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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76996-0.txt b/76996-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6e9b7cf --- /dev/null +++ b/76996-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6500 @@ + +*** 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 *** diff --git a/76996-h/76996-h.htm b/76996-h/76996-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..84299a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/76996-h/76996-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8946 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 15%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: 1em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.short {width: 20%; 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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 & 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 & 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"> </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"> </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"> </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"> </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"> </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> + diff --git a/76996-h/images/a_dream.jpg b/76996-h/images/a_dream.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b838593 --- /dev/null +++ b/76996-h/images/a_dream.jpg diff --git a/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full1.jpg b/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full1.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..61c0909 --- /dev/null +++ b/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full1.jpg diff --git a/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full2.jpg b/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full2.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf2457a --- /dev/null +++ b/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_full2.jpg diff --git a/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_notes.jpg b/76996-h/images/al_aaraaf_notes.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b79235 --- 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