.
+
+I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
+by any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail, step by
+step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its
+ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to
+the world, I am much at a loss to say—but perhaps the autorial vanity
+has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most
+writers—poets in especial—prefer having it understood that they compose
+by a species of fine frenzy—an ecstatic intuition-and would positively
+shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the
+elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought—at the true purposes
+seized only at the last moment—at the innumerable glimpses of idea that
+arrived not at the maturity of full view—at the fully-matured fancies
+discarded in despair as unmanageable—at the cautious selections and
+rejections—at the painful erasures and interpolations—in a word, at the
+wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the step-ladders
+and demon-traps, the cock’s feathers, the red paint, and the black
+patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute
+the properties of the literary _histrio_.
+
+I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
+which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
+conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
+pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
+
+For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
+nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the
+progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of
+an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a
+_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in
+the thing analysed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my
+part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was
+put together. I select “The Raven” as most generally known. It is my
+design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is
+referable either to accident or intuition—that the work proceeded, step
+by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a
+mathematical problem.
+
+Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the
+circumstance—or say the necessity—which, in the first place, gave rise
+to the intention of composing a poem that should suit at once the
+popular and the critical taste.
+
+We commence, then, with this intention.
+
+The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is
+too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with
+the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression—for,
+if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and
+everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris
+paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may
+advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in
+extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends
+it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely
+a succession of brief ones—that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
+It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it
+intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements
+are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least
+one-half of the “Paradise Lost” is essentially prose—a succession of
+poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding
+depressions—the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its
+length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of
+effect.
+
+It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards
+length, to all works of literary art—the limit of a single sitting—and
+that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as
+“Robinson Crusoe” (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this
+limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to
+its merit—in other words, to the excitement or elevation—again, in
+other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is
+capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct
+ratio of the intensity of the intended effect—this, with one
+proviso—that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for
+the production of any effect at all.
+
+Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of
+excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the
+critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_
+for my intended poem—a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in
+fact, a hundred and eight.
+
+My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be
+conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the
+construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work
+_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my
+immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have
+repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
+slightest need of demonstration—the point, I mean, that Beauty is the
+sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in
+elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a
+disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most
+intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in
+the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,
+they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they
+refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of
+_soul_—_not_ of intellect, or of heart—upon which I have commented,
+and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating “the
+beautiful.” Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely
+because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to
+spring from direct causes—that objects should be attained through means
+best adapted for their attainment—no one as yet having been weak enough
+to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is _most readily_
+attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the
+intellect, and the object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are,
+although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily
+attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a
+_homeliness_ (the truly passionate will comprehend me) which are
+absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the
+excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means
+follows from anything here said that passion, or even truth, may not be
+introduced, or even profitably introduced, into a poem—for they may
+serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in
+music, by contrast—but the true artist will always contrive, first, to
+tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim, and,
+secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is
+the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.
+
+Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the
+_tone_ of its highest manifestation—and all experience has shown that
+this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme
+development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
+is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
+
+The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook
+myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic
+piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
+poem—some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
+thinking over all the usual artistic effects—or more properly _points_,
+in the theatrical sense—I did not fail to perceive immediately that no
+one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The
+universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic
+value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I
+considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of
+improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly
+used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but
+depends for its impression upon the force of monotone—both in sound and
+thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity—of
+repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by
+adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied
+that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously
+novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the
+_refrain_—the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
+
+These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my
+_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was
+clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been
+an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in
+any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence
+would of course be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to
+a single word as the best _refrain_.
+
+The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up
+my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of
+course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That
+such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of
+protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations
+inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in
+connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
+
+The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to
+select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest
+possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the
+tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
+impossible to overlook the word “Nevermore.” In fact, it was the very
+first which presented itself.
+
+The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one
+word “Nevermore.” In observing the difficulty which I at once found in
+inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
+I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
+pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
+spoken by a _human_ being—I did not fail to perceive, in short, that
+the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the
+exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,
+then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable
+of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,
+suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally
+capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended
+_tone_.
+
+I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven, the bird of
+ill-omen, monotonously repeating the one word “Nevermore” at the
+conclusion of each stanza in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length
+about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object
+_supremeness_, or perfection at all points, I asked myself—“Of all
+melancholy topics what, according to the _universal_ understanding of
+mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?” Death, was the obvious reply. “And
+when,” I said, “is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?” From
+what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is
+obvious—“When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_: the death,
+then, of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in
+the world, and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for
+such topic are those of a bereaved lover.”
+
+I had now to combine the two ideas of a lover lamenting his deceased
+mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word “Nevermore.” I had
+to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying at every turn the
+_application_ of the word repeated, but the only intelligible mode of
+such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in
+answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once
+the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending,
+that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that
+I could make the first query propounded by the lover—the first query
+to which the Raven should reply “Nevermore”—that I could make this first
+query a commonplace one, the second less so, the third still less, and
+so on, until at length the lover, startled from his original
+_nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself, by its
+frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of
+the fowl that uttered it, is at length excited to superstition, and
+wildly propounds queries of a far different character—queries whose
+solution he has passionately at heart—propounds them half in
+superstition and half in that species of despair which delights in
+self-torture—propounds them not altogether because he believes in the
+prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which reason assures him is
+merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a
+frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the
+_expected_ ”Nevermore“ the most delicious because the most intolerable
+of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me, or, more
+strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction, I
+first established in mind the climax or concluding query—that query to
+which ”Nevermore“ should be in the last place an answer—that query in
+reply to which this word ”Nevermore“ should involve the utmost
+conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
+
+Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning, at the end where
+all works of art should begin; for it was here, at this point of my
+preconsiderations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of
+the stanza:
+
+  “Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!
+  By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore,
+  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
+  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
+  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
+                  Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the
+climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and
+importance, the preceding queries of the lover, and secondly, that I
+might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and
+general arrangement of the stanza, as well as graduate the stanzas which
+were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical
+effect. Had I been able in the subsequent composition to construct more
+vigorous stanzas, I should without scruple have purposely enfeebled them
+so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
+
+And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first
+object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been
+neglected in versification is one of the most unaccountable things in
+the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere
+_rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and
+stanza are absolutely infinite; and yet, _for centuries, no man, in
+verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original
+thing_. The fact is that originality (unless in minds of very unusual
+force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or
+intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and,
+although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its
+attainment less of invention than negation.
+
+Of course I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of
+the “Raven.” The former is trochaic—the latter is octameter
+acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the
+_refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter
+catalectic. Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout (trochees)
+consist 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 _combination into stanza_; nothing even
+remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The
+effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual and
+some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the
+application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
+
+The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the
+lover and the Raven—and the first branch of this consideration was the
+_locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a
+forest, or the fields—but it has always appeared to me that a close
+_circumscription of space_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of
+insulated incident—it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an
+indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of
+course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
+
+I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber—in a chamber
+rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The
+room is represented as richly furnished—this in mere pursuance of the
+ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole
+true poetical thesis.
+
+The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird—and
+the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The
+idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the
+flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a “tapping” at
+the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader’s
+curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from
+the lover’s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence
+adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that
+knocked.
+
+I made the night tempestuous, first to account for the Raven’s seeking
+admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical)
+serenity within the chamber.
+
+I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of
+contrast between the marble and the plumage—it being understood that
+the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird—the bust of _Pallas_
+being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the
+lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
+
+About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force
+of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For
+example, an air of the fantastic—approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
+as was admissible—is given to the Raven’s entrance. He comes in “with
+many a flirt and flutter.”
+
+  Not the _least obeisance made he_—not a moment stopped or stayed he,
+  _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door.
+
+In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried
+out:
+
+  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
+  By the _grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore_,
+  “Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
+  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore—
+  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore?”
+                  Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
+
+  Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly,
+  Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
+  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
+  _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
+  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_,
+                  With such name as “Nevermore.”
+
+The effect of the _dénouement_ being thus provided for, I immediately
+drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness—this
+tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted,
+with the line,
+
+  But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+
+From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no longer sees anything even
+of the fantastic in the Raven’s demeanour. He speaks of him as a “grim,
+ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,” and feels the
+“fiery eyes” burning into his “bosom’s core.” This revolution of
+thought, or fancy, on the lover’s part, is intended to induce a similar
+one on the part of the reader—to bring the mind into a proper frame for
+the _dénouement_—which is now brought about as rapidly and as
+_directly_ as possible.
+
+With the _dénouement_ proper—with the Raven’s reply, “Nevermore,” to
+the lover’s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another
+world—the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may
+be said to have its completion. So far, everything is within the limits
+of the accountable—of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the
+single word “Nevermore,” and having escaped from the custody of its
+owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek
+admission at a window from which a light still gleams—the
+chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring 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 demeanour,
+demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The
+Raven addressed, answers with its customary word, “Nevermore”—a word
+which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who,
+giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is
+again startled by the fowl’s repetition of “Nevermore.” The student now
+guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before
+explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by
+superstition, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him,
+the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated
+answer “Nevermore.” With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this
+self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious
+phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no
+overstepping of the limits of the real.
+
+But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an
+array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness which
+repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required—first,
+some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly,
+some amount of suggestiveness—some undercurrent, however indefinite, of
+meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art
+so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term)
+which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the
+_excess_ of the suggested meaning—it is the rendering this the upper
+instead of the under current of theme—which turns into prose (and that
+of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called
+transcendentalists.
+
+Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the
+poem—their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative
+which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first
+apparent in the lines—
+
+  “Take thy beak from out _my heart_, and take thy form from off my door!”
+                  Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
+
+It will be observed that the words, “from out my heart,” involve the
+first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer,
+“Nevermore,” dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been
+previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as
+emblematical—but it is not until the very last line of the very last
+stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and
+never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:
+
+  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
+  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
+  And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
+  And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
+  And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor
+                  Shall be lifted—nevermore!
+
+[Illustration: FINIS]
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+  CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
+  TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Transcriber's Note
+
+Full-page illustrations have been moved to the nearest paragraph break in order to
+maintain the flow of the text. Page number errors in the Contents
+and the List of Illustrations have been corrected without note.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76996 ***
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+
+
+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76996 ***</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp48" id="cover" style="max-width: 156.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="center lg">
+<b>THE POEMS OF<br>
+EDGAR ALLAN POE</b></p>
+
+<p class="center"><b><a href="#CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></b></p>
+
+<p class="center"><b><a href="#Transcribers_Note">Transcriber’s Note</a></b></p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="center lg"><b><i>The Endymion Series</i></b></p>
+
+<hr class="short">
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="hang">POEMS BY JOHN KEATS. Illustrated and decorated
+by Robert Anning Bell. With an Introduction
+by Professor Walter Raleigh, M.A. Second Edition,
+revised, with several New Illustrations. Post 8vo. 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum (<i>all sold</i>).</span></p>
+
+<p class="hang">POEMS BY ROBERT BROWNING. Illustrated
+and decorated by Byam Shaw. With an Introduction
+by Richard Garnett, LL.D., C.B. Second Edition. Post
+8vo. 7<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum (<i>all sold</i>).</span></p>
+
+<p class="hang">ENGLISH LYRICS FROM SPENSER TO 
+MILTON. Illustrated and decorated by R. Anning Bell.
+With an Introduction by John Dennis. Post 8vo. 6<i>s.</i><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21<i>s.</i> net.</span></p>
+
+<p class="hang">MILTON’S MINOR POEMS.  Illustrated and
+decorated by Alfred Garth Jones. Post 8vo. 6<i>s.</i><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21<i>s.</i> net.</span></p>
+
+<p class="hang">THE POEMS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Illustrated
+and decorated by W. Heath Robinson. With an
+Introduction by Noel Williams. Post 8vo. 6<i>s.</i><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Also a limited Edition on Japanese Vellum. 21<i>s.</i> net.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="short">
+
+<p class="center">LONDON: GEORGE BELL &amp; SONS</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp48" id="frontispiece" style="max-width: 46.625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">AL AARAAF</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp47" id="title" style="max-width: 38.25em;">
+  <img class="w100 black" src="images/title.jpg" alt="title page">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="bbox">
+
+<h1>THE POEMS<br>
+<span class="sm">OF</span><br>
+<span class="lg">EDGAR ALLAN POE</span></h1>
+
+<p class="center lg"><b>ILLUSTRATED AND<br>
+DECORATED BY<br>
+W. HEATH ROBINSON<br>
+WITH AN INTRODUCTION<br>
+BY H. NOEL WILLIAMS</b></p>
+
+<hr class="short">
+
+<p class="center"><b>LONDON: GEORGE BELL &amp; SONS<br>
+NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN C<sup>o.</sup><br>
+1900</b></p>
+
+<hr class="short">
+
+<p class="center sm">CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.<br>
+TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii">-vii-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp98 bp" style="max-width: 30.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/contents.jpg" alt="contents">
+</figure>
+
+<table style="width: 80%">
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr" colspan="2"><span class="sm">PAGE</span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td>INTRODUCTION</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xv">xv</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td>PREFACE AND DEDICATION TO THE VOLUME OF 1845</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xxxiii">xxxiii</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">POEMS</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Raven</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Bells</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Ulalume</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Bridal Ballad</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Lenore</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">A Valentine</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">An Enigma</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To Helen</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">For Annie</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42">42</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii">-viii-</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To F——s S. O——d</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To —— ——</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The City in the Sea</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Conqueror Worm</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Sleeper</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Coliseum</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Dreamland</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Eulalie</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To my Mother</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Eldorado</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To F——</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To One in Paradise</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Hymn</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">A Dream within a Dream</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To Zante</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Haunted Palace</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Silence</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Israfel</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To M. L. S——</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Valley of Unrest</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To Helen</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Sonnet: To Science</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Spirits of the Dead</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Evening Star</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Fairyland</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">The Lake: To ——</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">A Dream</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">A Pæan</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix">-ix-</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“The Happiest Day”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Alone</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Stanzas</span> (“In youth I have known one”)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To ——</span> (“The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see”)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To the River</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">To ——</span> (“I heed not that my earthly lot”)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111">111</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Song</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Dreams</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Romance</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Tamerlane</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Al Aaraaf</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Notes to Al Aaraaf</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">LETTER TO MR. ——: Introduction to Poems (1831)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">ESSAY ON THE POETIC PRINCIPLE</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">ESSAY ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100 tp" id="contents_tail" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/contents_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi">-xi-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100 bp" id="illustrations" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/illustrations.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<table style="width: 80%">
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><span class="smcap"><a href="#frontispiece">Frontispiece</a>: “Al Aaraaf.”</span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdr" colspan="2"><span class="sm">PAGE</span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan="2"><span class="smcap"><a href="#title">Title-page.</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Contents</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_ix">ix</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">List of Illustrations</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xiv">xiv</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Introduction</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xv">xv</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xxxii">xxxii</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Preface and Dedication of the Volume of 1845</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xxxiii">xxxiii</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Headpiece to Preface</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xxxv">xxxv</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Border to Dedication</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_xxxvii">xxxvii</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Poems</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Raven</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“The night’s plutonian shore”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Bells</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“The swinging and the ringing of the bells”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_20">20</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii">-xii-</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Ulalume</span> (<i>frontispiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Astarte</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“In agony sobbed”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“It was down by the dank tarn of Auber”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Bridal Ballad</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Lenore</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Lenore</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">A Valentine</span> (<i>tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">A Valentine</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">An Enigma</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To Helen</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">For Annie</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To F——s S. O——d</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To —— ——</span> (<i>tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The City in the Sea</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">“With its Phantom chased for evermore<br>
+By a crowd that seize it not”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: bottom"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td>
+</tr><tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Conqueror Worm</span> (<i>tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Sleeper</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“The lady sleeps”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Coliseum</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">“Where an Eidolon, named Night,<br>
+On a black throne reigns upright”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: bottom"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Eulalie</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To my Mother</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Eldorado: “He met a pilgrim shadow”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“In search of Eldorado”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To F——</span> (<i>head- and tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii">-xiii-</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To One in Paradise</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Hymn</span> (<i>head- and tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">A Dream within a Dream</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“I stand amid the roar<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Of a surf-tormented shore”</span></span></td>
+<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: bottom"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+
+<td><span class="smcap">To Zante</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Haunted Palace</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“But evil things, in robes of sorrow,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1em">Assailed the monarch’s high estate”</span></span></td>
+<td class="tdr" style="vertical-align: bottom"><a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Silence</span> (<i>head-and tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Silence</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Israfel</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Israfel</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To M. L. S——</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Valley of Unrest</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_90">90</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Poems written in Youth</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To Helen</span> (<i>decorated border</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Sonnet: To Science</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Spirits of the Dead</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Evening Star</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Evening Star</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Fairyland</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Lake: To ——</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">A Dream</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">A Pæan</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Happiest Day</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Alone</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Alone</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Stanzas</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To ——</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">To the River</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111">111</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv">-xiv-</a></span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Song</span> (<i>head- and tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Dreams</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Romance</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Tamerlane</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“On the mountain peak alone”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Timour</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_126">126</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Al Aaraaf</span> (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece to Part I.</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“She ceased—and buried then her burning
+cheek</span></td>
+<td class="tdr">&nbsp;</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">Abashed, amid the lilies</span>”</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece to Part II.</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece to Notes</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td>Scenes from “Politian” (<i>decorated title</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi"><span class="smcap">“I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with
+God”</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Letter to Mr. ——</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Tailpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Poetic Principle</span> (<i>frontispiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td class="tdi">(<i>Headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">The Philosophy of Composition</span> (<i>headpiece</i>)</td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td><span class="smcap">Finis</span></td>
+<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100 tp" id="illustrations_tail" style="max-width: 25.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/illustrations_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xv">-xv-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">INTRODUCTION</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="introduction" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/introduction.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p class="tp">“<span class="smcap">A lie</span>,” says an American proverb, “will run
+from Maine to Mexico while Truth is putting on
+its boots,” and the memories of few celebrated
+men have been more freely aspersed or more
+tardily vindicated than has that of Edgar Allan
+Poe. No sooner was the breath out of his body
+than his enemies addressed themselves to the
+congenial task of bespattering his reputation,
+and continued to do so, unchecked and almost
+unchallenged, for many years. Amongst other
+charges so contemptible as to be unworthy of
+a moment’s consideration, he was held up to
+public execration as a confirmed inebriate and
+denounced as a shameless plagiarist. At this
+distance of time it is hardly necessary to remark
+that the former charge was a particularly
+cruel perversion of the truth, while the latter
+was entirely without foundation. But it is a
+well-known axiom that, if only a sufficiency of
+mud is thrown, some of it is sure to stick; and
+in consequence Poe was for a long time denied
+that place on the roll of fame to which his
+remarkable talents, both as a poet and a
+romancer, fairly entitled him. The present
+generation, however, has witnessed a signal
+reaction in his favour. Thanks to the untiring
+efforts of several prominent men of letters both
+in his own country and in England, the darker<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvi">-xvi-</a></span>
+shadows which rested upon his name have been
+effectually dispersed; the world has gradually
+come to take a more just view both of his character
+and his genius; and in this, the closing
+year of the nineteenth century, we find Poe’s
+reputation more firmly established than at any
+time since his untimely death in 1849.</p>
+
+<p>To a right understanding of the works of any
+author some knowledge of his life is essential,
+for a man’s writings are always to a greater or
+less extent the reflection of his character and
+his surroundings. Of course there are exceptions
+to this as to other rules. There are
+authors whose forte lies in describing the passions
+and the impossibility of controlling them,
+and who in private life are confirmed misogynists;
+while there are others, whose most entertaining
+books have been dictated upon a bed
+of suffering from which there was little chance
+of their ever rising again. But Poe was not
+one of these exceptions: in his writings—and
+more especially in his poetry—his character is
+mirrored for all men to behold it.</p>
+
+<p>Naturally of a morbid temperament, Poe’s innate
+propensity to look upon the dark side of
+things was strengthened by the circumstances in
+which he was placed. His life was one of continuous
+disappointment. He laboured incessantly,
+and hardly earned enough to keep body and
+soul together; he was, perhaps, the most original
+genius of his time, and was accused of pilfering
+from the work of vastly inferior minds; he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvii">-xvii-</a></span>
+intensely ambitious, and remained a literary hack
+to the end of his days; he was of a most affectionate
+disposition, and was compelled to witness
+the one whom he loved best upon earth in the
+grip of a cruel and lingering disease, without
+possessing the means of procuring her the comforts
+which might have alleviated her sufferings.
+Knowing all this, can we wonder at the tone of
+settled melancholy which pervades his poetry—the
+regret for what might have been, the yearning
+for what can never be? Here and there,
+it is true, he strikes a different note, as in
+“Eulalie” and the charming little lyric “To
+Helen,” which latter poem, however, was written
+when he was still a boy; but these variations,
+like glimpses of blue sky on a dark and lowering
+horizon, only serve to intensify the general gloom.
+And yet, in spite of their sadness, there is a
+pathetic sweetness in his verses, which appeals
+irresistibly to the heart, and makes the reader
+fain to admit that in his particular strain Poe is
+indeed a master.</p>
+
+<p>Born at Boston on January 19th, 1809—the
+son of one David Poe, a man of good family,
+who had married an actress and subsequently
+adopted his wife’s profession—Edgar Allan
+Poe had the misfortune to lose both his parents
+in infancy, after which he was adopted by his
+godfather, Mr. John Allan, a wealthy and childless
+Richmond merchant, with the intention, it
+is thought, of making him his heir. The boy
+was handsome, witty, and precocious, and was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xviii">-xviii-</a></span>
+petted and indulged by his adopted father to
+his heart’s content; indeed, it is to the injudicious
+treatment which he then received that
+Poe himself ascribes many of the difficulties
+which beset his path in after life.</p>
+
+<p>When eight years old he was brought to
+England and placed at a school at Stoke Newington
+kept by a Dr. Bransby, who is amusingly
+depicted in “William Wilson,” one of Poe’s
+finest stories. Here he remained five years,
+when he returned to America, and after studying
+until he was seventeen at a Richmond
+academy, matriculated at the University of Virginia,
+at Charlottesville. At the University he
+seems to have acquired some reputation as a
+scholar; but at the end of his first session a difference
+of opinion with his godfather in respect
+of some gambling debts, which the old gentlemen
+very properly refused to pay, led to an
+open quarrel, and Poe, instead of returning to
+Charlottesville, set out for Europe, with the intention
+of assisting the Greeks, then struggling
+to free themselves from the intolerable yoke of
+Turkey. It does not appear, however, that he
+took any part in the war, nor even beheld, except
+in his mind’s eye, the remains of “the glory
+that <i>was</i> Greece.” After wandering about the
+Continent for a couple of years he returned
+home, became reconciled to Mr. Allan, and,
+having expressed a wish to enter the army, was
+accordingly nominated to a cadetship at West
+Point. But, alas, the “Imp of the Perverse”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xix">-xix-</a></span>
+was ever at his heels, and in less than twelve
+months he was cashiered “for various neglects
+of duty and disobedience of orders.”</p>
+
+<p>The loss of his profession—no great matter
+in itself, for anyone less fitted for the strict discipline
+of a military life it would be difficult to
+imagine—was followed by another and far more
+serious quarrel with his adopted father, with the
+result that the young man found himself thrown
+upon his own resources. He had already published
+a small volume of poems—those comprised
+in his last collection as “Poems written
+in Youth”—which included the delightful
+stanzas beginning “Helen, thy beauty is to me,”
+and he now determined to turn to literature for
+a livelihood. Nothing is known of his career
+for the next two years; but in 1833 with a tale,
+“A MS. found in a Bottle,” and a poem, “The
+Coliseum,” he carried off two prizes offered for
+competition by a Baltimore newspaper, and
+having attracted the notice of one of the judges—Mr.
+John Kennedy, a well-known literary
+man—he obtained through his influence employment
+on “The Southern Literary Messenger,”
+at Richmond.</p>
+
+<p>Henceforth, until his death, Poe was intimately
+connected with American journalism,
+and more than one moribund periodical was indebted
+to his eloquent pen for a fresh lease of
+life. He was an indefatigable worker, pouring
+forth poems, essays, stories, and reviews with
+feverish energy; and, at the same time, so fas<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xx">-xx-</a></span>tidious
+that he never permitted a manuscript to
+leave his hands until he was satisfied that he
+had given the public of his very best. Unfortunately
+in America in those days literary work
+was very inadequately remunerated, while copyright
+was a mere farce; so that even for his
+finest poems and his most powerful tales Poe
+never received more than fifty or sixty dollars,
+and generally very much less, and was in consequence
+seldom free from pecuniary embarrassment.
+“The Raven,” which appeared in 1845
+in Cotton’s “American Review,” brought him
+immediate fame, and—ten dollars; and while
+his poem was being read, and recited, and
+parodied all over the English-speaking world,
+the author was actually in want of the common
+necessaries of life. To add to his troubles, his
+wife, Virginia Clemm, a beautiful and charming
+girl whom he had married in 1836, and to whom
+he was most devotedly attached, had soon
+after their marriage contracted a fatal malady,
+and was slowly fading away before his eyes;
+and his anxiety on her behalf thoroughly unnerved
+him and weakened his power of self-restraint,
+never at any time very great. It was
+this, combined with ill-health and the strain of
+overwork, which drove him to the use of the
+stimulants which ultimately proved his ruin;
+but the statement that he habitually drank to
+excess was a malicious fabrication. The fact
+was that poor Poe, in common with many other
+people of a nervous, highly-strung tempera<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxi">-xxi-</a></span>ment,
+was, as one of his most intimate friends
+assures us, unable to take “even a single glass
+of wine” with impunity.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs. Poe died in 1847, and in the autumn of
+the following year Poe became engaged to a
+widow, named Mrs. Whitman, a lady of considerable
+literary attainments. This engagement,
+from which his friends hoped much, was
+unfortunately soon broken off, for reasons which
+have never been satisfactorily explained, and on
+October 7th, 1849, the poet died under painful
+circumstances at Baltimore.</p>
+
+<p>It is frequently asserted that Poe is a single-poem
+poet—that he is indebted for the niche he
+now occupies in the Temple of Song mainly to
+his wonderful poem “The Raven”; and that if
+“The Raven” had never been written, Poe would
+now be remembered merely as a skilful weaver
+of sensational romances, who wrote passable,
+if somewhat fantastic, verses in his leisure
+moments. But those who hold this opinion
+not only do Poe a grave injustice, but admit
+themselves incapable of appreciating some of
+the very finest lyrics in the English language.
+“The Raven,” it is true, is the poem whose
+artificial qualities appeal most strongly to the
+fancy of the general reader, and for this reason,
+if for no other, is entitled to all due respect
+from the critic; but remarkable as it undoubtedly
+is, it is open to question whether,
+considered purely as a poem, it is quite on the
+same plane with that masterpiece of imagina<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxii">-xxii-</a></span>tion
+“The City in the Sea,” the mystical town
+where “Death has reared himself a throne,” or
+with that exquisite lyric “The Sleeper,” in
+which Poe’s inimitable power as a word-painter
+rises to such a height that we almost seem to
+see the beautiful dead woman lying pale and
+still in her “length of tress” waiting to exchange
+her death-chamber</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent5">“For one more holy,</div>
+    <div class="verse">This bed for one more melancholy.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>Again, if neither “The Raven” nor either of
+the two poems we have just mentioned had
+been given to the world, such productions as
+“The Haunted Palace,” “Annabel Lee,” and
+“To Helen,” to say nothing of “Israfel,”
+“Ulalume,” and “The Bells,” containing as
+they do passages of the rarest charm, would
+surely have sufficed to keep their author’s
+memory green for all time. What can one
+possibly desire finer of their kind than those
+lines from that splendid piece of verbal music,
+“The Haunted Palace,” which no lover of Poe
+can resist quoting?—</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Banners yellow, glorious, golden,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On its roof did float and flow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(This—all this—was in the olden</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Time long ago,)</div>
+    <div class="verse">And every gentle air that dallied,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In that sweet day,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A wingèd odour went away.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>However, although, as we have said, “The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxiii">-xxiii-</a></span>
+Raven” is, in its poetical constituents, probably
+inferior to some of Poe’s other poems, yet it is
+in the mind of the average reader so inseparably
+connected with its author’s claim to rank
+among</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent3">“The bards sublime,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose distant footsteps echo</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through the corridors of Time,”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>that it may not be out of place to say something
+about the way in which it came to be
+written. And first let us remark that the impression
+that still very generally prevails that “The
+Raven” was inspired by the death of the poet’s
+wife—that she is the “Lost Lenore” of the
+poem—is altogether erroneous, inasmuch as
+Virginia Poe’s death did not take place until
+January, 1847, while “The Raven” was first
+published in February, 1845—nearly two years
+earlier.</p>
+
+<p>Poe himself, in his essay “The Philosophy
+of Composition,” in which he treats us to a very
+elaborate analysis of the methods employed in
+writing this poem, while ridiculing the suggestion
+that it was the offspring of any sudden
+impulse—of “any species of fine frenzy” under
+the influence of which poets are popularly
+believed to compose their masterpieces—does
+not admit that he is indebted for either the
+rhythm or the idea of “The Raven” to any
+extraneous sources. Several of his critics,
+however, regard this essay as not the least
+imaginative of his writings, and even hint that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxiv">-xxiv-</a></span>
+it is nothing more or less than an ingenious
+attempt to throw dust in the eyes of a too
+inquisitive public. One of the ablest and most
+discriminating of Poe’s critics, Mr. Stedman, in
+the admirable essay which is prefaced to Gustave
+Doré’s illustrations of this poem, while not
+going so far as this, is of the opinion that the
+rhythm of “The Raven” was suggested by
+Mrs. Browning’s (then Elizabeth Barrett)
+charming poem “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,”
+in proof of which he points out a very remarkable
+similarity between certain verses in the
+two poems. Thus in Mrs. Browning’s poem
+we have:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“With a murmurous stir uncertain in the air the purple curtain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>While in “The Raven” we find:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>The fact that it was very largely due to the
+influence of Poe that Mrs. Browning’s works
+received such a favourable reception in America
+(she was a frequent contributor to “Graham’s
+Magazine” while it was edited by him); that
+he always professed the most intense admiration
+both for her genius and her lyrical methods;
+and that he subsequently dedicated to her, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxv">-xxv-</a></span>
+“the noblest of her sex,” “The Raven and
+Other Poems,” would certainly seem to lend
+colour to this suggestion. Mr. Stedman, it may
+be added, does not insinuate that there is anything
+in this similarity which can possibly be
+construed into an act of plagiarism on the part
+of the American writer; indeed, the whole
+motive of the two poems—the one a love-story
+pure and simple with an ideal ending; the
+other a weird, fantastic creation, breathing an
+atmosphere of doubt and despair, of desires
+unfulfilled and hope abandoned—is altogether
+different.</p>
+
+<p>Another theory, propounded by Mr. Ingram,
+who has, perhaps, done more than anyone to
+vindicate the memory of Poe from the calumnies
+of his <i><span lang="fr">soi-disant</span></i> biographer, Griswold, is that
+the inspiration of “The Raven” is to be found
+in a poem called “Isidore,” which was contributed
+by Albert Pike, the Arkansas poet, to
+“The New Mirror,” at a time when Poe was
+writing for the same journal. In this poem a
+bird “whose song enhances depression”—a
+mocking-bird to wit—also figures, while the
+refrain is not unlike that of “The Raven.”
+However, even if we are prepared to admit
+that “The Raven” is not so entirely the fruit
+of its author’s imagination as was at first supposed,
+this fact does not sensibly detract from
+the merits of a work which must always retain
+its place amongst the masterpieces of English
+verse.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxvi">-xxvi-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Poe then, as we have endeavoured to show,
+is very far from being a single-poem poet; but,
+on the other hand, he is undoubtedly the poet
+of a single mood—a mood which by no stretch
+of the imagination can be called a pleasing one
+in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but
+withal so striking and so original as to command—nay,
+even to compel—the reader’s
+attention. Poe does not sing of “emerald
+fields” and “ambient streams,” like Wordsworth;
+of wide, rolling prairies and dense
+forests of murmuring pines, like Longfellow; of
+“stainless knights” and “lily maids,” like
+Tennyson; nor of love both within and without
+the limits of the conscience, like Byron. No,
+his theme is a widely different one from all
+these. As with his prose romances so with his
+poetry. Just as in his romances he concerns
+himself in the main with subjects which most
+writers of fiction leave severely alone—with
+death in strange and awful forms; with the
+horrors of insanity and remorse; with men who
+under mesmeric influences continue to speak
+long after the King of Terrors has laid his icy
+finger upon them; with others who are prematurely
+buried, and who explore the secrets of
+the charnel-house—in a word, with what his
+friend honest John Kennedy called “the terrific”:
+so in his poetry his song is of phantom
+cities sinking into fathomless seas; of demon
+shapes flitting through enchanted palaces; of
+ghoul-haunted tarns; of “sheeted memories of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxvii">-xxvii-</a></span>
+the past”; of loved ones who have been taken
+from us, and of the utter hopelessness of reunion
+with them in “the distant Aidenn.”
+Sadness, as we have said elsewhere, is the
+dominant note of all his poetry; but sadness, as
+he himself tells us in his “Philosophy of Composition,”
+was his conception of the highest
+tone of Beauty, and therefore the most legitimate
+of all the poetical tones. Thus we understand
+why it is that the death of a beautiful
+woman—the saddest of all losses—forms the
+burden of so many of his finest lyrics. How
+different is all this from Shelley, who defines
+poetry as what redeems from decay the visitations
+of the divinity in man, and is the record
+of the best and happiest moments of the best
+and happiest minds; and yet Poe in his earlier
+efforts, such as “Tamerlane” and “Al Aaraaf,”
+was obviously the disciple of Shelley!</p>
+
+<p>As we read these wonderful poems we are
+alternately repelled and attracted; still, strive as
+we may, we cannot escape the spell of those
+weird, mystic measures. When once we begin
+a poem, whether it be “The Raven,” “The City
+in the Sea,” or even “The Conqueror Worm,”
+we are compelled, in spite of ourselves, to read
+on to the end; and when the end is reached, it
+is not seldom with a sigh of regret that we
+close the book.</p>
+
+<p>Poe confined himself almost entirely to simple
+ballad forms—which is the case even in poems
+like “Ulalume” and “The Bells,” where the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxviii">-xxviii-</a></span>
+measures certainly seem at first sight to be
+somewhat intricate—and relied for his effect
+upon the melody. With him everything was
+subordinate to sound. Here and there, as in
+“Ulalume,” it must be admitted that, in striving
+to please the ear, he approaches perilously near
+the point where “sense swoons into nonsense”;
+but, on the whole, as a melodist he achieved
+wonders, and no poet has used the refrain and
+the repetend in quite the same way or so
+effectively. What, for instance, in “The Bells”
+could possibly be more telling than the constant
+repetition of the word which gives its name to
+the poem? The repetend, his free use of which
+did so much for the success of “The Raven,”
+he employed even more lavishly in some of his
+later poems, such as “Lenore,” “Annabel Lee,”
+“Ulalume,” and “For Annie,” and with the
+happiest results. Thus:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>And again:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the misty mid region of Weir—</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>In the management of his metres, too, Poe
+stands almost without a rival. Unlike the
+majority of poets, who, in determining the length
+of a poem, are guided by the sense rather than<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxix">-xxix-</a></span>
+by the sound, he regarded the melody as of
+equal if not of primary importance, and one
+famous critic has declared that “it would be
+impossible to omit a line or stanza without injuring
+the metrical as well as the intelligible
+effect.”</p>
+
+<p>Regret is often expressed that—with the
+single exception of “Al Aaraaf,” which, however,
+was written when his intellect was still in
+its adolescent stage, and has done comparatively
+little to enhance his reputation—Poe, almost
+alone among the great poets of the nineteenth
+century, should never have given us a poem of
+any considerable length. But as a journalistic
+hack, forced to write by the column for his
+daily bread, Poe had but scant leisure for the
+composition of a “Childe Harold,” an “Endymion,”
+or a “Hiawatha,” and, moreover, it is
+extremely doubtful whether, even if the range
+of his possibilities had not been limited by his
+poverty, he would have done so, as he seems to
+have had a most profound contempt for prolixity
+in poetry. In his essay, “The Poetic Principle,”
+he maintains that “the phrase ‘a long
+poem’ is simply a flat contradiction in terms,”—that
+a poem deserves its title only inasmuch
+as it excites by elevating the soul; and that, as
+all such emotions are, by a psychical necessity,
+transient, it is obviously impossible for the
+necessary degree of excitement to be maintained
+throughout a composition of any great length.
+“After the lapse of half an hour at the very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxx">-xxx-</a></span>
+utmost,” he says, “it flags—fails—a revulsion
+ensues—and then the poem is, in effect and in
+fact, no longer such.” This theory of Poe’s
+gave rise to much hostile criticism, and justly
+so; still, it cannot be doubted that the time-honoured
+notion that no poem can be termed
+great that is not a long one, and no poet worthy
+of the name who has not written a long poem,
+has deprived the world of much fine lyric poetry
+by compelling able men to expend their time
+and energy in the production of bulky epics, for
+which in many cases their genius was but ill-adapted,
+instead of confining themselves to the
+lighter forms of verse. While thus condemning
+prolixity, however, Poe does not deny that a
+poem may be “improperly brief,” and thus
+“degenerate into mere epigrammatism”; and
+that “a <i>very</i> short poem,” however great its intrinsic
+merits may be, can never hope to produce
+a profound or a lasting effect. He mentions
+Shelley’s exquisite “Lines to an Indian Air,”
+and his own friend Willis’s pathetic ballad,
+“Unseen Spirits,” as instances of poems which
+had failed to receive adequate recognition by
+reason of undue brevity.</p>
+
+<p>The secret of Poe’s hostility to the long poem
+is probably to be found in the fact that he had
+the strongest possible aversion to the introduction
+of metaphysics into poetry, which he regarded
+as the “child of Taste,” whose sole
+function ought to be “the rhythmical creation
+of Beauty”; and the long poem had to a very<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxi">-xxxi-</a></span>
+large extent become identified with the Didactic
+school of poets, of which Wordsworth was the
+principal exponent.</p>
+
+<p>Poe was not the first to raise a protest against
+what he termed “the <i>heresy</i> of the Didactic.”
+Years before, Keats had declared that “people
+hated poetry that had a palpable design upon
+them,” and that “poetry should be great and unobtrusive.”
+Poe, however, went very much
+farther than the author of “Endymion” would
+have been likely to accompany him, for he maintains
+that “poetry has only collateral relations
+with the intellect and the conscience, and, unless
+incidentally, no concern whatever with either
+duty or truth.” To anyone who has even a
+superficial acquaintance with the great masters
+of verse the fallacy of such a proposition is
+obvious. Without the conception of duty and
+of truth, from which spring noble passions and
+great deeds—religious enthusiasm, love of humanity,
+love of liberty, self-sacrifice, loyalty, and
+patriotism—we should have had no Æschylus,
+no Sophocles, no Euripides, no Homer, no
+Shakespeare, no Milton, and no Tennyson—which
+reflection may enable us to bear with
+comparative equanimity the platitudes of the
+latter-day poet.</p>
+
+<p>What Poe might have done or have left undone,
+had not “unmerciful Disaster” dogged his
+footsteps, and carried him off, as it had carried
+off Burns, and Keats, and Shelley, and Byron,
+and many another child of genius, before he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxii">-xxxii-</a></span>
+had reached the meridian of his days, it were
+idle to speculate; but this much is certain—that,
+when the works of far greater poets have
+fallen into neglect, Poe will still be read and still
+appreciated, for, in the domain which he made
+so peculiarly his own, it is hardly possible to
+imagine that he will ever have to encounter
+anything approaching serious rivalry, while the
+feelings which he appeals to are universal.</p>
+
+<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Noel Williams.</span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp49 tp" id="intro_tail" style="max-width: 16.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/intro_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxiii">-xxxiii-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">PREFACE <span class="sm">AND</span> DEDICATION<br>
+<span class="sm">OF VOLUME OF 1845</span></h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp46" id="preface_dedication" style="max-width: 28.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/preface_dedication.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxv">-xxxv-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">PREFACE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="preface" style="max-width: 39em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/preface.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p class="tp"><span class="smcap">These</span> 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.</p>
+
+<p class="right">E. A. P.</p>
+
+<p>1845.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxvi">-xxxvi-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp70 tp" style="max-width: 33.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/preface_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xxxvii">-xxxvii-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">DEDICATION<br>
+<span class="sm">OF THE VOLUME OF 1845</span></h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp46" id="dedication" style="max-width: 38.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/dedication.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p class="center lg"><span class="sm">TO</span><br>
+THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX—</p>
+
+<p class="center lg"><span class="sm">TO THE AUTHOR OF</span><br>
+“THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—</p>
+
+<p class="center lg"><span class="sm">TO</span><br>
+MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,<br>
+<span class="sm">OF ENGLAND,</span><br><br>
+<i>I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME</i><br><br>
+<span class="sm">WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND<br>
+WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.</span></p>
+
+<p class="right"><span style="margin-right: 16em;">E. A. P.</span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1">-1-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">Poems</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp46" id="poems" style="max-width: 37.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/poems.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3">3</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE RAVEN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100 bp" id="raven" style="max-width: 30.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/raven.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Once</span> upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.</div>
+    <div class="verse">“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Only this and nothing more.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow</div>
+    <div class="verse">From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Nameless here for evermore.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4">4</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating</div>
+    <div class="verse">“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">This it is and nothing more.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And so faintly you came tapping—tapping at my chamber door,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door:—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Darkness there and nothing more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”</div>
+    <div class="verse">This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Merely this and nothing more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5">5</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">’Tis the wind and nothing more.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Perched, and sat, and nothing more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6">-6-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">With such name as “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only</div>
+    <div class="verse">That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before—</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the morrow <i>he</i> will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster</div>
+    <div class="verse">Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8">-8-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50 bp" id="thenights" style="max-width: 29.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/thenights.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">THE NIGHT’S</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9">-9-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp51 bp" id="plutonianshore" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/plutonianshore.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">PLUTONIAN SHORE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11">-11-</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;</div>
+    <div class="verse">This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6"><i>She</i> shall press, ah, nevermore!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer</div>
+    <div class="verse">Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee</div>
+    <div class="verse">Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—</div>
+    <div class="verse">On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is there—<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12">-12-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,</div>
+    <div class="verse">It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Shall be lifted—nevermore!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13">-13-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE BELLS</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp53" id="bells_full" style="max-width: 30.25em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/bells_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15">-15-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100 bp" id="bells_head" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/bells_head.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">THE BELLS</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>I</b></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4"><span class="smcap">Hear</span> the sledges with the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Silver bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse">What a world of merriment their melody foretells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">In the icy air of night!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">While the stars, that oversprinkle</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">All the heavens, seem to twinkle</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">With a crystalline delight;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Keeping time, time, time,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In a sort of Runic rhyme,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">From the bells, bells, bells, bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>II</b></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Hear the mellow wedding bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Golden bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse">What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Through the balmy air of night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How they ring out their delight!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">From the molten-golden notes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">And all in tune,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">What a liquid ditty floats</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">On the moon!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16">-16-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Oh, from out the sounding cells,</div>
+    <div class="verse">What a gush of euphony voluminously wells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">How it swells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">How it dwells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">On the future! how it tells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Of the rapture that impels</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">To the swinging and the ringing</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Of the bells, bells, bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>III</b></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Hear the loud alarum bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Brazen bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse">What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In the startled ear of night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How they scream out their affright!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Too much horrified to speak,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">They can only shriek, shriek,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">Out of tune,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Leaping higher, higher, higher,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">With a desperate desire,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And a resolute endeavour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Now—now to sit or never,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">By the side of the pale-faced moon.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Oh, the bells, bells, bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">What a tale their terror tells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Of Despair!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How they clang, and crash, and roar!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">What a horror they outpour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On the bosom of the palpitating air!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Yet the ear it fully knows,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">By the twanging,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">And the clanging,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19">-19-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">How the danger ebbs and flows;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Yet the ear distinctly tells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">In the jangling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent7">And the wrangling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How the danger sinks and swells,</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp52" id="bellringers" style="max-width: 30.9375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/bellringers.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>IV</b></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Hear the tolling of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Iron bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse">What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In the silence of the night,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">How we shiver with affright</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">At the melancholy menace of their tone!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">For every sound that floats</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">From the rust within their throats</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Is a groan.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And the people—ah, the people—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">They that dwell up in the steeple,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">All alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And who tolling, tolling, tolling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In that muffled monotone,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Feel a glory in so rolling</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">On the human heart a stone—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">They are neither man nor woman—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">They are neither brute nor human—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">They are Ghouls:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">And their king it is who tolls;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">And he rolls, rolls, rolls,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Rolls</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">A pæan from the bells!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20">-20-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And his merry bosom swells</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">With the pæan of the bells!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And he dances, and he yells;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Keeping time, time, time,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In a sort of Runic rhyme,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To the pæan of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8">Of the bells:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Keeping time, time, time,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In a sort of Runic rhyme,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To the throbbing of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of the bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To the sobbing of the bells;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Keeping time, time, time,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">As he knells, knells, knells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In a happy Runic rhyme,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To the rolling of the bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of the bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To the tolling of the bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Bells, bells, bells—</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp85" id="bells_tail" style="max-width: 17.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/bells_tail.jpg" alt="bells tailpiece">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22">-22-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">ULALUME</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp48" id="ulalume_full" style="max-width: 30.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/ulalume_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23">-23-</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> skies they were ashen and sober;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The leaves they were crispèd and sere—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The leaves they were withering and sere;</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was night in the lonesome October</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of my most immemorial year;</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In the misty mid region of Weir—</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Here once, through an alley Titanic,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.</div>
+    <div class="verse">These were days when my heart was volcanic</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">As the scoriac rivers that roll—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">As the lavas that restlessly roll</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In the ultimate climes of the pole—</div>
+    <div class="verse">That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In the realms of the boreal pole.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Our talk had been serious and sober,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Our memories were treacherous and sere—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For we knew not the month was October,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And we marked not the night of the year—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">We noted not the dim lake of Auber—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">(Though once we had journeyed down here)—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figleft illowp20" id="astarte" style="max-width: 12.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/astarte.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">ASTARTE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And now, as the night was senescent</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And star-dials pointed to morn—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">As the sun-dials hinted of morn—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24">-24-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">At the end of our path a liquescent</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And nebulous lustre was born,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Out of which a miraculous crescent</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Arose with a duplicate horn—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Astarte’s bediamonded crescent</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Distinct with its duplicate horn.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">She rolls through an ether of sighs—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">She revels in a region of sighs:</div>
+    <div class="verse">She has seen that the tears are not dry on</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">These cheeks, where the worm never dies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And has come past the stars of the Lion</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To point us the path to the skies—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To the Lethean peace of the skies—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Come up, in despite of the Lion,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">To shine on us with her bright eyes—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Come up through the lair of the Lion,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">With love in her luminous eyes.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25">-25-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But Psyche, uplifting her finger,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”</div>
+    <div class="verse">In terror she spoke, letting sink her</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Wings till they trailed in the dust—</div>
+    <div class="verse">In agony sobbed, letting sink her</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Plumes till they trailed in the dust—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Let us on by this tremulous light!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Let us bathe in this crystalline light!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its Sibyllic splendour is beaming</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26">-26-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And be sure it will lead us aright—</div>
+    <div class="verse">We safely may trust to a gleaming</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">That cannot but guide us aright,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp94" id="ulalume2" style="max-width: 30.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/ulalume2.jpg" alt="Psyche">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And tempted her out of her gloom—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And conquered her scruples and gloom;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And we passed to the end of a vista,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">But were stopped by the door of a tomb—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">By the door of a legended tomb;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On the door of this legended tomb?”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then my heart it grew ashen and sober</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">As the leaves that were withering and sere;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I cried—“It was surely October</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On <i>this</i> very night of last year</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">That I brought a dread burden down here!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">On this night of all nights in the year,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Ah, what demon has tempted me here?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">This misty mid region of Weir—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27">-27-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp52" id="ulalume_tail" style="max-width: 29.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/ulalume_tail.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">ULALUME.</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29">-29-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">BRIDAL BALLAD</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="bridalballad" style="max-width: 30.625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/bridalballad.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> ring is on my hand,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the wreath is on my brow;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Satins and jewels grand</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are all at my command,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And I am happy now.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And my lord he loves me well;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But, when first he breathed his vow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I felt my bosom swell—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the words rang as a knell,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the voice seemed <i>his</i> who fell</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the battle down the dell,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And who is happy now.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But he spoke to reassure me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And he kissed my pallid brow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While a reverie came o’er me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And to the churchyard bore me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I sighed to him before me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thinking him dead D’Elormie,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">“Oh, I am happy now!”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And thus the words were spoken,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And thus the plighted vow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, though my faith be broken,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, though my heart be broken,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Behold the golden token</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That <i>proves</i> me happy now!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Would to God I could awaken!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For I dream I know not how,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And my soul is sorely shaken</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lest an evil step be taken,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lest the dead who is forsaken</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">May not be happy now.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30">-30-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">LENORE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp98" id="lenore_head" style="max-width: 38.875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/lenore_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, Guy de Vere, hast <i>thou</i> no tear?—weep now or never more!</div>
+    <div class="verse">See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—</div>
+    <div class="verse">An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her— that she died!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How <i>shall</i> the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung</div>
+    <div class="verse">By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue</div>
+    <div class="verse">That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31">-31-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="lenore_full" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/lenore_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">LENORE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33">-33-</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><i><span lang="la">Peccavimus</span></i>; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song</div>
+    <div class="verse">Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!</div>
+    <div class="verse">The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For her, the fair and <i><span lang="fr">débonnaire</span></i>, that now so lowly lies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let <i>no</i> bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd Earth.</div>
+    <div class="verse">To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34">-34-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak"><a id="A_VALENTINE"></a>A VALENTINE</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">For</span> her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Divine—a talisman—an amulet</div>
+    <div class="verse">That must be worn <i>at heart</i>. Search well the measure—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The words—the syllables! Do not forget</div>
+    <div class="verse">The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And yet there is in this no Gordian knot</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which one might not undo without a sabre,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">If one could merely comprehend the plot.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Eyes scintillating soul, there lie <i><span lang="fr">perdus</span></i></div>
+    <div class="verse">Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of poets by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its letters, although naturally lying</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you <i>can</i> do.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="bp">[To find the name, 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.]</p>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="valentine_tail" style="max-width: 38.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/valentine_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35">-35-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp45" id="valentine_full" style="max-width: 29.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/valentine_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">A VALENTINE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37">-37-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">AN ENIGMA</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp91" id="enigma" style="max-width: 30.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/enigma.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“<span class="smcap">Seldom</span> we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">“Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through all the flimsy things we see at once</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As easily as through a Naples bonnet—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Trash of all trash!—how <i>can</i> a lady don it?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, veritably, Sol is right enough.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The general tuckermanities are arrant</div>
+    <div class="verse">Bubbles—ephemeral and <i>so</i> transparent—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But <i>this</i> is, now—you may depend upon it—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of the dear names that lie concealed within ’t.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class="center">[To find the name, read as in the <a href="#A_VALENTINE">preceding poem</a>.]</p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38">-38-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO HELEN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp84" id="helen" style="max-width: 30.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/helen.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I saw</span> thee once—once only—years ago:</div>
+    <div class="verse">I must not say how many—but not many.</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was a July midnight; and from out</div>
+    <div class="verse">A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand</div>
+    <div class="verse">Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses</div>
+    <div class="verse">That gave out, in return for the love-light,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses</div>
+    <div class="verse">That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted</div>
+    <div class="verse">By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39">-39-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Clad all in white, upon a violet bank</div>
+    <div class="verse">I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow),</div>
+    <div class="verse">That bade me pause before that garden-gate,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?</div>
+    <div class="verse">No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Save only thee and me—(O Heaven!—O God!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And in an instant all things disappeared.</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">The pearly lustre of the moon went out:</div>
+    <div class="verse">The mossy banks and the meandering paths,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The happy flowers and the repining trees,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Were seen no more: the very roses’ odours</div>
+    <div class="verse">Died in the arms of the adoring airs.</div>
+    <div class="verse">All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Save only the divine light in thine eyes—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.</div>
+    <div class="verse">I saw but them—they were the world to me.</div>
+    <div class="verse">I saw but them—saw only them for hours—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Saw only them until the moon went down.</div>
+    <div class="verse">What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How silently serene a sea of pride!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How daring an ambition! yet how deep—</div>
+    <div class="verse">How fathomless a capacity for love!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees</div>
+    <div class="verse">Didst glide away. <i>Only thine eyes remained.</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40">-40-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">They <i>would not</i> go—they never yet have gone.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>They</i> have not left me (as my hopes have) since.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They follow me—they lead me through the years.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They are my ministers—yet I their slave.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their office is to illumine and enkindle—</div>
+    <div class="verse">My duty, <i>to be saved</i> by their bright light,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And purified in their electric fire,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And sanctified in their elysian fire.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),</div>
+    <div class="verse">And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the sad, silent watches of my night;</div>
+    <div class="verse">While even in the meridian glare of day</div>
+    <div class="verse">I see them still—two sweetly scintillant</div>
+    <div class="verse">Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp63" id="helen_tail" style="max-width: 20.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/helen_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41">-41-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">ANNABEL LEE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="annabel" style="max-width: 30.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/annabel.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">It</span> was many and many a year ago</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In a kingdom by the sea,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That a maiden there lived whom you may know</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">By the name of <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And this maiden she lived with no other thought</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Than to love and be loved by me.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><i>I</i> was a child and <i>she</i> was a child,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In this kingdom by the sea:</div>
+    <div class="verse">But we loved with a love that was more than love—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">I and my <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>;</div>
+    <div class="verse">With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Coveted her and me.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And this was the reason that, long ago,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In this kingdom by the sea,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">My beautiful <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>;</div>
+    <div class="verse">So that her highborn kinsmen came</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And bore her away from me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To shut her up in a sepulchre</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In this kingdom by the sea.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The angels, not half so happy in heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Went envying her and me—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In this kingdom by the sea)</div>
+    <div class="verse">That the wind came out of the cloud by night,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Chilling and killing my <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42">-42-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But our love it was stronger by far than the love</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of those who were older than we—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of many far wiser than we—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And neither the angels in heaven above,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Nor the demons down under the sea,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Can ever dissever my soul from the soul</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of the beautiful <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of the beautiful <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of the beautiful <span class="smcap">Annabel Lee</span>;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In her sepulchre there by the sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">In her tomb by the side of the sea.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">FOR ANNIE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="annie" style="max-width: 30.25em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/annie.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Thank</span> Heaven! the crisis—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The danger is past,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the lingering illness</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is over at last—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the fever called “Living”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is conquered at last.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Sadly, I know,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I am shorn of my strength,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And no muscle I move</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As I lie at full length—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43">-43-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">But no matter!—I feel</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I am better at length.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And I rest so composedly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Now in my bed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That any beholder</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Might fancy me dead—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Might start at beholding me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thinking me dead.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The moaning and groaning,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The sighing and sobbing,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are quieted now,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With that horrible throbbing</div>
+    <div class="verse">At heart:—ah, that horrible,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Horrible throbbing!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The sickness—the nausea—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The pitiless pain—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Have ceased, with the fever</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That maddened my brain—</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the fever called “Living”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That burned in my brain.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And oh! of all tortures</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1"><i>That</i> torture the worst</div>
+    <div class="verse">Has abated—the terrible</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Torture of thirst</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the naphthaline river</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of Passion accurst:</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have drank of a water</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That quenches all thirst:—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Of a water that flows,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With a lullaby sound,</div>
+    <div class="verse">From a spring but a very few</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Feet under ground—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From a cavern not very far</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Down under ground.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44">-44-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And ah! let it never</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Be foolishly said</div>
+    <div class="verse">That my room it is gloomy</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And narrow my bed—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For man never slept</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In a different bed;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, to <i>sleep</i>, you must slumber</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In just such a bed.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">My tantalised spirit</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Here blandly reposes,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Forgetting, or never</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Regretting its roses—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its old agitations</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of myrtles and roses:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For now, while so quietly</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Lying, it fancies</div>
+    <div class="verse">A holier odour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">About it, of pansies—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A rosemary odour,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Commingled with pansies—</div>
+    <div class="verse">With rue and the beautiful</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Puritan pansies.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And so it lies happily,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Bathing in many</div>
+    <div class="verse">A dream of the truth</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the beauty of Annie—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Drowned in a bath</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the tresses of Annie.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">She tenderly kissed me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">She fondly caressed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And then I fell gently</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To sleep on her breast—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Deeply to sleep</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From the heaven of her breast.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45">-45-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">When the light was extinguished</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">She covered me warm,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And she prayed to the angels</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To keep me from harm—</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the queen of the angels</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To shield me from harm.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And I lie so composedly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Now in my bed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Knowing her love)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That you fancy me dead—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I rest so contentedly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Now in my bed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(With her love at my breast)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That you fancy me dead—</div>
+    <div class="verse">That you shudder to look at me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thinking me dead.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But my heart it is brighter</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Than all of the many</div>
+    <div class="verse">Stars in the sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For it sparkles with Annie—</div>
+    <div class="verse">It glows with the light</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the love of my Annie—</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the thought of the light</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the eyes of my Annie.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="annie_tail" style="max-width: 31.25em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/annie_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46">-46-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO F—S S. O—D</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp95" id="to_f-s_s_o-d" style="max-width: 30.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_f-s_s_o-d.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From its present pathway part not;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Being everything which now thou art,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Be nothing which thou art not.</div>
+    <div class="verse">So with the world thy gentle ways,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy grace, thy more than beauty,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall be an endless theme of praise,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And love a simple duty.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO —— ——</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Not</span> long ago, the writer of these lines,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the mad pride of intellectuality,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever</div>
+    <div class="verse">A thought arose within the human brain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And now, as if in mockery of that boast,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47">-47-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Italian tones, made only to be murmured</div>
+    <div class="verse">By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew</div>
+    <div class="verse">That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions</div>
+    <div class="verse">Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.</div>
+    <div class="verse">With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling,</div>
+    <div class="verse">This standing motionless upon the golden</div>
+    <div class="verse">Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thrilling as I see, upon the right,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon the left, and all the way along,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Amid empurpled vapours, far away</div>
+    <div class="verse">To where the prospect terminates—<i>thee only!</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp79" id="to" style="max-width: 15.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_--.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48">-48-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE CITY IN THE SEA</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp76" id="city_in_the_sea" style="max-width: 30.625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/city_in_the_sea.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Lo</span>! Death has reared himself a throne</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a strange city lying alone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Far down within the dim West,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best</div>
+    <div class="verse">Have gone to their eternal rest.</div>
+    <div class="verse">There shrines and palaces and towers</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Resemble nothing that is ours.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Around, by lifting winds forgot,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Resignedly beneath the sky</div>
+    <div class="verse">The melancholy waters lie.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">No rays from the holy Heaven come down</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the long night-time of that town;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49">-49-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">But light from out the lurid sea</div>
+    <div class="verse">Streams up the turrets silently—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Up many and many a marvellous shrine,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine</div>
+    <div class="verse">The viol, the violet, and the vine.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Resignedly beneath the sky</div>
+    <div class="verse">The melancholy waters lie.</div>
+    <div class="verse">So blend the turrets and shadows there</div>
+    <div class="verse">That all seem pendulous in air,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While from a proud tower in the town</div>
+    <div class="verse">Death looks gigantically down.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">There open fanes and gaping graves</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yawn level with the luminous waves;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But not the riches there that lie</div>
+    <div class="verse">In each idol’s diamond eye—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not the gaily-jewelled dead</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tempt the waters from their bed;</div>
+    <div class="verse">For no ripples curl, alas!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Along that wilderness of glass—</div>
+    <div class="verse">No swellings tell that winds may be</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon some far-off happier sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse">No heavings hint that winds have been</div>
+    <div class="verse">On seas less hideously serene.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But lo, a stir is in the air!</div>
+    <div class="verse">The wave—there is a movement there!</div>
+    <div class="verse">As if the towers had thrust aside,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In slightly sinking, the dull tide—</div>
+    <div class="verse">As if their tops had feebly given</div>
+    <div class="verse">A void within the filmy Heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50">-50-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">The waves have now a redder glow—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The hours are breathing faint and low—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And when, amid no earthly moans,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Down, down that town shall settle hence,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall do it reverence.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp67" id="city_tail" style="max-width: 11.9375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/city_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE CONQUEROR WORM</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Lo</span>! ’tis a gala night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Within the lonesome latter years!</div>
+    <div class="verse">An angel throng, bewinged, bedight</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In veils, and drowned in tears,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sit in a theatre, to see</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A play of hopes and fears,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While the orchestra breathes fitfully</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The music of the spheres.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Mimes, in the form of God on high,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Mutter and mumble low,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And hither and thither fly—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Mere puppets they, who come and go</div>
+    <div class="verse">At bidding of vast formless things</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That shift the scenery to and fro,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Flapping from out their Condor wings</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Invisible Woe!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51">-51-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp54" id="conqueror_full" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/conqueror_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">WITH ITS PHANTOM CHASED FOR EVERMORE<br>
+BY A CROWD THAT SEIZE IT NOT</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53">-53-</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">That motley drama—oh, be sure</div>
+    <div class="verse">It shall not be forgot!</div>
+    <div class="verse">With its Phantom chased for evermore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">By a crowd that seize it not,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through a circle that ever returneth in</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the self-same spot,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And much of Madness, and more of Sin,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And Horror the soul of the plot.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But see, amid the mimic rout</div>
+    <div class="verse">A crawling shape intrude!</div>
+    <div class="verse">A blood-red thing that writhes from out</div>
+    <div class="verse">The scenic solitude!</div>
+    <div class="verse">It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs</div>
+    <div class="verse">The mimes become its food,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the angels sob at vermin fangs</div>
+    <div class="verse">In human gore imbued.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Out—out are the lights—out all!</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, over each quivering form,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The curtain, a funeral pall,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Comes down with the rush of a storm,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the angels, all pallid and wan,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Uprising, unveiling, affirm</div>
+    <div class="verse">That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”</div>
+    <div class="verse">And its hero the Conqueror Worm.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="conqueror_tail" style="max-width: 24.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/conqueror_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54">-54-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE SLEEPER</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="sleeper_head" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/sleeper_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">At</span> midnight, in the month of June,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I stand beneath the mystic moon.</div>
+    <div class="verse">An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Exhales from out her golden rim,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, softly dripping, drop by drop,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon the quiet mountain top,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Steals drowsily and musically</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into the universal valley.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The rosemary nods upon the grave;</div>
+    <div class="verse">The lily lolls upon the wave;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wrapping the fog about its breast,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The ruin moulders into rest;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Looking like Lethe, see! the lake</div>
+    <div class="verse">A conscious slumber seems to take,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And would not, for the world, awake.</div>
+    <div class="verse">All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Her casement open to the skies)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Irene, with her Destinies!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Oh, lady bright! can it be right—</div>
+    <div class="verse">This window open to the night?</div>
+    <div class="verse">The wanton airs, from the tree-top,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Laughingly through the lattice drop—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Flit through thy chamber in and out,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And wave the curtain canopy</div>
+    <div class="verse">So fitfully—so fearfully—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Above the closed and fringed lid</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That, o’er the floor and down the wall,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55">-55-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Why and what art thou dreaming here?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A wonder to these garden trees!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Strange, above all, thy length of tress,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And this all-solemn silentness!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp88" id="sleeper_mid" style="max-width: 30.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/sleeper_mid.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which is enduring, so be deep!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Heaven have her in its sacred keep!</div>
+    <div class="verse">This chamber changed for one more holy,</div>
+    <div class="verse">This bed for one more melancholy,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I pray to God that she may lie</div>
+    <div class="verse">For ever with unopened eye,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56">-56-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As it is lasting, so be deep;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Soft may the worms about her creep!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Far in the forest, dim and old,</div>
+    <div class="verse">For her may some tall vault unfold—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some vault that oft hath flung its black</div>
+    <div class="verse">And wingèd panels fluttering back,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of her grand family funerals—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some sepulchre, remote, alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Against whose portal she hath thrown,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In childhood many an idle stone—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some tomb from out whose sounding door</div>
+    <div class="verse">She ne’er shall force an echo more,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was the dead who groaned within.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp72" id="sleeper_tail" style="max-width: 15.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/sleeper_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57">-57-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE COLISEUM</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="coliseum" style="max-width: 30em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/coliseum.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Type</span> of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of lofty contemplation left to Time</div>
+    <div class="verse">By buried centuries of pomp and power!</div>
+    <div class="verse">At length—at length—after so many days</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)</div>
+    <div class="verse">I kneel, an altered and an humble man,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Amid thy shadows, and so drink within</div>
+    <div class="verse">My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!</div>
+    <div class="verse">I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king</div>
+    <div class="verse">Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!</div>
+    <div class="verse">O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair</div>
+    <div class="verse">Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The swift and silent lizard of the stones!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58">-58-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—</div>
+    <div class="verse">These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—</div>
+    <div class="verse">These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—</div>
+    <div class="verse">These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—</div>
+    <div class="verse">These stones—alas! these grey stones—are they all—</div>
+    <div class="verse">All of the famed, and the colossal left</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Prophetic sounds and loud, arise for ever</div>
+    <div class="verse">From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As melody from Memnon to the Sun.</div>
+    <div class="verse">We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule</div>
+    <div class="verse">With a despotic sway all giant minds.</div>
+    <div class="verse">We are not impotent—we pallid stones.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not all the magic of our high renown—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not all the wonder that encircles us—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not all the mysteries that in us lie—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not all the memories that hang upon</div>
+    <div class="verse">And cling around about us as a garment,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">DREAMLAND</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">By</span> a route obscure and lonely,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Haunted by ill angels only,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where an Eidolon, named <span class="smcap">Night</span>,</div>
+    <div class="verse">On a black throne reigns upright,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have reached these lands but newly</div>
+    <div class="verse">From an ultimate dim Thule—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Out of <span class="smcap">Space</span>—out of <span class="smcap">Time</span>.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="dreamland" style="max-width: 31em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/dreamland.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">WHERE AN EIDOLON NAMED NIGHT<br>
+ON A BLACK THRONE REIGNS UPRIGHT</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Bottomless vales and boundless floods,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods</div>
+    <div class="verse">With forms that no man can discover</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the dews that drip all over;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61">-61-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Mountains toppling evermore</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into seas without a shore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seas that restlessly aspire,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Surging, unto skies of fire;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lakes that endlessly outspread</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their lone waters—lone and dead,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their still waters—still and chilly</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the snows of the lolling lily.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">By the lakes that thus outspread</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their lone waters, lone and dead,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Their sad waters, sad and chilly</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the snows of the lolling lily,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the mountains—near the river</div>
+    <div class="verse">Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the grey woods,—by the swamp</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where the toad and the newt encamp,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the dismal tarns and pools</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Where dwell the Ghouls,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">By each spot the most unholy—</div>
+    <div class="verse">In each nook most melancholy,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">There the traveller meets aghast</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sheeted Memories of the Past—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shrouded forms that start and sigh</div>
+    <div class="verse">As they pass the wanderer by—</div>
+    <div class="verse">White-robed forms of friends long given,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For the heart whose woes are legion</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the spirit that walks in shadow</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!</div>
+    <div class="verse">But the traveller, travelling through it,</div>
+    <div class="verse">May not—dare not openly view it;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Never its mysteries are exposed</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the weak human eye unclosed;</div>
+    <div class="verse">So wills its King, who hath forbid</div>
+    <div class="verse">The uplifting of the fringèd lid;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62">-62-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And thus the sad Soul that here passes</div>
+    <div class="verse">Beholds it but through darkened glasses.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">By a route obscure and lonely,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Haunted by ill angels only,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where an Eidolon, named <span class="smcap">Night</span>,</div>
+    <div class="verse">On a black throne reigns upright,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have wandered home but newly</div>
+    <div class="verse">From this ultimate dim Thule.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">EULALIE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figleft illowp28" id="eulalie" style="max-width: 9em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/eulalie.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent6"><span class="smcap">I dwelt</span> alone</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">In a world of moan,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And my soul was a stagnant tide,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent6">Ah, less—less bright</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">The stars of the night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Than the eyes of the radiant girl!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">And never a flake</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">That the vapour can make</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent6">Now Doubt—now Pain</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Come never again,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">And all day long</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Shines, bright and strong,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Astarte within the sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—</div>
+    <div class="verse">While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63">-63-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO MY MOTHER</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="mother" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/mother.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Because</span> I feel that, in the Heavens above,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The angels, whispering to one another,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Can find, among their burning terms of love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">None so devotional as that of “Mother,”</div>
+    <div class="verse">Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">You who are more than mother unto me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.</div>
+    <div class="verse">My mother, my own mother, who died early,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Was but the mother of myself; but you</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And thus are dearer than the mother I knew</div>
+    <div class="verse">By that infinity with which my wife</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64">-64-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">ELDORADO</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent2"><span class="smcap">Gaily</span> bedight,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">A gallant knight,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In sunshine and in shadow,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Had journeyed long,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Singing a song,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In search of Eldorado.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent2">But he grew old—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">This knight so bold—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And o’er his heart a shadow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Fell as he found</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">No spot of ground</div>
+    <div class="verse">That looked like Eldorado.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent2">And, as his strength</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Failed him at length,</div>
+    <div class="verse">He met a pilgrim shadow—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">“Shadow,” said he,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">“Where can it be—</div>
+    <div class="verse">This land of Eldorado?”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent2">“Over the Mountains</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of the Moon,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Down the Valley of the Shadow,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Ride, boldly ride,”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The shade replied,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“If you seek for Eldorado!”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="eldorado_tail" style="max-width: 24.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/eldorado_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65">-65-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp49" id="eldorado_full" style="max-width: 30.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/eldorado_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">IN SEARCH OF ELDORADO</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67">-67-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO F——</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="to_f-_head" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_f--_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Beloved</span>! amid the earnest woes</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That crowd around my earthly path—</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Drear path, alas! where grows</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not even one lonely rose)—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">My soul at least a solace hath</div>
+    <div class="verse">In dreams of thee, and therein knows</div>
+    <div class="verse">An Eden of bland repose.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And thus thy memory is to me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like some enchanted far-off isle</div>
+    <div class="verse">In some tumultuous sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some ocean throbbing far and free</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With storm—but where meanwhile</div>
+    <div class="verse">Serenest skies continually</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Just o’er that one bright island smile.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp94" id="to_f-_tail" style="max-width: 16.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_f--_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68">-68-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO ONE IN PARADISE</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> wast that all to me, love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For which my soul did pine—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A green isle in the sea, love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A fountain and a shrine,</div>
+    <div class="verse">All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And all the flowers were mine.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Ah, dream too bright to last!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise</div>
+    <div class="verse">But to be overcast!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A voice from out the Future cries,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“On! on!”—but o’er the Past</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies</div>
+    <div class="verse">Mute, motionless, aghast!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For, alas! alas! with me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The light of Life is o’er!</div>
+    <div class="verse">“No more—no more—no more”—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(Such language holds the solemn sea</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the sands upon the shore)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or the stricken eagle soar!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And all my days are trances,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And all my nightly dreams</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are where thy dark eye glances,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And where thy footstep gleams—</div>
+    <div class="verse">In what ethereal dances,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">By what eternal streams!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Alas! for that accursèd time</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">They bore thee o’er the billow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">From love to titled age and crime,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And an unholy pillow!—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From me, and from our misty clime,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Where weeps the silver willow!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69">-69-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="paradise" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/paradise.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71">-71-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">HYMN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="hymn_head" style="max-width: 23.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hymn_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">At</span> morn—at noon—at twilight dim—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!</div>
+    <div class="verse">In joy and woe—in good and ill—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Mother of God, be with me still!</div>
+    <div class="verse">When the Hours flew brightly by,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And not a cloud obscured the sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse">My soul, lest it should truant be,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast</div>
+    <div class="verse">Darkly my Present and my Past,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let my Future radiant shine</div>
+    <div class="verse">With sweet hopes of thee and thine!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp53" id="hymn_tail" style="max-width: 14em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hymn_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72">-72-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="dream_head" style="max-width: 30.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/dream_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Take</span> this kiss upon the brow!</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, in parting from you now,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thus much let me avow—</div>
+    <div class="verse">You are not wrong, who deem</div>
+    <div class="verse">That my days have been a dream:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet if hope has flown away</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a night, or in a day,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a vision, or in none,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is it therefore the less <i>gone</i>?</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>All</i> that we see or seem</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is but a dream within a dream.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I stand amid the roar</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a surf-tormented shore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I hold within my hand</div>
+    <div class="verse">Grains of the golden sand—</div>
+    <div class="verse">How few! yet how they creep</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through my fingers to the deep,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While I weep—while I weep!</div>
+    <div class="verse">O God! can I not grasp</div>
+    <div class="verse">Them with a tighter clasp?</div>
+    <div class="verse">O God! can I not save</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>One</i> from the pitiless wave?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is <i>all</i> that we see or seem</div>
+    <div class="verse">But a dream within a dream?</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73">-73-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp53" id="dream_full" style="max-width: 30.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/dream_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75">-75-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO ZANTE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="zante" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/zante.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How many memories of what radiant hours</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">At sight of thee and thine at once awake!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How many scenes of what departed bliss!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How many visions of a maiden that is</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>No more!</i> alas, that magical sad sound</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Transforming all! Thy charms shall please <i>no more</i>—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thy memory <i>no more!</i> Accursèd ground</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">“Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76">-76-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE HAUNTED PALACE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="hauntedpalace_head" style="max-width: 30.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hauntedpalace_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> the greenest of our valleys</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">By good angels tenanted,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Once a fair and stately palace—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Radiant palace—reared its head.</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the monarch Thought’s dominion—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It stood there!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Never seraph spread a pinion</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Over fabric half so fair!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Banners yellow, glorious, golden,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On its roof did float and flow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(This—all this—was in the olden</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Time long ago,)</div>
+    <div class="verse">And every gentle air that dallied,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In that sweet day,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A wingèd odour went away.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Wanderers in that happy valley,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Through two luminous windows, saw</div>
+    <div class="verse">Spirits moving musically,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To a lute’s well-tunèd law,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Round about a throne where, sitting</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(Porphyrogene!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">In state his glory well befitting,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The ruler of the realm was seen.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And all with pearl and ruby glowing</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Was the fair palace door,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And sparkling evermore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Was but to sing,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In voices of surpassing beauty,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The wit and wisdom of their king.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78">-78-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50 bp" id="hauntedpalace_full01" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hauntedpalace_full01.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">BUT EVIL THINGS, IN ROBES OF SORROW</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79">-79-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="hauntedpalace_full02" style="max-width: 31.25em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hauntedpalace_full02.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">ASSAILED THE MONARCH’S HIGH ESTATE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81">-81-</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But evil things, in robes of sorrow,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Assailed the monarch’s high estate;</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Shall dawn upon him desolate!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">And round about his home the glory</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That blushed and bloomed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is but a dim-remembered story</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the old time entombed.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And travellers now within that valley,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Through the red-litten windows see</div>
+    <div class="verse">Vast forms that move fantastically</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To a discordant melody;</div>
+    <div class="verse">While, like a ghastly rapid river,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Through the pale door</div>
+    <div class="verse">A hideous throng rush out for ever</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And laugh—but smile no more.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp82" id="hauntedpalace_tail" style="max-width: 12.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/hauntedpalace_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82">-82-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">SILENCE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="silence_head" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/silence_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">There</span> are some qualities—some incorporate things,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That have a double life, which thus is made</div>
+    <div class="verse">A type of that twin entity which springs</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.</div>
+    <div class="verse">There is a two-fold <i>Silence</i>—sea and shore—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some human memories and tearful lore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”</div>
+    <div class="verse">He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">No power hath he of evil in himself;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod</div>
+    <div class="verse">No foot of man), commend thyself to God!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp69" id="silence_tail" style="max-width: 17.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/silence_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83">-83-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp47" id="silence_full" style="max-width: 30.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/silence_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">SILENCE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85">-85-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">ISRAFEL</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="israfel_head" style="max-width: 30.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/israfel_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot2">
+<p>And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and
+who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—<i>Koran.</i></p>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> Heaven a spirit doth dwell</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”</div>
+    <div class="verse">None sing so wildly well</div>
+    <div class="verse">As the angel Israfel,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of his voice, all mute.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Tottering above</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In her highest noon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The enamoured Moon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Blushes with love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">While, to listen, the red levin</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(With the rapid Pleiads, even,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Which were seven),</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Pauses in Heaven.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And they say (the starry choir</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the other listening things)</div>
+    <div class="verse">That Israfeli’s fire</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is owing to that lyre</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">By which he sits and sings—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The trembling living wire</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of those unusual strings.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But the skies that angel trod,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Where deep thoughts are a duty—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where Love’s a grown-up God—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86">-86-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Where the Houri glances are</div>
+    <div class="verse">Imbued with all the beauty</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Which we worship in a star.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Therefore, thou art not wrong,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Israfeli, who despisest</div>
+    <div class="verse">An unimpassioned song;</div>
+    <div class="verse">To thee the laurels belong,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Best bard, because the wisest!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Merrily live and long!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The ecstasies above</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With thy burning measures suit—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With the fervour of thy lute—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Well may the stars be mute!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Yes, Heaven is thine; but this</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is a world of sweets and sours;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Our flowers are merely—flowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the shadow of thy perfect bliss</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is the sunshine of ours.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">If I could dwell</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where Israfel</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Hath dwelt, and he where I,</div>
+    <div class="verse">He might not sing so wildly well</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A mortal melody,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While a bolder note than this might swell</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From my lyre within the sky.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87">-87-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp42" id="israfel_full" style="max-width: 30.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/israfel_full.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">ISRAFEL</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89">-89-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO M.L.S.</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp90" id="to_mls" style="max-width: 30.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_mls.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all who hail thy presence as the morning—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of all to whom thine absence is the night—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The blotting utterly from out high heaven</div>
+    <div class="verse">The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hourly for hope—for life—ah, above all,</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the resurrection of deep buried faith</div>
+    <div class="verse">In truth, in virtue, in humanity—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of all who, on despair’s unhallowed bed</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen</div>
+    <div class="verse">At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”</div>
+    <div class="verse">At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nearest resembles worship,—oh, remember</div>
+    <div class="verse">The truest, the most fervently devoted,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And think that these weak lines are written by him—</div>
+    <div class="verse">By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think</div>
+    <div class="verse">His spirit is communing with an angel’s.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90">-90-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE VALLEY OF UNREST</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="valleyofunrest" style="max-width: 30.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/valleyofunrest.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Once</span> it smiled a silent dell</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where the people did not dwell;</div>
+    <div class="verse">They had gone unto the wars,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nightly, from their azure towers,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To keep watch above the flowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the midst of which all day</div>
+    <div class="verse">The red sunlight lazily lay.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now each visitor shall confess</div>
+    <div class="verse">The sad valley’s restlessness.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nothing there is motionless—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nothing save the airs that brood</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over the magic solitude.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees</div>
+    <div class="verse">That palpitate like the chill seas</div>
+    <div class="verse">Around the misty Hebrides!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven</div>
+    <div class="verse">That rustle through the unquiet Heaven</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unceasingly, from morn till even,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over the violets there that lie</div>
+    <div class="verse">In myriad types of the human eye—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over the lilies there that wave</div>
+    <div class="verse">And weep above a nameless grave!</div>
+    <div class="verse">They wave:—from out their fragrant tops</div>
+    <div class="verse">Eternal dews come down in drops.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They weep:—from off their delicate stems</div>
+    <div class="verse">Perennial tears descend in gems.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91">-91-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp45" id="poemswritteninyouth" style="max-width: 29.875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/poemswritteninyouth.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92">-92-</a></span></p>
+<h3>NOTE (1845)</h3>
+
+<p class="blockquot">Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin of
+plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson’s first poems—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.</p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93">-93-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO HELEN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="to_helen" style="max-width: 30.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_helen.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Helen</span>, thy beauty is to me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like those Nicean barks of yore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The weary, wayworn wanderer bore</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To his own native shore.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">On desperate seas long wont to roam,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thy Naiad airs have brought me home</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To the glory that was Greece,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the grandeur that was Rome.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Lo! in yon brilliant window niche,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">How statue-like I see thee stand,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The agate lamp within thy hand!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ah, Psyche, from the regions which</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Are Holy Land!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94">-94-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">SONNET—TO SCIENCE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="sonnettoscience" style="max-width: 29.875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/sonnettoscience.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Science</span>! true daughter of Old Time thou art!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?</div>
+    <div class="verse">How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering</div>
+    <div class="verse">To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And driven the Hamadryad from the wood</div>
+    <div class="verse">To seek a shelter in some happier star?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The Elfin from the green grass, and from me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95">-95-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">SPIRITS OF THE DEAD</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="spirits" style="max-width: 30.0625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/spirits.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Thy</span> soul shall find itself alone</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not one, of all the crowd, to pry</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into thine hour of secrecy.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Be silent in that solitude</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Which is not loneliness—for then</div>
+    <div class="verse">The spirits of the dead who stood</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In life before thee are again</div>
+    <div class="verse">In death around thee—and their will</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall overshadow thee: be still.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The night—tho’ clear—shall frown—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the stars shall not look down</div>
+    <div class="verse">From their high thrones in the Heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With light like Hope to mortals given—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But their red orbs, without beam,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To thy weariness shall seem</div>
+    <div class="verse">As a burning and a fever</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which would cling to thee for ever.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now are visions ne’er to vanish—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From thy spirit shall they pass</div>
+    <div class="verse">No more—like dew-drops from the grass.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96">-96-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">The breeze—the breath of God—is still—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the mist upon the hill</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is a symbol and a token—</div>
+    <div class="verse">How it hangs upon the trees,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A mystery of mysteries!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">EVENING STAR</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="evening_star" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/evening_star_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">’Twas</span> noontide of summer,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And midtime of night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And stars, in their orbits,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Shone pale, through the light</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of the brighter, cold moon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Mid planets her slaves,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Herself in the Heavens,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Her beam on the waves.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">I gazed awhile</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On her cold smile,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Too cold—too cold for me;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">There passed, as a shroud,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A fleecy cloud,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I turned away to thee,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Proud Evening Star,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In thy glory afar</div>
+    <div class="verse">And dearer thy beam shall be;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For joy to my heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is the proud part</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thou bearest in Heaven at night,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And more I admire</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy distant fire,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Than that colder, lowly light.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97">-97-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="evening_star_full" style="max-width: 30.625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/evening_star_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99">-99-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">FAIRY LAND</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="fairy_land_head" style="max-width: 30.875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/fairy_land_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Dim</span> vales—and shadowy floods—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And cloudy-looking woods,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose forms we can’t discover</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the tears that drip all over!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Huge moons there wax and wane—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Again—again—again—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Every moment of the night—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For ever changing places—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And they put out the star-light</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the breath from their pale faces.</div>
+    <div class="verse">About twelve by the moon-dial</div>
+    <div class="verse">One more filmy than the rest</div>
+    <div class="verse">(A kind which, upon trial,</div>
+    <div class="verse">They have found to be the best)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Comes down—still down—and down</div>
+    <div class="verse">With its centre on the crown</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a mountain’s eminence,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While its wide circumference</div>
+    <div class="verse">In easy drapery falls</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over hamlets, over halls,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wherever they may be—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O’er the strange woods—o’er the sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over spirits on the wing—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over every drowsy thing—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100">-100-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And buries them up quite</div>
+    <div class="verse">In a labyrinth of light—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And then, how deep!—O, deep!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is the passion of their sleep.</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the morning they arise,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And their moony covering</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is soaring in the skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the tempests as they toss,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Like——almost any thing—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or a yellow Albatross.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They use that moon no more</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the same end as before—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Videlicet a tent—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which I think extravagant:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its atomies, however,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into a shower dissever,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of which those butterflies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of Earth, who seek the skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And so come down again</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Never-contented things!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Have brought a specimen</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon their quivering wings.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp56" id="fairy_land_tail" style="max-width: 16.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/fairy_land_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101">-101-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE LAKE—<br>
+<span class="sm">TO ——</span></h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="lake" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/lake.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> spring of youth it was my lot</div>
+    <div class="verse">To haunt of the wide world a spot</div>
+    <div class="verse">The which I could not love the less—</div>
+    <div class="verse">So lovely was the loneliness</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the tall pines that towered around.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But when the Night had thrown her pall</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon that spot, as upon all,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the mystic wind went by</div>
+    <div class="verse">Murmuring in melody—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Then—ah, then, I would awake</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the terror of the lone lake.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Yet that terror was not fright,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But a tremulous delight—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A feeling not the jewelled mine</div>
+    <div class="verse">Could teach or bribe me to define—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nor Love—although the Love were thine.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Death was in that poisonous wave,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And in its gulf a fitting grave</div>
+    <div class="verse">For him who thence could solace bring</div>
+    <div class="verse">To his lone imagining—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose solitary soul could make</div>
+    <div class="verse">An Eden of that dim lake.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102">-102-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">A DREAM</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="a_dream" style="max-width: 29.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/a_dream.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> visions of the dark night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I have dreamed of joy departed—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But a waking dream of life and light</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Hath left me broken-hearted.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Ah! what is not a dream by day</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To him whose eyes are cast</div>
+    <div class="verse">On things around him with a ray</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Turned back upon the past?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">That holy dream—that holy dream,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">While all the world were chiding,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A lonely spirit guiding.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">What though that light, thro’ storm and night,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">So trembled from afar—</div>
+    <div class="verse">What could there be more purely bright</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In Truth’s day-star?</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103">-103-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">A PÆAN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="paean" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/paean.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">How</span> shall the burial rite be read?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The solemn song be sung?</div>
+    <div class="verse">The requiem for the loveliest dead,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That ever died so young?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Her friends are gazing on her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And on her gaudy bier,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And weep!—oh! to dishonour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Dead beauty with a tear!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">They loved her for her wealth—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And they hated her for her pride—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But she grew in feeble health,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And they <i>love</i> her—that she died.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">They tell me (while they speak</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of her “costly broider’d pall”)</div>
+    <div class="verse">That my voice is growing weak—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That I should not sing at all—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Or that my tone should be</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Tuned to such solemn song<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104">-104-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">So mournfully—so mournfully,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That the dead may feel no wrong.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But she is gone above,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With young Hope at her side,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And I am drunk with love</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the dead, who is my bride.—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Of the dead—dead who lies</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">All perfumed there,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the death upon her eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the life upon her hair.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thus on the coffin loud and long</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I strike—the murmur sent</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through the grey chambers to my song,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Shall be the accompaniment.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thou diedst in thy life’s June—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But thou didst not die too fair:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thou didst not die too soon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Nor with too calm an air.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">From more than friends on earth,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy life and love are riven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To join the untainted mirth</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of more than thrones in heaven.—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Therefore, to thee this night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I will no requiem raise,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But waft thee on thy flight,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With a Pæan of old days.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105">-105-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE HAPPIEST DAY</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="happiest_day" style="max-width: 30.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/happiest_day.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> happiest day—the happiest hour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">My seared and blighted heart hath known,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The highest hope of pride and power,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I feel hath flown.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But they have vanished long, alas!</div>
+    <div class="verse">The visions of my youth have been—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But let them pass.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And pride, what have I now with thee?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Another brow may ev’n inherit</div>
+    <div class="verse">The venom thou hast poured on me—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Be still my spirit!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The happiest day—the happiest hour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen</div>
+    <div class="verse">The brightest glance of pride and power</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I feel have been:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But were that hope of pride and power</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Now offered with the pain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ev’n <i>then</i> I felt—that brightest hour</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I would not live again:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For on its wing was dark alloy</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And as it fluttered—fell</div>
+    <div class="verse">An essence—powerful to destroy</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A soul that knew it well.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106">-106-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">ALONE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="alone_head" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/alone_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">From</span> childhood’s hour I have not been</div>
+    <div class="verse">As others were—I have not seen</div>
+    <div class="verse">As others saw—I could not bring</div>
+    <div class="verse">My passions from a common spring.</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the same source I have not taken</div>
+    <div class="verse">My sorrow—I could not awaken</div>
+    <div class="verse">My heart to joy at the same tone—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And all I loved, <i>I</i> loved alone.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Then—in my childhood—in the dawn</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a most stormy life—was drawn</div>
+    <div class="verse">From every depth of good and ill</div>
+    <div class="verse">The mystery which binds me still—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the torrent, or the fountain—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the red cliff of the mountain—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the sun that round me rolled</div>
+    <div class="verse">In its autumn tint of gold—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the lightning in the sky</div>
+    <div class="verse">As it passed me flying by—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the thunder and the storm—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the cloud that took the form</div>
+    <div class="verse">(When the rest of Heaven was blue)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a demon in my view.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107">-107-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="alone_full" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/alone_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109">-109-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">STANZAS</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="stanzas" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/stanzas.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><i>How often we forget all time, when lone</i></div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>Admiring Nature’s universal throne;</i></div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense</i></div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!</i></div>
+    <div class="verse right"><span class="smcap">Byron.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>I</b></div>
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">In</span> youth I have known one with whom the Earth</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In secret communing held—as he with it,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A passionate light such for his spirit was fit—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of its own fervour, what had o’er it power.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>II</b></div>
+    <div class="verse">Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But I will half believe that wild light fraught</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">With more of sovereignty than ancient lore</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hath ever told—or is it of a thought</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The unembodied essence, and no more</div>
+    <div class="verse">That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass</div>
+    <div class="verse">As dew of the night-time o’er the summer grass?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>III</b></div>
+    <div class="verse">Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To the loved object—so the tear to the lid</div>
+    <div class="verse">Will start, which lately slept in apathy?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And yet it need not be—that object—hid</div>
+    <div class="verse">From us in life, but common—which doth lie</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Each hour before us—but then only bid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110">-110-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse center"><b>IV</b></div>
+    <div class="verse">Of what in other worlds shall be—and given</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In beauty by our God, to those alone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That high tone of the spirit, which hath striven</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Though not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne</div>
+    <div class="verse">With desperate energy ’t hath beaten down;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO ——</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="to_-_2" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_--_2.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">The</span> bowers whereat, in dreams, I see</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The wantonest singing birds,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are lips—and all thy melody</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of lip-begotten words—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Then desolately fall,</div>
+    <div class="verse">O God! on my funereal mind</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like starlight on a pall—</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thy heart—<i>thy</i> heart!—I wake and sigh,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And sleep to dream till day</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of the truth that gold can never buy—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of the baubles that it may.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111">-111-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO THE RIVER</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="to_the_river" style="max-width: 30.625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/to_the_river.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> river! in thy bright, clear flow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of crystal, wandering water,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thou art an emblem of the glow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Of beauty—the unhidden heart—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The playful maziness of art</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In old Alberto’s daughter;</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">But when within thy wave she looks—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Which glistens then, and trembles—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Why, then, the prettiest of brooks</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Her worshipper resembles;</div>
+    <div class="verse">For in his heart, as in thy stream,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Her image deeply lies—</div>
+    <div class="verse">His heart which trembles at the beam</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of her soul-searching eyes.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">TO ——</h2></div>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I heed</span> not that my earthly lot</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Hath little of Earth in it,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That years of love have been forgot</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the hatred of a minute:—</div>
+    <div class="verse">I mourn not that the desolate</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Are happier, sweet, than I,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But that <i>you</i> sorrow for <i>my</i> fate</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Who am a passer-by.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112">-112-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">SONG</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="song_head" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/song_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">I saw</span> thee on thy bridal day—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">When a burning blush came o’er thee,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though happiness around thee lay,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The world all love before thee:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And in thine eye a kindling light</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(Whatever it might be)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Was all on Earth my aching sight</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of loveliness could see.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As such it well may pass—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the breast of him, alas!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Who saw thee on that bridal day,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">When that deep blush <i>would</i> come o’er thee,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though happiness around thee lay,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The world all love before thee.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="song_tail" style="max-width: 18.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/song_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113">-113-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">DREAMS</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="dreams" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/dreams.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>! that my young life were a lasting dream!</div>
+    <div class="verse">My spirit not awakening, till the beam</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twere better than the cold reality</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.</div>
+    <div class="verse">But should it be—that dream eternally</div>
+    <div class="verse">Continuing—as dreams have been to me</div>
+    <div class="verse">In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.</div>
+    <div class="verse">For I have revelled, when the sun was bright</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the summer sky, in dreams of living light</div>
+    <div class="verse">And loveliness,—have left my very heart</div>
+    <div class="verse">In climes of mine imagining, apart</div>
+    <div class="verse">From mine own home, with beings that have been</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour</div>
+    <div class="verse">From my remembrance shall not pass—some power</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly wind</div>
+    <div class="verse">Came o’er me in the night, and left behind</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its image on my spirit—or the moon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was</div>
+    <div class="verse">That dream was as that night-wind—let it pass.</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>I have been</i> happy, though in a dream.</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have been happy—and I love the theme:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life</div>
+    <div class="verse">As in that fleeting; shadowy, misty strife<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114">-114-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Of semblance with reality, which brings</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the delirious eye more lovely things</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of Paradise and Love—and all our own!—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<h2 class="nobreak">ROMANCE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="romance" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/romance.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Romance</span>, who loves to nod and sing,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With drowsy head and folded wing,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Among the green leaves as they shake</div>
+    <div class="verse">Far down within some shadowy lake,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To me a painted paroquet</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hath been—a most familiar bird—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Taught me my alphabet to say—</div>
+    <div class="verse">To lisp my very earliest word</div>
+    <div class="verse">While in the wild wood I did lie,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A child—with a most knowing eye.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Of late, eternal condor years</div>
+    <div class="verse">So shake the very Heaven on high</div>
+    <div class="verse">With tumult as they thunder by,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have no time for idle cares</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through gazing on the unquiet sky.</div>
+    <div class="verse">And when an hour with calmer wings</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its down upon my spirit flings—</div>
+    <div class="verse">That little time with lyre and rhyme</div>
+    <div class="verse">To while away—forbidden things!</div>
+    <div class="verse">My heart would feel to be a crime</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unless it trembled with the strings.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115">-115-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">TAMERLANE</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp49" id="tamerlane_full1" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/tamerlane_full1.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr class="short">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117">-117-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="tamerlane_head" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/tamerlane_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">Kind</span> solace in a dying hour!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Such, father, is not (now) my theme—</div>
+    <div class="verse">I will not madly deem that power</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of Earth may shrive me of the sin</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Unearthly pride hath revelled in—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I have no time to dote or dream:</div>
+    <div class="verse">You call it hope—that fire of fire!</div>
+    <div class="verse">It is but agony of desire:</div>
+    <div class="verse">If I <i>can</i> hope—O God! I can—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Its fount is holier—more divine—</div>
+    <div class="verse">I would not call thee fool, old man,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But such is not a gift of thine.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Know thou the secret of a spirit</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Bowed from its wild pride into shame.</div>
+    <div class="verse">O yearning heart! I did inherit</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thy withering portion with the fame,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The searing glory which hath shone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Amid the jewels of my throne,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118">-118-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Halo of Hell! and with a pain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not Hell shall make me fear again—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O craving heart, for the lost flowers</div>
+    <div class="verse">And sunshine of my summer hours!</div>
+    <div class="verse">The undying voice of that dead time,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With its interminable chime,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Rings, in the spirit of a spell,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon thy emptiness—a knell.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I have not always been as now:</div>
+    <div class="verse">The fevered diadem on my brow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I claimed and won usurpingly—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Hath not the same fierce heirdom given</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Rome to the Cæsar—this to me?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The heritage of a kingly mind,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And a proud spirit which hath striven</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Triumphantly with human kind.</div>
+    <div class="verse">On mountain soil I first drew life:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The mists of the Taglay have shed</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Nightly their dews upon my head,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, I believe, the wingèd strife</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And tumult of the headlong air</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Have nestled in my very hair.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(’Mid dreams of an unholy night)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon me with the touch of Hell,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">While the red flashing of the light</div>
+    <div class="verse">From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Appeared to my half-closing eye</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The pageantry of monarchy;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Came hurriedly upon me, telling</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of human battle, where my voice,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">My own voice, silly child!—was swelling</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">(O! how my spirit would rejoice,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And leap within me at the cry)</div>
+    <div class="verse">The battle-cry of Victory!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119">-119-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The rain came down upon my head</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Unsheltered—and the heavy wind</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.</div>
+    <div class="verse">It was but man, I thought, who shed</div>
+    <div class="verse">Laurels upon me: and the rush—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The torrent of the chilly air</div>
+    <div class="verse">Gurgled within my ear the crush</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of empires—with the captive’s prayer—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The hum of suitors—and the tone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of flattery round a sovereign’s throne.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">My passions, from that hapless hour,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Usurped a tyranny which men</div>
+    <div class="verse">Have deemed since I have reached to power,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">My innate nature—be it so:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But, father, there lived one who, then,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Then—in my boyhood—when their fire</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Burned with a still intenser glow</div>
+    <div class="verse">(For passion must, with youth, expire)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">E’en <i>then</i> who knew this iron heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In woman’s weakness had a part.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I have no words—alas!—to tell</div>
+    <div class="verse">The loveliness of loving well!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nor would I now attempt to trace</div>
+    <div class="verse">The more than beauty of a face</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose lineaments, upon my mind,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Are——shadows on th’ unstable wind:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thus I remember having dwelt</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Some page of early lore upon,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With loitering eye, till I have felt</div>
+    <div class="verse">The letters—with their meaning—melt</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To fantasies with none.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O, she was worthy of all love!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Love as in infancy was mine—</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twas such as angel minds above</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Might envy; her young heart the shrine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120">-120-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">On which my every hope and thought</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Were incense—then a goodly gift,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">For they were childish and upright—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Pure as her young example taught:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Why did I leave it, and, adrift,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Trust to the fire within, for light?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">We grew in age and love together—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Roaming the forest and the wild;</div>
+    <div class="verse">My breast her shield in wintry weather—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And, when the friendly sunshine smiled</div>
+    <div class="verse">And she would mark the opening skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>I</i> saw no Heaven but in her eyes.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Young Love’s first lesson is the heart:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles,</div>
+    <div class="verse">When, from our little cares apart,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And laughing at her girlish wiles,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And pour my spirit out in tears—</div>
+    <div class="verse">There was no need to speak the rest—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">No need to quiet any fears</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of her—who asked no reason why,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But turned on me her quiet eye!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Yet <i>more</i> than worthy of the love</div>
+    <div class="verse">My spirit struggled with, and strove,</div>
+    <div class="verse">When on the mountain peak alone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ambition lent it a new tone—</div>
+    <div class="verse">I had no being but in thee:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The world, and all it did contain</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the earth—the air—the sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Its joy—its little lot of pain</div>
+    <div class="verse">That was new pleasure—the ideal,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Dim vanities of dreams by night—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And dimmer nothings which were real—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">(Shadows, and a more shadowy light!)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Parted upon their misty wings,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123">-123-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And so confusedly became</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Thine image and—a name—a name!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Two separate yet most intimate things.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="tamerlane_full2" style="max-width: 30.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/tamerlane_full2.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I was ambitious—have you known</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The passion, father? You have not:</div>
+    <div class="verse">A cottager, I marked a throne</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of half the world as all my own,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">And murmured at such lowly lot;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But, just like any other dream,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Upon the vapour of the dew</div>
+    <div class="verse">My own had past, did not the beam</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of beauty which did while it thro’</div>
+    <div class="verse">The minute—the hour—the day—oppress</div>
+    <div class="verse">My mind with double loveliness.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">We walked together on the crown</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of a high mountain which looked down</div>
+    <div class="verse">Afar from its proud natural towers</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of rock and forest, on the hills—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And shouting with a thousand rills.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I spoke to her of power and pride,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But mystically—in such guise</div>
+    <div class="verse">That she might deem it nought beside</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The moment’s converse; in her eyes</div>
+    <div class="verse">I read, perhaps too carelessly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A mingled feeling with my own—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The flush on her bright cheek, to me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Seemed to become a queenly throne</div>
+    <div class="verse">Too well that I should let it be</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Light in the wilderness alone.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I wrapped myself in grandeur then,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And donned a visionary crown—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Yet it was not that Fantasy</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Had thrown her mantle over me;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124">-124-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">But that, among the rabble—men,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Lion ambition is chained down</div>
+    <div class="verse">And crouches to a keeper’s hand:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not so in deserts where the grand,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The wild, the terrible, conspire</div>
+    <div class="verse">With their own breath to fan his fire.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Look round thee now on Samarcand!—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Is she not queen of Earth? her pride</div>
+    <div class="verse">Above all cities? in her hand</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Their destinies? in all beside</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of glory which the world hath known</div>
+    <div class="verse">Stands she not nobly and alone?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Falling—her veriest stepping-stone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall form the pedestal of a throne—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And who her sovereign? Timour—he</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Whom the astonished people saw</div>
+    <div class="verse">Striding o’er empires haughtily</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A diademed outlaw!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O, human love! thou spirit given,</div>
+    <div class="verse">On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which fall’st into the soul like rain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon the Siroc-withered plain,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, failing in thy power to bless,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But leav’st the heart a wilderness!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Idea! which bindest life around</div>
+    <div class="verse">With music of so strange a sound</div>
+    <div class="verse">And beauty of so wild a birth—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Farewell! for I have won the Earth.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">No cliff beyond him in the sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse">His pinions were bent droopingly—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And homeward turned his softened eye.</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twas sunset: when the sun will part</div>
+    <div class="verse">There comes a sullenness of heart<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125">-125-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">To him who still would look upon</div>
+    <div class="verse">The glory of the summer sun.</div>
+    <div class="verse">That soul will hate the evening mist</div>
+    <div class="verse">So often lovely, and will list</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the sound of the coming darkness (known</div>
+    <div class="verse">To those whose spirits hearken) as one</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who, in a dream of night, <i>would</i> fly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But <i>cannot</i>, from a danger nigh.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">What tho’ the moon—the white moon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shed all the splendour of her noon?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her smile is chilly—and her beam,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In that time of dreariness, will seem</div>
+    <div class="verse">(So like you gather in your breath)</div>
+    <div class="verse">A portrait taken after death.</div>
+    <div class="verse">And boyhood is a summer sun</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose waning is the dreariest one—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For all we live to know is known,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And all we seek to keep hath flown.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the noon-day beauty—which is all.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I reached my home—my home no more—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For all had flown who made it so.</div>
+    <div class="verse">I passed from out its mossy door,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A voice came from the threshold stone</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of one whom I had earlier known—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">O, I defy thee, Hell, to show</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On beds of fire that burn below,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">An humbler heart—a deeper woe.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Father, I firmly do believe—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I <i>know</i>—for Death who comes for me</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">From regions of the blest afar,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where there is nothing to deceive,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Hath left his iron gate ajar,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126">-126-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And rays of truth you cannot see</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Are flashing thro’ Eternity——</div>
+    <div class="verse">I do believe that Eblis hath</div>
+    <div class="verse">A snare in every human path;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Else how, when in the holy grove</div>
+    <div class="verse">I wandered of the idol, Love,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who daily scents his snowy wings</div>
+    <div class="verse">With incense of burnt offerings</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the most unpolluted things,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven</div>
+    <div class="verse">Above with trellised rays from Heaven</div>
+    <div class="verse">No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The lightning of his eagle eye—</div>
+    <div class="verse">How was it that Ambition crept,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Unseen, amid the revels there,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the tangles of Love’s very hair?</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp55" id="tamerlane_tail" style="max-width: 17.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/tamerlane_tail.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">TIMOUR</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127">-127-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">AL AARAAF</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp48" id="al_aaraaf_full1" style="max-width: 30.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_full1.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129">-129-</a></span></p>
+<h3>AL AARAAF. PART I.</h3>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="al_aaraaf_pt1" style="max-width: 30.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_pt1.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">O! nothing</span> earthly save the ray</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As in those gardens where the day</div>
+    <div class="verse">Springs from the gems of Circassy—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O! nothing earthly save the thrill</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of melody in woodland rill—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or (music of the passion-hearted)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Joy’s voice so peacefully departed</div>
+    <div class="verse">That like the murmur in the shell,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O! nothing of the dross of ours—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet all the beauty—all the flowers</div>
+    <div class="verse">That list our Love, and deck our bowers—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Adorn yon world afar, afar</div>
+    <div class="verse">The wandering star.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her world lay lolling on the golden air,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—</div>
+    <div class="verse">An oasis in desert of the blest.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Away—away—’mid seas of rays that roll</div>
+    <div class="verse">Empyrean splendour o’er th’ unchained soul—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Can struggle to its destined eminence—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130">-130-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And late to ours, the favoured one of God—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But, now, the ruler of an anchored realm,</div>
+    <div class="verse">She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar,</div>
+    <div class="verse">It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt,)</div>
+    <div class="verse">She looked into Infinity—and knelt.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fit emblems of the model of her world—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A wreath that twined each starry form around,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And all the opal’d air in colour bound.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of flowers: of lilies such as reared the head</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang</div>
+    <div class="verse">So eagerly around about to hang</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of her who loved a mortal—and so died.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The Sephalica, budding with young bees,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upreared its purple stem around her knees:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed</div>
+    <div class="verse">All other loveliness: its honied dew</div>
+    <div class="verse">(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Deliriously sweet, was dropped from Heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And fell on gardens of the unforgiven</div>
+    <div class="verse">In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower</div>
+    <div class="verse">So like its own above that, to this hour,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131">-131-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">It still remaineth, torturing the bee</div>
+    <div class="verse">With madness, and unwonted reverie:</div>
+    <div class="verse">In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf</div>
+    <div class="verse">And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief</div>
+    <div class="verse">Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Repenting follies that full long have fled,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more fair:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nyctanthes, too, as sacred as the light</div>
+    <div class="verse">She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And Clytia pondering between many a sun,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While pettish tears adown her petals run:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing</div>
+    <div class="verse">Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And Valisnerian lotus thither flown</div>
+    <div class="verse">From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever</div>
+    <div class="verse">With Indian Cupid down the holy river—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given</div>
+    <div class="verse">To bear the Goddess’ song, in odours, up to Heaven:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent4">“Spirit! that dwellest where,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In the deep sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">The terrible and fair,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In beauty vie!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Beyond the line of blue—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">The boundary of the star</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Which turneth at the view</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Of thy barrier and thy bar—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of the barrier overgone</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">By the comets who were cast</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">From their pride, and from their throne</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">To be drudges till the last—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132">-132-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">To be carriers of fire</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">(The red fire of their heart)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">With speed that may not tire</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">And with pain that shall not part—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Who livest—<i>that</i> we know—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In Eternity—we feel—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">But the shadow of whose brow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">What spirit shall reveal?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Thy messenger hath known</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Have dreamed for thy Infinity</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">A model of their own—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Thy will is done, O God!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">The star hath ridden high</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">Beneath thy burning eye;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">And here, in thought, to thee—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In thought that can alone</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Ascend thy empire and so be</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">A partner of thy throne—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">By wingèd Fantasy,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">My embassy is given,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Till secrecy shall knowledge be</div>
+    <div class="verse indent5">In the environs of Heaven.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">She ceased—and buried then her burning cheek</div>
+    <div class="verse">Abashed, amid the lilies there, to seek</div>
+    <div class="verse">A shelter from the fervour of His eye;</div>
+    <div class="verse">For the stars trembled at the Deity.</div>
+    <div class="verse">She stirred not—breathed not—for a voice was there</div>
+    <div class="verse">How solemnly pervading the calm air!</div>
+    <div class="verse">A sound of silence on the startled ear,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Silence”—which is the merest word of all.</div>
+    <div class="verse">All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things</div>
+    <div class="verse">Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135">-135-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high</div>
+    <div class="verse">The eternal voice of God is passing by,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the red winds are withering in the sky!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp49" id="al_aaraaf_full2" style="max-width: 30.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_full2.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">“What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Linked to a little system, and one sun—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where all my love is folly, and the crowd</div>
+    <div class="verse">Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath—</div>
+    <div class="verse">(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)</div>
+    <div class="verse">What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun</div>
+    <div class="verse">The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet thine is my resplendency, so given</div>
+    <div class="verse">To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And wing to other worlds another light!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Divulge the secrets of thy embassy</div>
+    <div class="verse">To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be</div>
+    <div class="verse">To every heart a barrier and a ban</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The single-moonèd eve!—on Earth we plight</div>
+    <div class="verse">Our faith to one love, and one moon adore:</div>
+    <div class="verse">The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.</div>
+    <div class="verse">As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136">-136-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">PART II.</h2>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="al_aaraaf_pt2" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_pt2.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse"><span class="smcap">High</span> on a mountain of enamelled head—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees</div>
+    <div class="verse">With many a muttered “hope to be forgiven”</div>
+    <div class="verse">What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of rosy head that, towering far away</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">While the moon danced with the fair stranger light—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upreared upon such height arose a pile</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthened air,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile</div>
+    <div class="verse">Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And nursled the young mountain in its lair.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of their own dissolution, while they die—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.</div>
+    <div class="verse">A dome, by linkèd light from Heaven let down,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sat gently on these columns as a crown—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A window of one circular diamond, there,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Looked out above into the purple air,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And rays from God shot down that meteor chain</div>
+    <div class="verse">And hallowed all the beauty twice again,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing.</div>
+    <div class="verse">But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen</div>
+    <div class="verse">The dimness of this world: that greyish green</div>
+    <div class="verse">That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lurked in each cornice, round each architrave—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137">-137-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And every sculptured cherub thereabout</div>
+    <div class="verse">That from his marble dwelling peerèd out,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Achaian statues in a world so rich?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis—</div>
+    <div class="verse">From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is now upon thee—but too late to save!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Sound loves to revel in a summer night:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Witness the murmur of the grey twilight</div>
+    <div class="verse">That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of many a wild star-gazer long ago—</div>
+    <div class="verse">That stealeth ever on the ear of him</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings</div>
+    <div class="verse">A music with it—’tis the rush of wings—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And Nesace is in her halls again.</div>
+    <div class="verse">From the wild energy of wanton haste</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;</div>
+    <div class="verse">The zone that clung around her gentle waist</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Within the centre of that hall to breathe</div>
+    <div class="verse">She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The fairy light that kissed her golden hair</div>
+    <div class="verse">And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Young flowers were whispering in melody</div>
+    <div class="verse">To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fountains were gushing music as they fell</div>
+    <div class="verse">In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet silence came upon material things—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138">-138-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And sound alone, that from the spirit sprang,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent3">“Neath blue-bell or streamer—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Or tufted wild spray</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">That keeps, from the dreamer,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">The moonbeam away—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Bright beings! that ponder,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">With half-closing eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">On the stars which your wonder</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Hath drawn from the skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Till they glance thro’ the shade, and</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Come down to your brow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Like—eyes of the maiden</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Who calls on you now—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Arise! from your dreaming</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In violet bowers,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">To duty beseeming</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">These star-litten hours—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">And shake from your tresses</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Encumbered with dew</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The breath of those kisses</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">That cumber them too—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">(O! how, without you, Love!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Could angels be blest?)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Those kisses of true love</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">That lulled ye to rest!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Up! shake from your wing</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Each hindering thing:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The dew of the night—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">It would weigh down your flight;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">And true love caresses—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">O! leave them apart!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">They are light on the tresses,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">But lead on the heart.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent3">“Ligeia! Ligeia!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">My beautiful one!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139">-139-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Whose harshest idea</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Will to melody run,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">O! is it thy will</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">On the breezes to toss?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Or, capriciously still,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Like the lone Albatross,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Incumbent on night</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">(As she on the air)</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">To keep watch with delight</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">On the harmony there?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent3">“Ligeia! wherever</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Thy image may be,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">No magic shall sever</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Thy music from thee.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Thou hast bound many eyes</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In a dreamy sleep—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">But the strains still arise</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Which thy vigilance keep—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The sound of the rain</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Which leaps down to the flower,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">And dances again</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In the rhythm of the shower—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The murmur that springs</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">From the growing of grass</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Are the music of things—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">But are modelled, alas!—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Away, then, my dearest,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">O! hie thee away</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">To springs that lie clearest</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Beneath the moon-ray—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">To lone lake that smiles,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">In its dream of deep rest,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">At the many star-isles</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">That enjewel its breast—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Where wild flowers, creeping,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Have mingled their shade,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140">-140-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">On its margin is sleeping</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Full many a maid—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Some have left the cool glade, and</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Have slept with the bee—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Arouse them, my maiden,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">On moorland and lea—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Go! breathe on their slumber,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">All softly in ear,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The musical number</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">They slumbered to hear—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">For what can awaken</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">An angel so soon</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">Whose sleep hath been taken</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Beneath the cold moon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">As the spell which no slumber</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Of witchery may test,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent3">The rhythmical number</div>
+    <div class="verse indent4">Which lulled him to rest?”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light</div>
+    <div class="verse">That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds afar,</div>
+    <div class="verse">O Death! from eye of God upon that star:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sweet was that error—ev’n with <i>us</i> the breath</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—</div>
+    <div class="verse">To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy.</div>
+    <div class="verse">For what (to them) availeth it to know</div>
+    <div class="verse">That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife</div>
+    <div class="verse">With the last ecstasy of satiate life—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Beyond that death no immortality—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141">-141-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?</div>
+    <div class="verse">But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts</div>
+    <div class="verse">To those who hear not for their beating hearts.</div>
+    <div class="verse">A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—</div>
+    <div class="verse">O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:</div>
+    <div class="verse">A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A gazer on the lights that shine above—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:</div>
+    <div class="verse">What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And they, and every mossy spring were holy</div>
+    <div class="verse">To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The night had found (to him a night of woe)</div>
+    <div class="verse">Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent</div>
+    <div class="verse">With eagle gaze along the firmament:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now turned it upon her—but ever then</div>
+    <div class="verse">It trembled to the orb of <span class="smcap">Earth</span> again.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How lovely ’tis to look so far away!</div>
+    <div class="verse">She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve</div>
+    <div class="verse">I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned to leave.</div>
+    <div class="verse">That eve—that eve—I should remember well—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell</div>
+    <div class="verse">On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And on my eye-lids—O, the heavy light!</div>
+    <div class="verse">How drowsily it weighed them into night!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142">-142-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran</div>
+    <div class="verse">With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:</div>
+    <div class="verse">But O, that light!—I slumbered—Death, the while,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle</div>
+    <div class="verse">So softly that no single silken hair</div>
+    <div class="verse">Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon</div>
+    <div class="verse">Was a proud temple called the Parthenon;</div>
+    <div class="verse">More beauty clung around her columned wall</div>
+    <div class="verse">Than even thy glowing bosom beats withal,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And when old Time my wing did disenthral</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And years I left behind me in an hour.</div>
+    <div class="verse">What time upon her airy bounds I hung,</div>
+    <div class="verse">One half the garden of her globe was flung</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unrolling as a chart unto my view—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tenantless cities of the desert too!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And half I wished to be again of men.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“My Angelo! and why of them to be?</div>
+    <div class="verse">A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And greener fields than in yon world above,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft</div>
+    <div class="verse">Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world</div>
+    <div class="verse">I left so late was into chaos hurled,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,</div>
+    <div class="verse">But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’</div>
+    <div class="verse">Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nor long the measure of my falling hours,</div>
+    <div class="verse">For nearest of all stars was thine to ours—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143">-143-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us</div>
+    <div class="verse">Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:</div>
+    <div class="verse">We came, my love; around, above, below,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Gay fire-fly of the night, we come and go,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>She</i> grants to us as granted by her God.</div>
+    <div class="verse">But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurled</div>
+    <div class="verse">Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes</div>
+    <div class="verse">Alone could see the phantom in the skies,</div>
+    <div class="verse">When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be</div>
+    <div class="verse">Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But when its glory swelled upon the sky,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,</div>
+    <div class="verse">We paused before the heritage of men,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away</div>
+    <div class="verse">The night that waned and waned and brought no day.</div>
+    <div class="verse">They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="al_aaraaf_tail" style="max-width: 17.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144">-144-</a></span></p>
+<h3>NOTES TO AL AARAAF</h3>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp90 bp" id="al_aaraaf_notes" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/al_aaraaf_notes.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p><a href="#Page_129">Page 129</a>. <i>Al Aaraaf.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_130'>Page 130</a>. <i>Capo Deucato.</i> On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_130'>Page 130</a>. <i>Her who loved a mortal—and so died.</i> Sappho.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_130'>Page 130</a>. <i>And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed.</i> This
+flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The
+bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>Clytia.</i> 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></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>That aspiring flower that sprang on Earth.</i> 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 odour 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><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145">-145-</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>Valisnerian lotus.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>Thy most lovely purple perfume.</i> The Hyacinth.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>The Nelumbo bud.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_131'>Page 131</a>. <i>To bear the Goddess’ song, etc.</i> And golden vials
+full of odours which are the prayers of the saints.—<i>Rev. St. John.</i></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_132'>Page 132</a>. <i>A model of their own.</i> The Humanitarians held
+that God was to be understood as having really a human
+form.—<i><span lang="la">Vide</span> Clarke’s Sermons</i>, vol. i., page 26, fol. edit.</p>
+
+<p>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></p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="la">Vide</span> <span lang="fr">du Pin</span>.</i></p>
+
+<p>Among Milton’s minor poems are these lines:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza" lang="la">
+    <div class="verse">Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, etc.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine</div>
+    <div class="verse">Natura solers finxit humanum genus?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>And afterwards—</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza" lang="la">
+    <div class="verse">Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit</div>
+    <div class="verse">Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_132'>Page 132</a>. <i>Wingèd Fantasy.</i></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza" lang="de">
+    <div class="verse">Seltsamen Tochter Jovis</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seinem Schosskinde</div>
+    <div class="verse">Der Phantasie.—<i>Goethe.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_135'>Page 135</a>. <i>Sightless cycles.</i> Sightless—too small to be seen.—<i>Legge.</i></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_135'>Page 135</a>. <i>Fire-flies.</i> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146">-146-</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_135'>Page 135</a>. <i>Therasæan reign.</i> Therasæa, or Therasea, the
+island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose from
+the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_136'>Page 136</a>. <i>Molten stars, etc.</i></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Some star which, from the ruined roof</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of shaked Olympus, by mischance did fall.—<i>Milton.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_137'>Page 137</a>. <i>Persepolis.</i> Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis,
+says, “<span lang="fr">Je connois bien l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais
+un palais érigé au pied d’une chaîne des rochers sterils—peut
+il être un chef d’œuvre des arts?</span>”</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_137'>Page 137</a>. <i>Gomorrah.</i> Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation;
+but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or
+Almotanah. 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 (engulfed)—but
+the last is out of all reason.</p>
+
+<p>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 distances
+as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space
+now usurped by the “Asphaltites.”</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_137'>Page 137</a>. <i>Eyraco.</i> Chaldea.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_137'>Page 137</a>. <i>Palpable and loud.</i> I have often thought I could
+distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the
+horizon.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_137'>Page 137</a>. <i>Young flowers were whispering, etc.</i> Fairies use
+flowers for their charactery.—<i>Merry Wives of Windsor.</i></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_138'>Page 138</a>. <i>The moonbeam.</i> 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 circumstance the passage
+evidently alludes.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_139'>Page 139</a>. <i>The lone Albatross.</i> The Albatross is said to
+sleep on the wing.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_139'>Page 139</a>. <i>The murmur that springs, etc.</i> 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.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147">-147-</a></span></p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_140'>Page 140</a>. <i>Have slept with the bee.</i> The wild bee will not
+sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.</p>
+
+<p>The rhyme in this 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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O! were there an island,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Tho’ ever so wild,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where woman might smile, and</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">No man be beguiled, etc.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_141'>Page 141</a>. <i>Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far
+from Hell.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza" lang="es">
+    <div class="verse">Un no rompido sueno—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Un dia puro—allegre—libre</div>
+    <div class="verse">Quiera—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Libre de amor—de zelo—</div>
+    <div class="verse">De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent8"><i>Luis Ponce de Leon.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>Sorrow is not excluded from “Al Aaraaf,” but it is that sorrow
+which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in
+some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate
+excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon
+intoxication are its less holy pleasures—the price of which, to
+those souls who make choice of “Al Aaraaf” as their residence
+after life, is final death and annihilation.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_141'>Page 141</a>. <i>Tears of perfect moan.</i></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">There be tears of perfect moan</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wept for thee in Helicon.—<i>Milton.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_142'>Page 142</a>. <i>The Parthenon.</i> It was entire in 1687—the most
+elevated spot in Athens.</p>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_142'>Page 142</a>. <i>More beauty clung, etc.</i></p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows</div>
+    <div class="verse">Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.</div>
+    <div class="verse indent16"><i>Marlowe.</i></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><a href='#Page_142'>Page 142</a>. <i>My pennoned spirit.</i> Pennon, for pinion.—<i>Milton.</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149">-149-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">SCENES FROM POLITIAN</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp46" id="politian_full" style="max-width: 30.1875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/politian_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151">-151-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp88" id="politian_head" style="max-width: 30.4375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/politian_head.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<h3>I</h3>
+
+<p class="center">ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. <span class="smcap">Alessandra</span> and <span class="smcap">Castiglione</span>.</p>
+
+<p><i>Alessandra.</i> Thou art sad, Castiglione.</p>
+
+<p><i>Castiglione.</i> <span style="margin-left: 11em">Sad!—not I.</span><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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing<br>
+Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine?<br>
+Why didst thou sigh so deeply?</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> 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>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152">-152-</a></span><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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> (<i>musing</i>). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow—<br>
+Wears it away like evil hours and wine.<br>
+I will amend.</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> <span style="margin-left: 3em">Do it! I would have thee drop</span><br>
+Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born;<br>
+Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir<br>
+And Alessandra’s husband.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">I will drop them.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">I’ll see to it.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,<br>
+To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest<br>
+In dignity.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> <span style="margin-left: 2em">Much, much, oh, much I want</span><br>
+In proper dignity.</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> (<i>haughtily</i>). Thou mockest me, sir!</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> (<i>abstractedly</i>). Sweet, gentle Lalage!</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> <span style="margin-left: 14em">Heard I aright?</span><br>
+I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!<br>
+Sir Count! (<i>places her hand on his shoulder</i>) what art thou dreaming? He’s not well!<br>
+What ails thee, sir?</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> (<i>starting</i>). 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!</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153">-153-</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Enter Di Broglio.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Di Broglio.</i> My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the matter? (<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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">What! Politian</span><br>
+Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?</p>
+
+<p><i>Di Brog.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">The same, my love.</span><br>
+We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young<br>
+In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him<br>
+But rumour 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> I have heard much of this Politian.<br>
+Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not,<br>
+And little given to thinking?</p>
+
+<p><i>Di Brog.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">Far from it, love.</span><br>
+No branch, they say, of all philosophy<br>
+So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.<br>
+Learnèd as few are learnèd.</p>
+
+<p><i>Aless.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">’Tis very strange!</span><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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> Ridiculous! Now <i>I</i> have seen Politian<br>
+And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.<br>
+He is a dreamer, and a man shut out<br>
+From common passions.</p>
+
+<p><i>Di Brog.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">Children, we disagree.</span><br>
+Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154">-154-</a></span><br>
+Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear<br>
+Politian was a <i>melancholy</i> man? (<i>Exeunt.</i>)</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr>
+<div class="blockquot">
+<h3>II</h3>
+
+<p class="blockquot">ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking
+into a garden. <span class="smcap">Lalage</span>, in deep mourning, reading at a
+table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the
+background <span class="smcap">Jacinta</span> (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon
+a chair.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lalage.</i> Jacinta! is it thou?</p>
+
+<p><i>Jacinta</i> (<i>pertly</i>). <span style="margin-left: 4em">Yes, ma’am, I’m here.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> (<i>aside</i>). ’Tis time.</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<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>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> “It in another climate, so he said,<br>
+Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes.</i>)</p>
+
+<p>“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!</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently
+resumes.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><span style="margin-left: 4em">Again!—a similar tale</span><br>
+Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155">-155-</a></span><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>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">Here’s a far sterner story—</span><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 weep—two gentle maids<br>
+With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!<br>
+Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta!</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> (<i>pettishly</i>). <span style="margin-left: 6em">Madam, what <i>is</i> it?</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind<br>
+As go down in the library and bring me<br>
+The Holy Evangelists?</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Pshaw! (<i>Exit.</i>)</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em">If there be balm</span><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.”</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the
+table.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> There, ma’am, ’s the book. (<i>aside.</i>) Indeed she is very troublesome.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> (<i>astonished</i>). What didst thou say, Jacinta? 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. (<i>resumes her reading.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> (<i>aside.</i>) <span style="margin-left: 6em">I can’t believe</span><br>
+She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156">-156-</a></span><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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> (<i>aside.</i>) <span style="margin-left: 5em">Is there no <i>further</i> aid?</span><br>
+That’s meant for me. (<i>aloud.</i>) I’m sure, madam, you need not<br>
+Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,<br>
+I thought not of the jewels.</p>
+
+<p><i>Jac.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">Oh, perhaps not!</span><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. (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head
+upon the table—after a short pause raises it.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> 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! (<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>
+Inurnèd 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!<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157">-157-</a></span><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!</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp77" id="politian_monk" style="max-width: 30.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/politian_monk.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment
+and approaches unobserved.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Monk.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">Refuge thou hast,</span><br>
+Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!<br>
+Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> (<i>arising hurriedly</i>). 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—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158">-158-</a></span><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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Monk.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">Think of thy precious soul!</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> 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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Monk.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">I did.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">’Tis well.</span><br>
+There <i>is</i> a vow ’twere fitting should be made—<br>
+A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,<br>
+A solemn vow!</p>
+
+<p><i>Monk.</i> <span style="margin-left: 4em">Daughter, this zeal is well!</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> 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!</p>
+
+<p class="blockquot">(<i>draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on
+high.</i>)</p>
+
+<p>Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine<br>
+Is written in Heaven!</p>
+
+<p><i>Monk.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">Thy words are madness, daughter,</span><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159">-159-</a></span><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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> ’Tis sworn!</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr>
+<div class="blockquot">
+<h3>III</h3>
+
+<p class="center">An Apartment in a Palace. <span class="smcap">Politian</span> and <span class="smcap">Baldazzar</span>.</p>
+
+<p><i>Baldazzar.</i> Arouse thee now, Politian!<br>
+Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not<br>
+Give way unto these humours. Be thyself!<br>
+Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,<br>
+And live, for now thou diest!</p>
+
+<p><i>Politian.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">Not so, Baldazzar!</span><br>
+Surely I live.</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 4em">Politian, it doth grieve me</span><br>
+To see thee thus!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 5em">Baldazzar, it doth grieve me</span><br>
+To give thee cause for grief, my honoured 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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">To the field then—to the field—</span><br>
+To the senate or the field.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i><span style="margin-left: 9em"> Alas! alas!</span><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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">I heard it not.</span><br>
+I heard not any voice except thine own,<br>
+And the echo of thine own.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160">-160-</a></span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em">Then I but dreamed.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">It <i>is</i> a phantom voice!</span><br>
+Didst thou not hear it <i>then</i>?</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">I heard it not.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 5em">Thou speakest a fearful riddle</span><br>
+I <i>will</i> not understand.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Yet now as Fate</span><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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161">-161-</a></span><br>
+Thou hearest not <i>now</i>, Baldazzar?</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">Indeed I hear not.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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 but heard it with its thrilling tones<br>
+In earlier days!</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 5em">I myself hear it now.</span><br>
+Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,<br>
+Proceeds from yonder 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 betrothèd of Castiglione,<br>
+His son and heir.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 5em">Be still!—it comes again!</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Voice</i> (<i>very faintly</i>). “And is thy heart so strong<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">As for to leave me thus,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">That have loved thee so long,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">In wealth and woe among?</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">And is thy heart so strong</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">As for to leave me thus?</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em">Say nay! say nay!”</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> The song is English, and I oft have heard it<br>
+In merry England—never so plaintively—<br>
+Hist! hist! it comes again!</p>
+
+<p><i>Voice</i> (<i>more loudly</i>). “Is it so strong<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">As for to leave me thus,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">That have loved thee so long,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">In wealth and woe among?</span><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162">-162-</a></span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">And is thy heart so strong</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">As for to leave me thus?</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em">Say nay! say nay!”</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> ’Tis hushed and all is still!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 11em">All <i>is not</i> still.</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> Let us go down.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Go down, Baldazzar, go!</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits us,—<br>
+Thy presence is expected in the hall<br>
+Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?</p>
+
+<p><i>Voice</i> (<i>distinctly</i>). “Who have loved thee so long,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">In wealth and woe among,</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 4em">And is thy heart so strong?</span><br>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em">Say nay! say nay!”</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give<br>
+These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,<br>
+Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness<br>
+Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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 veilèd face, and hear<br>
+Once more that silent tongue.”</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 11em">Let me beg you, sir,</span><br>
+Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.<br>
+Let us go down, I pray you.</p>
+
+<p><i>Voice</i> (<i>loudly</i>). <span style="margin-left: 5em">“Say nay!—say nay!”</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> (<i>aside</i>). ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the voice<br>
+Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay! (<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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163">-163-</a></span><br>
+Apology unto the Duke for me;<br>
+I go not down to-night.</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">Your lordship’s pleasure</span><br>
+Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> Good-night, my friend, good-night.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr>
+<div class="blockquot">
+<h3>IV</h3>
+
+<p class="center">The Gardens of a Palace—Moonlight. <span class="smcap">Lalage</span> and <span class="smcap">Politian</span>.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lalage.</i> 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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Politian.</i> 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</i>—<i>love thee</i>—<i>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? (<i>arising.</i>)<br>
+Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes—<br>
+Thy beauty and thy woes.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">Alas, proud Earl,</span><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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164">-164-</a></span><br>
+Could the dishonoured Lalage abide?<br>
+Thy wife, and with a tainted memory?—<br>
+My seared and blighted name, how would it tally<br>
+With the ancestral honours of thy house,<br>
+And with thy glory?</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Speak not to me of glory!</span><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 unhonoured and forgotten<br>
+Into the dust—so we descend together?<br>
+Descend together—and then—and then perchance—</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> Why dost thou pause, Politian?</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 13em">And then perchance</span><br>
+<i>Arise</i> together, Lalage, and roam<br>
+The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,<br>
+And still—</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 3em">Why dost thou pause, Politian?</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> And still <i>together</i>—<i>together</i>!</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">Now, Earl of Leicester!</span><br>
+Thou <i>lovest</i> me, and in my heart of hearts<br>
+I feel thou lovest me truly.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">O Lalage! (<i>throwing himself upon his knee.</i>)</span><br>
+And lovest thou <i>me</i>?</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Hist! hush! within the gloom</span><br>
+Of yonder trees methought a figure passed—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165">-165-</a></span><br>
+A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—<br>
+Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (<i>walks across and returns.</i>)<br>
+I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough<br>
+Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 11em">Politian!</span><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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 8em">Oh, wilt thou—wilt thou</span><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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">A deed is to be done—</span><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166">-166-</a></span><br>
+Castiglione lives!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 6em">And he shall die! (<i>Exit.</i>)</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Lal.</i> (<i>after a pause</i>). 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!</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr>
+<div class="blockquot">
+<h3>V</h3>
+
+<p class="center">The Suburbs. <span class="smcap">Politian</span> alone.</p>
+
+<p><i>Politian.</i> This weakness grows upon me.  I am faint,<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:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167">-167-</a></span><br>
+’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late<br>
+Demanded but to die!—What sayeth the Count?</p>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Enter Baldazzar.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Baldazzar.</i> That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud<br>
+Between the Earl Politian and himself,<br>
+He doth decline your cartel.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>What</i> didst thou say?</span><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?</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em">It is most true—</span><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 say?</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> No more, my lord, than I have told you:<br>
+The Count Castiglione will not fight,<br>
+Having no cause for quarrel.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em">Now this is true—</span><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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 12em">My lord!—my friend!——</span></p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168">-168-</a></span></p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> (<i>aside</i>). ’Tis he—he comes himself! (<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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Bal.</i> <span style="margin-left: 5em">I go—to-morrow we meet,</span><br>
+Do we not?—at the Vatican.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em">At the Vatican. (<i>Exit Baldazzar.</i>)</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Enter Castiglione.</i></p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> The Earl of Leicester here!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> I <i>am</i> the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,<br>
+Dost thou not? that I am here.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> <span style="margin-left: 10em">My lord, some strange,</span><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.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> Draw, villain, and prate no more!</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,<br>
+Proud Earl! (<i>draws.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> (<i>drawing</i>). Thus to the expiatory tomb,<br>
+Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee<br>
+In the name of Lalage!</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> (<i>letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage.</i>)<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Of Lalage!</span><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169">-169-</a></span><br>
+Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!<br>
+Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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!</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> <span style="margin-left: 11em">I dare not—dare not—</span><br>
+Hold off thy hand—with that belovèd name<br>
+So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—<br>
+I cannot—dare not—</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Now, by my halidom,</span><br>
+I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> Ha!—coward!—this may not be!</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>(<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>)</p>
+</div>
+
+<p><span style="margin-left: 16em">Alas! my lord,</span><br>
+It is—it is—most true. In such a cause<br>
+I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> (<i>greatly softened</i>). Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> And Lalage——</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> <span style="margin-left: 7em">Scoundrel!—arise and die!</span></p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> 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—(<i>baring his bosom.</i>)<br>
+Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—<br>
+Strike home.  I will not fight thee.</p>
+
+<p><i>Pol.</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170">-170-</a></span><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 cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?<br>
+Thou liest! thou shalt! (<i>Exit.</i>)</p>
+
+<p><i>Cas.</i> Now this indeed is just!<br>
+Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!</p>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="politian_tail" style="max-width: 24.125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/politian_tail.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">LALAGE</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171">-171-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">LETTER TO <span class="smcap">Mr.</span> ——<br>
+<span class="sm">INTRODUCTION TO POEMS<br>
+(1831)</span></h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="letter-to-mr_intro" style="max-width: 14.6875em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/letter-to-mr_intro.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173">-173-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">LETTER <span class="smcap">to M<sup>r</sup>.</span> ——</h2>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="letter-to-mr_head" style="max-width: 30.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/letter-to-mr_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p class="right"><span class="smcap">West Point</span>, 1831.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear B——</span> . . . . . . .</p>
+
+<p>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 embedded, they may have some chance of
+being seen by posterity.</p>
+
+<p>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
+favourable 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174">-174-</a></span>
+example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet—yet the
+fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool’s
+neighbour, 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
+neighbour asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet—the
+fool believes him, and it is henceforward his
+<i>opinion</i>. This neighbour’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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 favour; but a poet, who is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175">-175-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>I dare say Milton preferred “Comus” to either—if
+so—justly.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared
+poetry the most philosophical of all writings<a id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>—but it
+required a Wordsworth to pronounce it the most
+metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176">-176-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p class="center"><a id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1">[1]</a><span lang="el">Σπουδιοτατον και φιλοσοφικοτατον γενος</span>.</p>
+
+<p>To proceed: <i><span lang="la">ceteris paribus</span></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.</p>
+
+<p>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 labours 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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177">-177-</a></span>
+imagination—intellect with the passions—or age with
+poetry.</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;</div>
+    <div class="verse">He who would search for pearls must dive below,</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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; the depth 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. Poetry, above all
+things, is a beautiful painting whose tints to minute
+inspection are confusion worse confounded, but start
+boldly out to the cursory glance of the connoisseur.</p>
+
+<p>We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err,
+in his “<span lang="la">Biographia Literaria</span>”—professedly his literary
+life and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise <i><span lang="la">de omni scibili
+et quibusdam aliis</span></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.</p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="es">El
+Dorado</span></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.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178">-178-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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 vigour.</p>
+
+<p>The long wordy discussions by which he tries to
+reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very
+little in his favour: 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.</p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="la">Tantæne animis</span>?</i> Can great minds descend
+to such absurdity? But worse still: that he
+may bear down every argument in favour 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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179">-179-</a></span>
+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.
+<span lang="la">Imprimis</span>:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And now she’s at the pony’s head,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And now she’s at the pony’s tail,</div>
+    <div class="verse">On that side now, and now on this;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, almost stifled with her bliss—</div>
+    <div class="verse">A few sad tears does Betty shed,</div>
+    <div class="verse">She pats the pony, where or when</div>
+    <div class="verse">She knows not: happy Betty Foy!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>Secondly:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The dew was falling fast, the—stars began to blink;</div>
+    <div class="verse">I heard a voice: it said,—“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”</div>
+    <div class="verse">And, looking o’er the hedge, be—fore me I espied</div>
+    <div class="verse">A snow-white mountain lamb, with a—maiden at its side.</div>
+    <div class="verse">No other sheep were near,—the lamb was all alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And by a slender cord was—tether’d to a stone.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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 wished to excite? I love a sheep from
+the bottom of my heart.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>“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!</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180">-180-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality
+to a waggon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted
+to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy
+with a chorus of turkeys.</p>
+
+<p>Of Coleridge, I cannot but speak with reverence.
+His towering intellect! his gigantic power! To use
+an author quoted by himself, “<i><span lang="fr">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</span></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.</p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="fr">Très-volontiers</span></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!</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181">-181-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>What was meant by the invective against him who
+had no music in his soul?</p>
+
+<p>To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B——,
+what you, no doubt, perceive, for the metaphysical
+poets, <i>as</i> poets, the most sovereign contempt. That
+they have followers proves nothing—</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">No Indian prince has to his palace</div>
+    <div class="verse">More followers than a thief to the gallows.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="letter-to-mr_tail" style="max-width: 21.375em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/letter-to-mr_tail.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183">-183-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">ESSAYS ON THE<br>
+POETIC PRINCIPLE AND<br>
+THE PHILOSOPHY OF<br>
+COMPOSITION</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="essays" style="max-width: 17.5625em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/essays.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184">-184-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="poetic_principle_full" style="max-width: 30.25em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/poetic_principle_full.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185">-185-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE POETIC PRINCIPLE</h2>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="poetic_principle_head" style="max-width: 30.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/poetic_principle_head.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">In</span> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186">-186-</a></span>
+very utmost, it flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and
+then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.</p>
+
+<p>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 pre-judgment 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.</p>
+
+<p>In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof,
+at least very good reason, for believing it intended as
+a series of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I
+can say only that the work is based in an imperfect
+sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious
+ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold
+imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies
+is over. If, at any time, any very long poem <i>were</i>
+popular in reality—which I doubt—it is at least clear
+that no very long poem will ever be popular again.</p>
+
+<p>That the extent of a poetical work is, <i><span lang="la">ceteris paribus</span></i>,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187">-187-</a></span>
+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 that 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 pro<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188">-188-</a></span>duces
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I arise from dreams of thee</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the first sweet sleep of night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">When the winds are breathing low,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the stars are shining bright.</div>
+    <div class="verse">I arise from dreams of thee,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And a spirit in my feet</div>
+    <div class="verse">Has led me—who knows how?—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To thy chamber-window, sweet!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The wandering airs they faint</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On the dark, the silent stream—</div>
+    <div class="verse">The champak odours fail</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like sweet thoughts in a dream;</div>
+    <div class="verse">The nightingale’s complaint,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It dies upon her heart,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As I must die on thine,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">O, beloved as thou art!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O, lift me from the grass!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I die, I faint, I fail!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let thy love in kisses rain</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">On my lips and eyelids pale.</div>
+    <div class="verse">My cheek is cold and white, alas!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">My heart beats loud and fast:</div>
+    <div class="verse">O! press it close to thine again,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Where it will break at last!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189">-189-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The shadows lay along Broadway,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Twas near the twilight-tide—</div>
+    <div class="verse">And slowly there a lady fair</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Was walking in her pride.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Walked spirits at her side.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And Honour charmed the air;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And all astir looked kind on her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And called her good as fair—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For all God ever gave to her</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">She kept with chary care.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">She kept with care her beauties rare</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From lovers warm and true—</div>
+    <div class="verse">For her heart was cold to all but gold,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the rich came not to woo—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But honoured well her charms to sell,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">If priests the selling do.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Now walking there was one more fair—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A slight girl, lily-pale;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And she had unseen company</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To make the spirit quail—</div>
+    <div class="verse">’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And nothing could avail.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">No mercy now can clear her brow</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From this world’s peace to pray,</div>
+    <div class="verse">For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Her woman’s heart gave way!—</div>
+    <div class="verse">But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">By man is cursed alway!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190">-190-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 dissipa<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191">-191-</a></span>tion.
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man
+is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192">-192-</a></span>
+which administers to his delight in the manifold forms,
+and sounds, and odours, 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
+colours, and odours, 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 odours, and colours, and
+sentiments which greet <i>him</i> 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 for ever, 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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193">-193-</a></span>
+world) has ever been enabled at once to understand
+and <i>to feel</i> as poetic.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>A few words, however, in explanation. <i>That</i> pleasure
+which is at once the most pure, the most elevating,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194">-194-</a></span>
+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 recognise 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 <i>Beauty</i> which is the atmosphere and the real
+essence of the poem.</p>
+
+<p>I cannot better introduce the few poems which I
+shall present for your consideration, than by the citation
+of the Proem to Longellow’s “Waif”:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The day is done, and the darkness</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Falls from the wings of Night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As a feather is wafted downward</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">From an Eagle in his flight.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I see the lights of the village</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Gleam through the rain and the mist,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That my soul cannot resist;</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">A feeling of sadness and longing,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That is not akin to pain,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And resembles sorrow only</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As the mist resembles the rain.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195">-195-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Come, read to me some poem,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Some simple and heartfelt lay,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That shall soothe this restless feeling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And banish the thoughts of day.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Not from the grand old masters,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Not from the bards sublime,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose distant footsteps echo</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Through the corridors of Time.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">For, like strains of martial music,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Their mighty thoughts suggest</div>
+    <div class="verse">Life’s endless toil and endeavour;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And to-night I long for rest.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Read from some humbler poet,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Whose songs gushed from his heart,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As showers from the clouds of summer,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Or tears from the eyelids start;</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Who through long days of labour,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And nights devoid of ease,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Still heard in his soul the music</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of wonderful melodies.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Such songs have power to quiet</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The restless pulse of care,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And come like the benediction</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That follows after prayer.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then read from the treasured volume</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The poem of thy choice,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And lend to the rhyme of the poet</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The beauty of thy voice.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And the night shall be filled with music,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the cares that infest the day,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And as silently steal away.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">——the bards sublime,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose distant footsteps echo</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Down the corridors of Time.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196">-196-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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><span lang="fr">insouciance</span></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 wax-works.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">There, through the long, long summer hours,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The golden light should lie,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thick young herbs and groups of flowers</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Stand in their beauty by.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The oriole should build and tell</div>
+    <div class="verse">His love-tale, close beside my cell;</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The idle butterfly</div>
+    <div class="verse">Should rest him there, and there be heard</div>
+    <div class="verse">The housewife-bee and humming bird.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Come, from the village sent,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">With fairy laughter blent?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197">-197-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And what if, in the evening light,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Betrothed lovers walk in sight</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Of my low monument?</div>
+    <div class="verse">I would the lovely scene around</div>
+    <div class="verse">Might know no sadder sight nor sound.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I know, I know I should not see</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The season’s glorious show,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Nor would its brightness shine for me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Nor its wild music flow;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But if, around my place of sleep,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The friends I love should come to weep,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">They might not haste to go.</div>
+    <div class="verse">Soft airs and song, and light and bloom,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Should keep them lingering by my tomb.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">These to their softened hearts should bear</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The thought of what has been,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And speak of one who cannot share</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">The gladness of the scene;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whose part in all the pomp that fills</div>
+    <div class="verse">The circuit of the summer hills,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent2">Is—that his grave is green!</div>
+    <div class="verse">And deeply would their hearts rejoice</div>
+    <div class="verse">To hear again his living voice.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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,</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">A feeling of sadness and longing</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That is not akin to pain,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198">-198-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">And resembles sorrow only</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As the mist resembles the rain.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I fill this cup to one made up</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of loveliness alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A woman, of her gentle sex</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The seeming paragon;</div>
+    <div class="verse">To whom the better elements</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And kindly stars have given</div>
+    <div class="verse">A form so fair, that like the air,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Tis less of earth than heaven.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Her every tone is music’s own,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Like those of morning birds,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And something more than melody</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Dwells ever in her words;</div>
+    <div class="verse">The coinage of her heart are they,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And from her lips each flows</div>
+    <div class="verse">As one may see the burdened bee</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Forth issue from the rose.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Affections are as thoughts to her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The measures of her hours;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her feelings have the fragrancy,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The freshness of young flowers;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And lovely passions, changing oft,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">So fill her, she appears</div>
+    <div class="verse">The image of themselves by turns,—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The idol of past years!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Of her bright face one glance will trace</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A picture on the brain,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And of her voice in echoing hearts</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A sound must long remain;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But memory, such as mine of her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">So very much endears,</div>
+    <div class="verse">When death is nigh my latest sigh</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Will not be life’s, but hers.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I filled this cup to one made up</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Of loveliness alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse">A woman, of her gentle sex</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The seeming paragon—<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199">-199-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Her health! and would on earth there stood,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Some more of such a frame,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That life might be all poetry,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And weariness a name.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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. Boccalini,
+in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that
+Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism
+upon a very admirable book:—whereupon the god
+asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied
+that he only busied himself about the errors. On
+hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed
+wheat, bade him pick out <i>all the chaff</i> for his
+reward.</p>
+
+<p>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 as 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.</p>
+
+<p>Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200">-200-</a></span>
+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 than any other
+single sentiment ever embodied in words:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?</div>
+    <div class="verse">I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201">-201-</a></span>
+Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember
+them.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O saw ye not fair Ines?</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">She’s gone into the West,</div>
+    <div class="verse">To dazzle when the sun is down</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And rob the world of rest;</div>
+    <div class="verse">She took our daylight with her,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The smiles that we love best,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With morning blushes on her cheek,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And pearls upon her breast.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">O turn again, fair Ines,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Before the fall of night,</div>
+    <div class="verse">For fear the moon should shine alone,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And stars unrivalled bright;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And blessed will the lover be</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That walks beneath their light,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And breathes the love against thy cheek</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">I dare not even write!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Would I had been, fair Ines,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That gallant cavalier,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who rode so gaily by thy side,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And whispered thee so near!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Were there no bonny dames at home,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Or no true lovers here,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That he should cross the seas to win</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The dearest of the dear?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">I saw thee, lovely Ines,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Descend along the shore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With bands of noble gentlemen,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And banners waved before;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And gentle youth and maidens gay,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And snowy plumes they wore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">It would have been a beauteous dream,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">If it had been no more!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Alas, alas, fair Ines,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">She went away with song,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202">-202-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">With Music waiting on her steps,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And shoutings of the throng;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But some were sad and felt no mirth,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">But only Music’s wrong,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To her you’ve loved so long.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">That vessel never bore</div>
+    <div class="verse">So fair a lady on its deck,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Nor danced so light before,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Alas for pleasure on the sea,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And sorrow on the shore!</div>
+    <div class="verse">The smile that blest one lover’s heart</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Has broken many more!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one
+of the truest poems ever written,—one of the <i>truest</i>,
+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”:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">One more Unfortunate,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Weary of breath,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Rashly importunate</div>
+    <div class="verse">Gone to her death!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Take her up tenderly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lift her with care;—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fashioned so tenderly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Young and so fair!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Look at her garments</div>
+    <div class="verse">Clinging like cerements;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whilst the wave constantly</div>
+    <div class="verse">Drips from her clothing;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Take her up instantly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Loving, not loathing.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Touch her not scornfully;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Think of her mournfully,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203">-203-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Gently and humanly;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Not of the stains of her,</div>
+    <div class="verse">All that remains of her</div>
+    <div class="verse">Now is pure womanly.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Make no deep scrutiny</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into her mutiny</div>
+    <div class="verse">Rash and undutiful;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Past all dishonour,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Death has left on her</div>
+    <div class="verse">Only the beautiful.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Where the lamps quiver</div>
+    <div class="verse">So far in the river,</div>
+    <div class="verse">With many a light</div>
+    <div class="verse">From window and casement,</div>
+    <div class="verse">From garret to basement,</div>
+    <div class="verse">She stood, with amazement,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Houseless by night.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">The bleak wind of March</div>
+    <div class="verse">Made her tremble and shiver;</div>
+    <div class="verse">But not the dark arch,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or the black flowing river;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Mad from life’s history,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Glad to death’s mystery,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Swift to be hurl’d—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Anywhere, anywhere</div>
+    <div class="verse">Out of the world!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">In she plunged boldly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">No matter how coldly</div>
+    <div class="verse">The rough river ran,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over the brink of it,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Picture it,—think of it,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Dissolute Man!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lave in it, drink of it</div>
+    <div class="verse">Then, if you can!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Still, for all slips of hers,</div>
+    <div class="verse">One of Eve’s family—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Wipe those poor lips of hers</div>
+    <div class="verse">Oozing so clammily;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Loop up her tresses</div>
+    <div class="verse">Escaped from the comb,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her fair auburn tresses;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Whilst wonderment guesses</div>
+    <div class="verse">Where was her home?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204">-204-</a></span></div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Who was her father?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Who was her mother?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Had she a sister?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Had she a brother?</div>
+    <div class="verse">Or was there a dearer one</div>
+    <div class="verse">Still, and a nearer one</div>
+    <div class="verse">Yet, than all other?</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Alas! for the rarity</div>
+    <div class="verse">Of Christian charity</div>
+    <div class="verse">Under the sun!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Oh! it was pitiful!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Near a whole city full,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Home she had none.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Sisterly, brotherly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fatherly, motherly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Feelings had changed:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Love, by harsh evidence,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thrown from its eminence;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Even God’s providence</div>
+    <div class="verse">Seeming estranged.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Take her up tenderly;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Lift her with care;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fashioned so slenderly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Young, and so fair!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ere her limbs frigidly</div>
+    <div class="verse">Stiffen too rigidly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Decently,—kindly,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Smooth and compose them;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And her eyes, close them,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Staring so blindly!</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Dreadfully staring</div>
+    <div class="verse">Through muddy impurity,</div>
+    <div class="verse">As when with the daring</div>
+    <div class="verse">Last look of despairing</div>
+    <div class="verse">Fixed on futurity.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Perishing gloomily,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Spurred by contumely,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Cold inhumanity,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Burning insanity,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Into her rest,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Cross her hands humbly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205">-205-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">As if praying dumbly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Over her breast!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Owning her weakness,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her evil behaviour,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And leaving, with meekness,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Her sins to her Saviour!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>The vigour 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.</p>
+
+<p>Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one
+which has never received from the critics the praise
+which it undoubtedly deserves:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Though the day of my destiny’s over,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And the star of my fate hath declined,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Thy soft heart refused to discover</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The faults which so many could find;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It shrunk not to share it with me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the love which my spirit hath painted</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It never hath found but in <i>thee</i>.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then when nature around me is smiling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The last smile which answers to mine,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I do not believe it beguiling,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Because it reminds me of thine;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And when winds are at war with the ocean,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">As the breasts I believed in with me,</div>
+    <div class="verse">If their billows excite an emotion,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It is that they bear me from <i>thee</i>.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And its fragments are sunk in the wave,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though I feel that my soul is delivered</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">To pain—it shall not be its slave.</div>
+    <div class="verse">There is many a pang to pursue me:</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">They may crush, but they shall not contemn—</div>
+    <div class="verse">They may torture, but shall not subdue me—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Tis of <i>thee</i> that I think—not of them.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Though human, thou didst not deceive me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Though woman, thou didst not forsake,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206">-206-</a></span></div>
+    <div class="verse">Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Though parted, it was not to fly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Nor mute, that the world might belie.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Nor the war of the many with one—</div>
+    <div class="verse">If my soul was not fitted to prize it,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">’Twas folly not sooner to shun:</div>
+    <div class="verse">And if dearly that error hath cost me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And more than I once could foresee,</div>
+    <div class="verse">I have found that whatever it lost me,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">It could not deprive me of <i>thee</i>.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thus much I at least may recall,</div>
+    <div class="verse">It hath taught me that which I most cherished</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Deserved to be dearest of all:</div>
+    <div class="verse">In the desert a fountain is springing,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">In the wide waste there still is a tree,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And a bird in the solitude singing,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Which speaks to my spirit of <i>thee</i>.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult,
+the versification could scarcely be improved. No
+nobler <i>theme</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207">-207-</a></span>
+What I am about to read is from his last long poem,
+“The Princess”:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tears from the depth of some divine despair</div>
+    <div class="verse">Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,</div>
+    <div class="verse">In looking on the happy Autumn fields,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And thinking of the days that are no more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,</div>
+    <div class="verse">That brings our friends up from the underworld,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Sad as the last which reddens over one</div>
+    <div class="verse">That sinks with all we love below the verge;</div>
+    <div class="verse">So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns</div>
+    <div class="verse">The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds</div>
+    <div class="verse">To dying ears, when unto dying eyes</div>
+    <div class="verse">The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;</div>
+    <div class="verse">So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse indent1">Dear as remembered kisses after death,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned</div>
+    <div class="verse">On lips that are for others; deep as love,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;</div>
+    <div class="verse">O Death in Life, the days that are no more.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect
+manner, I have endeavoured 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 Dionæan Venus—is unquestionably the
+purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208">-208-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>We shall reach, however, more immediately a
+distinct conception of what the 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 odour 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 endurances,
+but above all—ah, far above all—he kneels to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209">-209-</a></span>
+it, he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the
+strength, in the altogether divine majesty of her <i>love</i>.</p>
+
+<p>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 sympathise 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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">A sword of metal keene!</div>
+    <div class="verse">Al else to noble heartes is drosse—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Al else on earth is meane.</div>
+    <div class="verse">The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">The rowleing of the drum,</div>
+    <div class="verse">The clangour of the trumpet lowde—</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Be soundes from heaven that come.</div>
+    <div class="verse">And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">When as their war-cryes welle,</div>
+    <div class="verse">May tole from heaven an angel bright,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And rowse a fiend from hell.</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And don your helmes amaine:</div>
+    <div class="verse">Death’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Us to the field againe.</div>
+    <div class="verse">No shrewish teares shall fill your eye</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">For the fayrest of the land;</div>
+    <div class="verse">Let piping swaine, and craven wight,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">Thus weepe and puling crye,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Our business is like men to fight,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent1">And hero-like to die!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="chapter"><hr class="chap">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211">-211-</a></span></p>
+<h2 class="nobreak">THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION</h2></div>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="philosophy" style="max-width: 30.75em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/philosophy.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Charles Dickens</span>, in a note now lying before me,
+alluding to an examination I once made of the mechanism
+of “Barnaby Rudge,” says—“By the way, are
+you aware that Godwin wrote his ‘Caleb Williams’
+backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of
+difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for
+the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting
+for what had been done.”</p>
+
+<p>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 “Caleb Williams”
+was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage
+derivable from at least a somewhat similar process.
+Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the
+name, must be elaborated to its <i><span lang="fr">dénouement</span></i> before
+anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with
+the <i><span lang="fr">dénouement</span></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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212">-212-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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 event or tone as
+shall best aid me in the construction of the effect.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213">-213-</a></span>
+cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of
+the literary <i><span lang="la">histrio</span></i>.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="la">desideratum</span></i>, is quite independent of any real or
+fancied interest in the thing analysed, it will not be
+regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show
+the <i><span lang="la">modus operandi</span></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 referable
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>We commence, then, with this intention.</p>
+
+<p>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><span lang="la">ceteris paribus</span></i>, no poet can afford<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214">-214-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct
+limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art—the
+limit of a single sitting—and that, although in
+certain classes of prose composition, such as “Robinson
+Crusoe” (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously
+overpassed, it can never properly be
+overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent
+of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation
+to its merit—in other words, to the excitement or
+elevation—again, in other words, to the degree of the
+true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing;
+for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio
+of the intensity of the intended effect—this, with one
+proviso—that a certain degree of duration is absolutely
+requisite for the production of any effect at all.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>My next thought concerned the choice of an im<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215">-215-</a></span>pression,
+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, or even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216">-216-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217">-217-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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>.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>The next <i><span lang="la">desideratum</span></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,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218">-218-</a></span>
+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>.</p>
+
+<p>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.”</p>
+
+<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219">-219-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil!</div>
+    <div class="verse">By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,</div>
+    <div class="verse">It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220">-220-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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, <i>for 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.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I pretend to no originality in either the
+rhythm or metre of the “Raven.” The former is trochaic—the
+latter is octameter acatalectic, alternating
+with heptameter catalectic repeated in the <i>refrain</i> of
+the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic.
+Less pedantically, the feet employed throughout
+(trochees) consist 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<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221">-221-</a></span>
+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>combination into stanza</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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222">-222-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.”</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Not the <i>least obeisance made he</i>—not a moment stopped or stayed he,</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>But with mien of lord or lady</i>, perched above my chamber door.</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more
+obviously carried out:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling</div>
+    <div class="verse">By the <i>grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore</i>,</div>
+    <div class="verse">“Though thy <i>crest be shorn and shaven</i>, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore—</div>
+    <div class="verse">Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore?”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">Much I marvelled <i>this ungainly fowl</i> to hear discourse so plainly,</div>
+    <div class="verse">Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;</div>
+    <div class="verse">For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being</div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—</i></div>
+    <div class="verse"><i>Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door</i>,</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">With such name as “Nevermore.”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223">-223-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The effect of the <i><span lang="fr">dénouement</span></i> 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,</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.
+</p>
+
+<p>From this epoch the lover no longer jests—no
+longer sees anything even of the fantastic in the
+Raven’s demeanour. 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><span lang="fr">dénouement</span></i>—which is now brought
+about as rapidly and as <i>directly</i> as possible.</p>
+
+<p>With the <i><span lang="fr">dénouement</span></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 poring 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 demeanour,
+demands of it, in jest and without looking
+for a reply, its name. The Raven addressed, answers
+with its customary word, “Nevermore”—a word which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224">-224-</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">“Take thy beak from out <i>my heart</i>, and take thy form from off my door!”</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225">-225-</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<div class="poetry-container">
+<div class="poetry">
+  <div class="stanza">
+    <div class="verse">And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting</div>
+    <div class="verse">On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,</div>
+    <div class="verse">And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;</div>
+    <div class="verse">And my soul <i>from out that shadow</i> that lies floating on the floor</div>
+    <div class="verse indent6">Shall be lifted—nevermore!</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr>
+<figure class="figcenter illowp61" id="finis" style="max-width: 17.5em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/finis.jpg" alt="">
+  <figcaption class="caption">FINIS</figcaption>
+</figure>
+
+
+<hr>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226">-226-</a></span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowp53" id="printer_device" style="max-width: 7.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/printer_device.jpg" alt="">
+</figure>
+
+<p class="center sm">
+CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.<br>
+TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
+</p>
+
+<hr>
+
+<p class="center"><b><a id="Transcribers_Note"></a>Transcriber’s Note</b></p>
+
+<p>Full-page images have been moved to the nearest paragraph break in order to
+maintain the flow of the text. Page number errors in the <a href="#CONTENTS">Contents</a>
+and the <a href="#Page_xi">List of Illustrations</a> have been corrected without note.</p>
+
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76996 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
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@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
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@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for book #76996
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76996)