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diff --git a/79019-0.txt b/79019-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..223cfa3 --- /dev/null +++ b/79019-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5441 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79019 *** + + + + +Transcriber‘s Notes: + + Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ + in the original text. + Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. + Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up stanzas. + Deprecated spellings have been preserved. + Typographical and punctuation errors have been silently corrected. + + + + + THE + POETICAL WORKS + OF + EDGAR ALLAN POE + + WITH ORIGINAL MEMOIR. + + ILLUSTRATED BY F. R. PICKERSGILL, R.A. + JOHN TENNIEL, BIRKET FOSTER, FELIX DARLEY, JASPER CROPSEY, + P. DUGGAN, PERCIVAL SKELTON, AND A. M. MADOT. + + [Illustration] + + LONDON: + SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO. 47, LUDGATE HILL. + MDCCCLVIII. + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY RICHARD CLAY, + BREAD STREET HILL. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to +their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been +subjected while going at random “the rounds of the press.” I am +naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote +it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, +it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of +much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to +be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious +effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field +of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and +the passions should be held in reverence; they must not—they cannot at +will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more +paltry commendations of mankind. + + E. A. P. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— + PAGE + THE RAVEN 1 + LENORE 9 + A VALENTINE 12 + THE COLISEUM 13 + TO —— —— 15 + TO HELEN 17 + AN ENIGMA 22 + ULALUME 23 + TO —— 28 + TO MY MOTHER 29 + THE BELLS 30 + THE CONQUEROR WORM 39 + ANNABEL LEE 42 + THE VALLEY OF UNREST 46 + ISRAFEL 48 + SILENCE 52 + TO ZANTE 53 + TO F——S S. O——D 55 + BRIDAL BALLAD 56 + THE HAUNTED PALACE 58 + EULALIE 62 + TO F—— 64 + TO ONE IN PARADISE 65 + DREAM-LAND 67 + HYMN 71 + THE SLEEPER 72 + FOR ANNIE 76 + ELDORADO 82 + A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 85 + THE CITY IN THE SEA 87 + SCENES FROM “POLITIAN;” AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 91 + + POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH:— + AL AARAAF 149 + SONNET—TO SCIENCE 173 + TO THE RIVER —— 174 + TAMERLANE 176 + TO —— 192 + A DREAM 194 + ROMANCE 195 + FAIRY-LAND 197 + THE LAKE.——TO—— 201 + SONG 203 + TO M. L. S. 204 + TO HELEN 205 + + NOTES TO AL AARAAF 207 + + THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 217 + +[Illustration] + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS. + + + ARTIST. ENGRAVER. PAGE + Portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. DAGUERREOTYPE _J. Cooper_ xvii + + THE RAVEN. + And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each + purple curtain + Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors + never felt before. + JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 1 + + 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. + JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 3 + + “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by + these angels he hath sent thee + Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories + of Lenore!” + JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 6 + + And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, + still is sitting + On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my + chamber door. + JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 8 + + LENORE. + The life upon her yellow hair, but not within + her eyes— + The life still there, upon her hair—the death + upon her eyes. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 9 + + The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, + that flew beside, + Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should + have been thy bride. + FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 11 + + THE COLISEUM. + But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— + These mouldering plinths—these sad and + blackened shafts. + JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 13 + + TO HELEN. + It was a July midnight; and from out + A full-orbed moon, ... + There fell a silvery-silken veil of light. + BIRKET FOSTER _W. T. Green_ 17 + + Clad all in white, upon a violet bank + I saw thee half reclining. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 19 + + And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees + Didst glide away. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 21 + + ULALUME. + It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, + In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. + JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 23 + + That I brought a dread burden down here— + On this night of all nights in the year. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 27 + + THE BELLS. + Hear the sledges with the bells— + Silver bells! FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 30 + + Through the balmy air of night + How they ring out their delight! + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 32 + + Hear the loud alarum bells— + + * * * * * + + In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. + FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 34 + + In the silence of the night, + How we shiver with affright. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 36 + + ANNABEL LEE. + _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 42 + + For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 44 + + ISRAFEL. + In heaven a spirit doth dwell + “Whose heart-strings are a lute.” + P. DUGGAN _W. J. Linton_ 48 + + TO ZANTE. + Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, + Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 53 + + THE HAUNTED PALACE. + Once a fair and stately palace— + Radiant palace—reared its head. + A. M. MADOT _E. Evans_ 58 + + EULALIE. + Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my + blushing bride— + Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my + smiling bride. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 62 + + TO ONE IN PARADISE. + Such language holds the solemn sea + To the sands upon the shore. + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 65 + + DREAM-LAND. + Shrouded forms that start and sigh + As they pass the wanderer by. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 69 + + THE SLEEPER. + At midnight, in the month of June, + I stand beneath the mystic moon. + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 72 + + FOR ANNIE. + And she prayed to the angels + To keep me from harm. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 78 + + ELDORADO. + And, as his strength + Failed him at length, + He met a pilgrim shadow. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 83 + + A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. + I stand amid the roar + Of a surf-tormented shore. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 85 + + THE CITY IN THE SEA. + Lo! Death has reared himself a throne + In a strange city lying alone. + JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 87 + + The waves have now a redder glow— + The hours are breathing faint and low. + JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 89 + + SCENES FROM “POLITIAN.” + View of Rome. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 93 + + Heard I aright? + I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! + F. R. PICKERSGILL _Hammond_ 97 + + A garden. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 102 + + Think of eternal things; + Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! + F. R. PICKERSGILL _E. Evans_ 110 + + Politian, it doth grieve me + To see thee thus. + A. M. MADOT _E. Evans_ 114 + + Listen now—listen!—the faintest sound, + And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! + A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone! + A. M. MADOT _H. Harral_ 120 + + Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears + Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage! + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 127 + + Hist! hush! within the gloom + Of yonder trees methought a figure passed. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _E. Evans_ 132 + + The suburbs of Rome. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 136 + + AL AARAAF. + O! nothing earthly save the thrill + Of melody in woodland rill. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 149 + + Of her who loved a mortal—and so died. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 152 + + As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, + Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers. + A. M. MADOT _W. Thomas_ 157 + + High on a mountain of enamelled head— + . . . . . . arose a pile + Of gorgeous columns. + PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Whymper_ 159 + + On its margin is sleeping + Full many a maid. + F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 166 + + Was a proud temple called the Parthenon. + PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 170 + + TO THE RIVER. + For in his heart, as in thy stream, + Her image deeply lies. + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 174 + + TAMERLANE. + We grew in age—and love—together— + Roaming the forest, and the wild. + A. M. MADOT _W. J. Linton_ 181 + + We walked together on the crown + Of a high mountain. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 185 + + A voice came from the threshold stone + Of one whom I had earlier known. + A. M. MADOT _W. J. Linton_ 189 + + TO ——. + The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see + The wantonest singing birds. + BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 192 + + FAIRY-LAND. + Dim vales—and shadowy floods— + And cloudy-looking woods. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 198 + + THE LAKE. + A wild lake, with black rock bound, + And the tall pines that towered around. + BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 201 + + The Head and Tail-pieces and Initial Letters. + W. HARRY ROGERS _E. Evans_ + + _Under the Superintendence of_ JOSEPH CUNDALL. + + + + +MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. + + +[Illustration] + +It would be well for all poets if nothing more were known of their +lives than what they themselves infuse into their poetry. Too close +a knowledge of the weaknesses and errors of the inspired children +of Parnassus, cannot but impair, in some degree, the delicate aroma +of their songs. The inner life of the poet, the secrets of his +inspiration, the mysterious processes by which his pearls of thought +are produced, can never be made known, and the accidents of his daily +life have but little more interest than those which fall to common men. +Under all circumstances the poet is a mystery, and the utterances of +his fancy are but the drapery of the veiled statue which still leaves +the figure itself unknown. A dissection of the song-bird gives us no +insight into the secret of his melodious notes. Some of the great +modern poets have had their whole lives exposed with minute accuracy; +but in what are we the wiser for the knowledge we have obtained of +them? We only know they lived and suffered like other men, and their +inspirations are still a cause of wonder and delight. The subtle secret +of their power is still hidden from our search; and though we know more +of the daily habits of the men, we know no more of the hidden power +of the poet. But there is still a yearning to know how the men lived +whose genius has charmed and instructed us, and a vague feeling exists, +that in probing the lives of poets we may learn something of the art by +which they produced their works. But it is like the useless labour of +Reynolds, who scraped a painting by Titian to learn the secret of his +colouring. + +Of all the poets whose lives have been a puzzle and a mystery to the +world, there is no one more difficult to be understood than Edgar +Allan Poe. It is impossible to carry in the mind a double idea of +a man, and to believe him to be both a saint and a fiend; yet such +is the embarrassment felt by those who have first read the poems of +this strange being, and then read any of the biographies of him which +pretend to anything like an accurate account of his life. Like his +own Raven, he is, to his readers, “bird or fiend,” they know not +which. But a close study of his works will reveal the fact, which +may serve in some degree to remove this embarrassment, that there is +nowhere discoverable in them a consciousness of moral responsibility. +They are full of the subtleties of passion, of grief, despair, and +longing, but they contain nothing that indicates a sense of moral +rectitude. They are the productions of one whose religion was a +worship of the Beautiful, and who knew no beauty but that which was +purely sensuous. There were but two kinds of beauty for him, and they +were Form and Colour. He revelled in an ideal world of perfect shows, +and was made wretched by any imperfections of art. The Leonore whose +loss he deplored was a being fair to the eye, a beautiful creature, +like Undine, without a soul. With this key to the character of the +poet, there is no difficulty in fully comprehending the strange +inconsistencies, the basenesses and nobleness which his wayward life +exhibited. + +Some of the biographers of Poe have been harshly judged for the view +given of his character, and it has naturally been supposed that private +pique has led to the exaggeration of his personal defects. But such +imputations are unjust; a truthful delineation of his career would give +a darker hue to his character than it has received from any of his +biographers. In fact, he has been more fortunate than most poets in his +historians. Lowell and Willis have sketched him with gentleness and a +reverent feeling for his genius; and Griswold, his literary executor, +in his fuller biography, has generously suppressed much that he might +have given. This is neither the proper time nor place to write a full +history of this unhappy genius; those who scan his marvellous poems +closely, may find therein the man, for it is impossible for the true +poet to veil himself from his readers. What he writes he is. + +The waywardness of Poe was an inheritance; though descended from a +family of great respectability, his immediate parents were dissolute +in their morals, and members of a profession which almost always +begets irregularity of habits. The paternal grandfather of the poet +was a distinguished officer in the Maryland line during the war of the +Revolution, and his great grandfather, John Poe, married a daughter of +Admiral McBride, of the British Navy. His father, the fourth son of +the Revolutionary officer, was a native of Maryland, and studied for +the bar; but becoming enamoured of a beautiful actress named Elizabeth +Arnold, he abandoned the law and adopted the stage as a profession. +They lived together six or seven years, wandering from theatre to +theatre, when they both died within a very short time of each other, +in Richmond, Virginia, leaving three children in utter destitution. +Edgar, the second child, who was born in Baltimore in January 1811, was +a remarkably bright and beautiful boy; and he attracted the attention +of a wealthy merchant in Richmond, who had known his parents, and who +had no children of his own. Mr. Allan adopted the little orphan, and +he was afterwards called Edgar Allan. The precocious child was petted +by his adopted parents, who took pride in his forwardness and beauty; +he was sent to the best schools, and was regarded as the heir to their +property. In 1816 Mr. and Mrs. Allan made a journey to Europe, and +Edgar accompanied them. He was placed at the school of the Rev. Dr. +Bransby, at Stoke Newington, near London, where he remained some four +or five years; but all that we know of him during this period of his +life, is what he has himself told us in the tale entitled “William +Wilson,” wherein he describes with great minuteness his recollections +of his school-days in England, and gives a characteristic picture of +the school-house and its surroundings. + +On his return to the United States, in the year 1822, he was placed +for a few months at an academy at Richmond, and then was transferred +to the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville. The students at +Charlottesville were noted, at that time, for their reckless and +dissolute manner of life, and young Poe was the most dissolute and +reckless among them. Though extremely slight in person, and almost +effeminate in his manner, he is represented to have been foremost in +all athletic sports and games, and there is good testimony to his +having performed the almost impossible feat of swimming, for a wager, +from Richmond to Warwick, a distance of seven miles, against a current +of two or three knots an hour. Notwithstanding his dissolute habits and +extravagance at the University, he excelled in his studies, was always +at the head of his class, and would, doubtless, have graduated with +honour, had he not been expelled on account of his profligacy and wild +excesses. + +His allowance of money had been liberal at the University, but he +quitted it in debt; and when his indulgent friend refused to accept his +drafts to meet his gambling losses, Poe wrote him an abusive letter, +and quitted the country with the design of offering his services to +the Greeks, who were then fighting for their emancipation from the +Turks. But he never reached Greece, and all that is known of his +career in Europe is, that he found himself in St. Petersburgh, in +extreme destitution, where the American Minister, Mr. Middleton, was +called upon to save him from arrest, on account of an indiscretion; +through the kind offices of this gentleman the young adventurer was +sent home to America, and, on his arrival in Richmond, Mr. Allan +received him with kindness, forgave him his past misconduct, and +procured him a cadetship at the United States Military Academy at +West Point. Unfortunately for him, just before he left Richmond for +his new appointment, Mrs. Allan, the wife of his benefactor, died. +She had always treated him with motherly affection, and he had paid +more deference to her than to any one else. At West Point he applied +himself with great energy and success for a while to his new course of +studies; but the rigid discipline of that institution ill sorted with +the irrepressible recklessness of his nature, and after ten months he +was ignominiously expelled. + +After leaving “the Point” he returned to Richmond, and was again kindly +received and welcomed to his home by Mr. Allan. But there was a change +in the house where the wayward boy had been a pet. There was a new and +a younger mistress. Mr. Allan had taken a second wife, a lady much +younger than himself, and who was disposed to treat the expelled cadet +as a son. But he soon contrived to quarrel with her, and was compelled +to abandon the house of his adopted father, never to return. The cause +of the quarrel which led to this final disruption between Poe and his +generous patron has been variously stated; the family of Mr. Allan +give a version of it which throws a dark shade on the character of the +poet; but let it have been as it may, it must have been of a very grave +nature, for, on the death of Mr. Allan, shortly after, in 1834, the +name of his adopted son, who it was supposed would have inherited all +his wealth, was not mentioned in his will. + +On leaving the house of his benefactor for the last time, Poe was +left without a friend, and thrown upon his own resources. He had +published a volume of poems in Baltimore, just after his expulsion +from West Point, under the title of “Al Aaraaf” and “Tamerlane,” to +which a few smaller poems were added. These were the production of +his early years, probably between his fifteenth and sixteenth years, +though the exact date of their production cannot be ascertained. The +commendations bestowed upon these precocious poems encouraged him to +devote himself to literature for a profession. But his first attempts +to earn a living by literature must have been discouraging, for soon +after publishing his first volume, he was driven by his necessities +to enlist as a private soldier in the army. Here he was recognised by +officers who had known him at West Point, and who interested themselves +to obtain his discharge, and, if possible, a commission. But their kind +intentions were frustrated by his desertion. The next attempt he made +in literature proved more successful; he had fruitlessly tried to find +a publisher for a volume of stories; but on a premium of one hundred +dollars, for a tale in prose, and a similar reward for a poem, being +offered by the publisher of a literary periodical in Baltimore, Poe +obtained both prizes; though he was only allowed to retain the prize +for the tale, as it was thought not prudent to give both prizes to the +same writer. The tale chosen was the “Manuscript found in a Bottle,” +a composition which contains many of his most marked peculiarities +of style and invention. The award was made in October 1833, and, +fortunately for the young author, there was one gentleman on the +committee who made the decision, who had it in his power to render him +essential service. + +This was John P. Kennedy, the novelist, author of “Horse Shoe +Robinson,” and eminent as a lawyer and a statesman. To this gentleman +Poe came on hearing of his success, poorly clad, pale, and emaciated; +he told his story, and his ambition, and at once gained the confidence +and affection of the more prosperous author. He was in utter want, and +had not yet received the amount to which he was entitled for his story. +Mr. Kennedy took him by the hand, furnished him with means to render +him immediately comfortable, and enabled him to make a respectable +appearance; and in a short time afterwards procured for him a situation +as editor of the “Literary Messenger,” a monthly magazine published in +Richmond. In his new place he continued for a while to work with great +industry, and wrote a great number of reviews and tales; but he fell +into his old habits, and after a debauch quarrelled with the proprietor +of the “Messenger,” and was dismissed. + +It was one of the strange peculiarities of Poe to make humble and +penitent appeals for forgiveness and reconciliation to those he had +offended by his abuse and insolence, and he was no sooner conscious of +his error in quarrelling with the publisher of the “Messenger” than +he endeavoured to regain the position he had lost. He was successful; +and though he often fell into his old habits, yet he retained his +connexion with the work until January, 1837, when he abandoned the +“Messenger” and left Richmond for New York. During his last residence +in Richmond, while working for a salary of ten dollars a week, he +married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a young, amiable, and gentle +girl, without fortune or friends, and as ill-calculated as himself to +buffet the waves of an adverse fortune. In New York he wrote for the +literary periodicals, but soon removed to Philadelphia, where he was +employed as editor of “Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine;” he continued but +a year in his post, and after several quarrels with the proprietor of +the magazine, left him to establish a magazine of his own. To have a +magazine of his own, which he could manage as he pleased, was always +the great ambition of his life. He had invented a title, selected a +motto, written an introduction, and made the entire plans for the great +work, which was to be called the “Stylus;” it was the chimera which +he nursed, the castle in the air which he longed for, the rainbow of +his cloudy hopes. But he did not succeed in establishing it then, and +was soon installed as editor of “Graham’s Magazine.” As a matter of +course he quarrelled with Graham, and then went to New York, where +he engaged as a sub-editor on the “Mirror,” a daily paper, of which +his friend Willis was editor. But he did not remain long at this +employment, which was wholly unsuited to him, and he left the “Mirror” +without quarrelling with the proprietor. During his engagements with +these different periodicals, he had written some of his finest prose +tales, had published an anonymous work in the style of Robinson Crusoe, +entitled the “Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym,” and a collection of +his tales in a volume, which he called “Tales of the Grotesque and the +Arabesque,” and gained another prize by his story of the Gold Bug. +He was beginning to be known as a fierce and terrible critic, rather +than as a poet or a writer of tales, when the publication of his poem +of the Raven in the “American Review,” a New York monthly magazine, +first attracted the attention of the literary world to his singular +and powerful genius. Up to the appearance of this wild fantasy, he +had not been generally recognised as a poet, and had known nothing of +society. But he became at once a lion, and his writings were eagerly +sought after by publishers. The prospect lay bright before him; he +abandoned for awhile the vices which so fearfully beset him; he was +living quietly in a pleasant rural neighbourhood in Westchester, near +the city, with his delicate wife and her mother, and a brilliant future +appeared to be in store for him. But he could never keep clear from +magazine editing, and he joined Mr. C. F. Briggs in publishing the +“Broadway Journal,” a literary weekly periodical; but the inevitable +quarrel ensued, and this project was abandoned at the end of a year. +It was while editing the “Broadway Journal” that he engaged in furious +onslaught upon Longfellow, whom he accused of plagiarising from his +poems, and, at the same time, involved himself in numberless disputes +and quarrels with other authors. But he also gained the affection and +admiration of many estimable literary people, some of whom he alienated +by appearing before them when in a state of intoxication. He delivered +a lecture on poetry, but attracted no hearers, and he was so chagrined +by his disappointment, that he fell again into his old habits, and +disgusted his new friends by his gross misconduct; he involved himself +in another quarrel with some of the literati of Boston, and to show his +contempt for them, went there and delivered a poem in public, which +he pretended to have written in his tenth year. On his return to New +York he was again reduced to great straits; and in 1848 he advertised +a series of lectures, in order to raise sufficient means to put into +execution his long-cherished plan of a magazine; but he delivered only +one lecture on the Cosmogony of the Universe, which was afterwards +published under the title of “Eureka, a Prose Poem.” His wife had died +the year previously, and during her illness he was reduced to such +extremities that public appeals, which were generously responded to, +were made in his behalf by the papers of New York. + +Not long after the death of his wife he formed an intimacy with an +accomplished literary lady of Rhode Island, a widow, and was engaged to +be married to her. It was to her that he addressed the poem “Annabel +Lee;” the day was appointed for their marriage; but he had, in the +meantime, formed other plans; and, to disentangle himself from this +engagement, he visited the house of his affianced bride, where he +conducted himself with such indecent violence that the aid of the +police had to be called in to expel him. This, of course, put an end +to the engagement. In a short time after he went to Richmond, and +there gained the confidence and affections of a lady of good family +and considerable fortune. The day was appointed for their marriage, +and he left Virginia to return to New York to fulfil some literary +arrangements previous to the consummation of this new engagement. +He had written to his friends that he had, at last, a prospect of +happiness. The Lost Lenore was found. He arrived in Baltimore on his +way to the north, and gave his baggage into the charge of a porter, +intending to leave in an hour for Philadelphia. Stepping into an hotel +to obtain some refreshments, he met some of his former companions, who +invited him to drink with them. In a few moments all was over with +him. He spent the night in revelry, wandered out into the street in a +state of insanity, and was found in the morning literally dying from +exposure, and a single night’s excesses. He was taken to a hospital, +and, on the 7th October, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight, he closed +his troubled life. Three days before he had left his newly-affianced +bride to prepare for their nuptials. He lies in a burying-ground in +Baltimore, his native city, without a stone to mark the place of his +last rest. + +In person Edgar Allan Poe was slight, and hardly of the medium height; +his motions were quick and nervous, his air was abstracted, and his +countenance generally serious and pale. He never laughed, and rarely +smiled; but in conversation he was vivacious, earnest, and respectful; +and though he appeared generally under restraint, as though guarding +against a half-subdued passion, yet his manners were engaging, and he +never failed to win the confidence and kind feelings of those with whom +he conversed for the first time; and there were a few who knew him +long and intimately who could never believe that he was ever otherwise +than the pleasant, intelligent, respectful, and earnest companion he +appeared to them. Though he was at times so reckless and profligate +in his conduct, and so indifferent to external proprieties, he was +generally scrupulously exact in everything he did. He dressed with +extreme neatness and perfectly good taste, avoiding all ornaments and +everything of a bizarre appearance. He was painfully alive to all +imperfections of art; and a false rhyme, an ambiguous sentence, or +even a typographical error, threw him into an ecstasy of passion. It +was this sensitiveness to all artistic imperfections, rather than any +malignity of feeling, which made his criticisms so severe, and procured +him a host of enemies among persons towards whom he never entertained +any personal ill-will. He criticised his own productions with the same +severity that he exercised towards the writings of others; and all his +poems, though he sometimes represented them as offsprings of a sudden +inspiration, were the work of elaborate study. His handwriting was +always neat and singularly uniform, and his manuscripts were invariably +on long slips of paper about four inches wide, which he never folded, +but always made into a roll. Nothing he ever did had the appearance of +haste or slovenliness, and he preserved with religious care every scrap +he had ever written, and every letter he ever received, so that he left +behind him the amplest materials for the composition of his literary +life. At his own request these remnants of his existence were entrusted +to Doctor Griswold, a gentleman with whom he had quarrelled, and had +lampooned in his lectures; Doctor Griswold, in a generous spirit, +accepted the charge, and produced from the papers entrusted to him, the +best biography of the strange being that has been published, which was +appended to the collection of his works in four volumes issued in New +York. + +_June, 1857._ + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + +[Illustration] + + +THE RAVEN. + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. + “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— + Only this and nothing more.” + + Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, + And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. + Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— + Nameless here for evermore. + + And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain + Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before: + So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, + “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; + This it is and nothing more.” + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; + But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, + And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, + That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door; + Darkness there and nothing more. + + Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, + fearing, + Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; + But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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. + +[Illustration] + + Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a tapping something 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 a minute 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 marveled 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 farther 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 that melancholy burden bore + Of ‘Never—nevermore.’” + + But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, + Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and + door; + Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking + Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” + + This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing + To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; + This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining + On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, + But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er + _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! + +[Illustration] + + 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! + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +LENORE. + + 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? + + _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.” + +[Illustration] + + +A VALENTINE. + + For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, + Brightly expressive as the twins of Lœda, + 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 translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in +connexion 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. The +name will thus appear. + +[Illustration] + + +THE COLISEUM. + + Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary + Of lofty contemplation left to Time + By buried centuries of pomp and power! + At length—at length—after so many days + Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, + (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) + I kneel, an altered and an humble man, + Amid thy shadows, and so drink within + My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! + + Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! + Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! + I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— + O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king + Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! + O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee + Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! + + Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! + Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, + A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! + Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair + Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! + Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, + Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, + Lit by the wan light of the 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.” + +[Illustration] + + +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 moon-lit “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 unpurpled vapours, far away + To where the prospect terminates—_thee only_. + +[Illustration] + + +TO HELEN. + + I saw thee once—once only—years ago: + I must not say _how_ many—but _not_ many. + It was a July midnight; and from out + A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, + Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, + There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, + With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, + Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand + Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, + Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— + Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses, + That gave out, in return for the love-light, + Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— + Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses + That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted + By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. + + Clad all in white, upon a violet bank + I saw thee half reclining; while the moon + Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, + And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow! + + Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— + Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) + That bade me pause before that garden-gate, + To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? + No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, + Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, 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!) + +[Illustration] + + 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] + + +AN ENIGMA. + + Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce, + ”Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. + Through all the flimsy things we see at once + As easily as through a Naples bonnet— + Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it? + Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff— + Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff + Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.” + And, veritably, Sol is right enough. + The general tuckermanities are arrant + Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent— + But _this_ is, now,—you may depend upon it— + Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint + Of the dear names that lie concealed within ’t. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +ULALUME. + + The skies they were ashen and sober; + The leaves they were crisped and sere— + The leaves they were withering and sere; + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, + In the misty mid region of Weir— + It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, + In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. + + Here once, through an alley Titanic, + Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— + Of cypress, with Pysche, 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 star-dials hinted of morn— + At the end of our path a liquescent + And nebulous lustre was born, + Out of which a miraculous crescent + Arose with a duplicate horn— + Astarte’s bediamonded crescent + Distinct with its duplicate horn. + + And I said—“She is warmer than Dian: + She rolls through an ether of sighs— + She revels in a region of sighs: + She has seen that the tears are not dry on + These cheeks, where the worm never dies, + And has come past the stars of the Lion + To point us the path to the skies— + To the Lethean peace of the skies— + Come up, in despite of the Lion, + To shine on us with her bright eyes— + Come up through the lair of the Lion, + With love in her luminous eyes.” + + But Pysche, 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 until they trailed in the dust— + In agony sobbed, letting sink her + Plumes till they trailed in the dust— + Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. + + I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming: + Let us on by this tremulous light! + Let us bathe in this crystalline light! + Its Sybilic 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 the 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!” + +[Illustration] + + Then my heart it grew ashen and sober + As the leaves that were crisped and sere— + As the leaves that were withering and sere, + And I cried—“It was surely October + On _this_ very night of last year + That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— + That I brought a dread burden down here— + On this night of all nights in the year, + Ah, what demon has tempted me here? + Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— + This misty mid region of Weir— + Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, + This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” + +[Illustration] + + +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. + + +TO MY MOTHER. + + Because I feel that, in the heavens above, + The angels, whispering to one another, + Can find, among their burning terms of love, + None so devotional as that of “Mother,” + Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— + You who are more than mother unto me, + And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you + In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. + My mother—my own mother, who died early, + Was but the mother of myself; but you + Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, + And thus are dearer than the mother I knew + By that infinity with which my wife + Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. + +[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 tintinabulation 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! + +[Illustration] + + 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 clash, and roar! + What a horror they outpour + On the besom 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] + +[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] + + +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! + + 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] + +[Illustration] + + +ANNABEL LEE. + + It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, + That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of ANNABEL LEE; + And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + + _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child, + In this kingdom by the sea: + But we loved with a love that was more than love— + I and my ANNABEL LEE; + With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + + And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, + A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; + So that her high-born kinsman 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. + +[Illustration] + + 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 feel 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 the sepulchre there by the sea, + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + +[Illustration] + + +THE VALLEY OF UNREST. + + Once it smiled a silent dell + Where the people did not dwell; + They had gone unto the wars, + Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, + Nightly, from their azure towers, + To keep watch above the flowers, + In the midst of which all day + The red sun-light lazily lay. + _Now_ each visitor shall confess + The sad valley’s restlessness. + Nothing there is motionless— + Nothing save the airs that brood + Over the magic solitude. + Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees + That palpitate like the chill seas + Around the misty Hebrides! + Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven + That rustle through the unquiet heaven + Uneasily, 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. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +ISRAFEL.[1] + + In heaven a spirit doth dwell + “Whose heart-strings are a lute;” + None sing so wildly well + As the angel Israfel, + And the giddy stars (so legends tell) + Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell + Of his voice, all mute. + + Tottering above + In her highest noon, + The enamoured moon + Blushes with love, + While, to listen, the red levin + (With the rapid Pleiads, even, + Which were seven) + Pauses in heaven. + + And they say (the starry choir + And the other listening things) + That Israfeli’s fire + Is owing to that lyre + By which he sits and sings— + The trembling living wire + Of those unusual strings. + + But the skies that angel trod, + Where deep thoughts are a duty— + Where Love’s a 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. + +[Footnote 1: And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and +who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—KORAN.] + +[Illustration] + + +SILENCE. + + There are some qualities—some incorporate things, + That have a double life, which thus is made + A type of that twin entity which springs + From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. + There is a 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] + + +TO ZANTE. + + Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, + Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! + How many memories of what radiant hours + At sight of thee and thine at once awake! + How many scenes of what departed bliss! + How many thoughts of what entombèd 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!” + +[Illustration] + + +TO F——S S. O——D. + + 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. + +[Illustration] + + +BRIDAL BALLAD. + + The ring is on my hand, + And the wreath is on my brow; + Satins and jewels grand + Are all at my command, + And I am happy now. + + And my lord he loves me well; + But, when first he breathed his vow, + I felt my bosom swell— + For the words rang as a knell, + And the voice seemed _his_ who fell + In the battle down the dell, + And who is happy now. + + But he spoke to reassure me, + And he kissed my pallid brow, + While a reverie came o’er me, + And to the church-yard 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 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. + + +[Illustration] + + +THE HAUNTED PALACE. + + In the greenest of our valleys + By good angels tenanted, + Once a fair and stately palace— + Radiant palace—reared its head. + In the monarch Thought’s dominion— + It stood there! + Never seraph spread a pinion + Over fabric half so fair! + + Banners yellow, glorious, golden, + On its roof did float and flow, + (This—all this—was in the olden + Time long ago,) + And every gentle air that dallied, + In that sweet day, + Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, + A 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. + + 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] + +[Illustration] + + +EULALIE. + + I dwelt alone + In a world of moan, + And my soul was a stagnant tide, + Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— + Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. + + Ah, less—less bright + The stars of the night + Than the eyes of the radiant girl! + And never a flake + That the 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, + Astarté within the sky, + While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye— + While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. + +[Illustration] + + +TO F——. + + Beloved! amid the earnest woes + That crowd around my earthly path— + (Drear path, alas! where grows + Not even one lonely rose)— + My soul at least a solace hath + In dreams of thee, and therein knows + An Eden of bland repose. + + And thus thy memory is to me + Like some enchanted far-off isle + In some tumultuous sea— + Some ocean throbbing far and free + With storms—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. + +[Illustration] + + +DREAM-LAND. + + By a route obscure and lonely, + Haunted by ill angels only, + Where an Eidolon, named Night, + On a black throne reigns upright, + I have reached these lands but newly + From an ultimate dim Thule— + From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, + Out of SPACE—out of TIME. + + Bottomless vales and boundless floods, + And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, + With forms that no man can discover + For the dews that drip all over; + Mountains toppling evermore + Into seas without a shore; + Seas that restlessly aspire, + Surging, unto skies of fire; + Lakes that endlessly outspread + Their lone waters—lone and dead,— + Their still waters—still and chilly + With the snows of the lolling lily. + By the lakes that thus outspread + Their lone waters, lone and dead,— + Their sad waters, sad and chilly + With the snows of the lolling lily,— + By the mountains—near the river + Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— + By the 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! + +[Illustration] + + But the traveller, travelling through it, + May not—dare not openly view it; + Never its mysteries are exposed + To the weak human eye unclosed; + So wills its King, who hath forbid + The uplifting of the fringed lid; + And thus the sad Soul that here passes + Beholds it but through darkened glasses. + + By a route obscure and lonely, + Haunted by ill angels only, + Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, + On a black throne reigns upright, + I have wandered home but newly + From this ultimate dim Thule. + + +HYMN. + + 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] + +[Illustration] + + +THE SLEEPER. + + 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 close and fringed lid + ’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, + That, o’er the floor and down the wall, + Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! + Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? + Why and what art thou dreaming here? + Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, + A wonder to these garden trees! + Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! + Strange, above all, thy length of tress, + And this all solemn silentness! + + The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, + Which is enduring, so be deep! + Heaven have her in its sacred keep! + This chamber changed for one more holy, + This bed for one more melancholy, + I pray to God that she may lie + For ever with unopened eye, + While the dim sheeted ghosts go by! + + My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep + As it is lasting, so be deep! + Soft may the worms about her creep! + Far in the forest, dim and old, + For her may some tall vault unfold— + Some vault that oft hath flung its black + And winged panels fluttering back, + Triumphant, o’er the crested palls, + Of her grand family funerals— + Some sepulchre, remote, alone, + Against whose portal she hath thrown, + In childhood, many an idle stone— + Some tomb from out whose sounding door + She ne’er shall force an echo more, + Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! + It was the dead who groaned within. + + +FOR ANNIE. + + Thank Heaven! the crisis— + The danger is past, + And the lingering illness + Is over at last— + And the fever called “Living” + Is conquered at last. + + Sadly, I know + I am shorn of my strength, + And no muscle I move + As I lie at full length— + But no matter!—I feel + I am better at length. + + And I rest so composedly, + Now, in my bed, + That any beholder + Might fancy me dead— + Might start at beholding me, + Thinking me dead. + + The moaning and groaning, + The sighing and sobbing, + Are quieted now, + With that horrible throbbing + At heart:—ah, that horrible, + Horrible throbbing! + + The sickness—the nausea— + The pitiless pain— + Have ceased, with the fever + That maddened my brain— + With the fever called “Living” + That burned in my brain. + + And oh! of all tortures + _That_ torture the worst + Has abated—the terrible + Torture of thirst + For the naphthaline river + Of Passion accurst:— + I have drunk of a water + That quenches all thirst:— + +[Illustration] + + Of a water that flows, + With a lullaby sound, + From a spring but a very few + Feet under ground— + From a cavern not very far + Down under ground. + + And ah! let it never + Be foolishly said + That my room it is gloomy + And narrow my bed; + For man never slept + In a different bed— + And, to _sleep_, you must slumber + In just such a bed. + + My tantalized spirit + Here blandly reposes, + Forgetting, or never + Regretting its roses— + Its old agitations + Of myrtles and roses: + + For now, while so quietly + Lying, it fancies + A holier 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] + + +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. + +[Illustration] + + 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] + + +A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. + + Take this kiss upon the brow! + And, in parting from you now, + Thus much let me avow— + You are not wrong, who deem + That my days have been a dream; + Yet if hope has flown away + In a night, or in a day, + In a vision, or in none, + Is it therefore the less _gone_? + _All_ that we see or seem + Is but a dream within a dream. + + I stand amid the roar + Of a surf-tormented shore, + And I hold within my hand + Grains of the golden sand— + How few! yet how they creep + Through my fingers to the deep, + While I weep—while I weep! + O God! can I not grasp + Them with a tighter clasp? + O God! can I not save + _One_ from the pitiless wave? + Is _all_ that we see or seem + But a dream within a dream? + +[Illustration] + + +THE CITY IN THE SEA. + + Lo! Death has reared himself a throne + In a strange city lying alone + Far down within the dim West, + Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best + Have gone to their eternal rest. + There shrines and palaces and towers + (Time-eaten towers 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. + +[Illustration] + + 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. + + + + +SCENES FROM “POLITIAN;” + +AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. + + +[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! + + ALESSANDRA. + Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing + Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine? + Why didst thou sigh so deeply? + + CASTIGLIONE. + 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._ + + ALESSANDRA. + 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. + + CASTIGLIONE [_musing_]. + Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow— + Wears it away like evil hours and wine. + I will amend. + + ALESSANDRA. + 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. + + CASTIGLIONE. + I will drop them. + + ALESSANDRA. + 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. + + CASTIGLIONE. + I’ll see to it. + + ALESSANDRA. + Then see to it!—pay more attention, Sir, + To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest + In dignity. + + CASTIGLIONE. + Much, much, oh much I want + In proper dignity. + +[Illustration] + + ALESSANDRA [_haughtily_]. + Thou mockest me, sir! + + CASTIGLIONE [_abstractedly_]. + Sweet, gentle Lalage! + + ALESSANDRA. + 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? + + CASTIGLIONE [_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. + + ALESSANDRA. + What! Politian + Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? + + DI BROGLIO. + 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. + + ALESSANDRA. + I have heard much of this Politian. + Gay, volatile, and giddy—is he not? + And little given to thinking. + + DI BROGLIO. + Far from it, love. + No branch, they say, of all philosophy + So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. + Learned as few are learned. + + ALESSANDRA. + ’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. + + CASTIGLIONE. + 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 BROGLIO. + 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._ + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +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. + + LALAGE. + 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. + + JACINTA [_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_. + + LALAGE. + “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! + + JACINTA [_pettishly_]. + Madam, what _is_ it? + + LALAGE. + Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind + As go down in the library and bring me + The Holy Evangelists? + + JACINTA. + Pshaw! + [_Exit._ + + LALAGE. + 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_. + + JACINTA. + There, Ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. + [_Aside._ + + LALAGE [_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._ + + JACINTA. + I can’t believe + She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. [_Aside._ + + LALAGE. + 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 farther aid + Thou needest, Jacinta? + + JACINTA. + Is there no _farther_ aid! + That’s meant for me. [_Aside._] I’m sure, Madam, you need not + Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. + + LALAGE. + Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta, + I thought not of the jewels. + + JACINTA. + 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_. + + LALAGE. + Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? + Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper + Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! + [_Taking up the mirror._ + Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much a friend + In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. + Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) + A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not + Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. + It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, + And Beauty long deceased—remembers me + Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope, + Inurned and entombed!—now, in a tone + Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, + Whispers of early grave untimely yawning + For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not! + _Thou_ hast no end to gain—no heart to break— + Castiglione lied who said he loved—— + Thou true—he false!—false!—false! + + [_While she speaks, a_ MONK _enters her apartment, + and approaches unobserved_. + + MONK. + Refuge thou hast, + Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things; + Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! + + LALAGE [_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! + +[Illustration] + + MONK. + Think of thy precious soul! + + LALAGE. + 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. + + LALAGE. + ’Tis well. + There _is_ a vow were fitting should be made— + A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, + A solemn vow! + + MONK. + Daughter, this zeal is well! + + LALAGE. + 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! + + LALAGE. + ’Tis sworn! + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +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. + + BALDAZZAR. + Politian, it doth grieve me + To see thee thus. + + POLITIAN. + 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! + + BALDAZZAR. + To the field then—to the field— + To the senate or the field. + + POLITIAN. + 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? + + BALDAZZAR. + I heard it not. + I heard not any voice except thine own, + And the echo of thine own. + + POLITIAN. + Then I but dreamed. + + BALDAZZAR. + 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. + + POLITIAN. + It _is_ a phantom voice! + Didst thou not hear it _then_? + + BALDAZZAR. + I heard it not. + + POLITIAN. + 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 farther duties + Unto thy friend. + + BALDAZZAR. + Thou speakest a fearful riddle; + I _will_ not understand. + + POLITIAN. + 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? + + BALDAZZAR. + Indeed I hear not. + + POLITIAN. + 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! + +[Illustration] + + + BALDAZZAR. + 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 betrothed of Castiglione, + His son and heir. + + POLITIAN. + Be still!—it comes again! + + _Voice_ [_very faintly_]. + + “And is thy heart so strong + As for to leave me thus, + Who hath 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!” + + BALDAZZAR. + 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, + Who hath 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!” + + BALDAZZAR. + ’Tis hushed, and all is still! + + POLITIAN. + All _is not_ still. + + BALDAZZAR. + Let us go down. + + POLITIAN. + Go down, Baldazzar, go! + + BALDAZZAR. + 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 hath loved thee so long, + In wealth and woe among, + And is thy heart so strong? + Say nay—say nay!” + + BALDAZZAR. + 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! + + POLITIAN. + Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember. + [_Going._ + Let us descend. Believe me, I would give, + Freely would give, the broad lands of my earldom + To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice— + “To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear + Once more that silent tongue.” + + BALDAZZAR. + 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!” + + POLITIAN [_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. + + BALDAZZAR. + Your lordship’s pleasure + Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian. + + POLITIAN. + Good night, my friend, good night. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +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. + + LALAGE. + 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? + + POLITIAN. + 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—— + + LALAGE. + Why dost thou pause, Politian? + + POLITIAN. + And then perchance + _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam + The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, + And still—— + + LALAGE. + Why dost thou pause, Politian? + + POLITIAN. + And still _together—together_. + + LALAGE. + Now, Earl of Leicester! + Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts + I feel thou lovest me truly. + + POLITIAN. + Oh, Lalage! + [_Throwing himself upon his knee._ + And lovest thou _me_? + + LALAGE. + Hist! hush! within the gloom + Of yonder trees methought a figure pass’d— + 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! + + POLITIAN. + 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. + +[Illustration] + + LALAGE. + 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? + + POLITIAN. + O, 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? + + LALAGE. + A deed is to be done— + Castiglione lives! + + POLITIAN. + And he shall die! + [_Exit._ + + LALAGE [_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—O, 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— + O 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! + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +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, O pity me! + O 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. + + POLITIAN. + _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? + + BALDAZZAR. + That he, Castiglione, not being aware + Of any feud existing, or any cause + Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, + Cannot accept the challenge. + + POLITIAN. + 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_? + + BALDAZZAR. + No more, my Lord, than I have told you, Sir + The Count Castiglione will not fight, + Having no cause for quarrel. + + POLITIAN. + 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. + + BALDAZZAR. + My lord!—my friend!—— + + POLITIAN [_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. + + BALDAZZAR. + I go—to-morrow we meet, + Do we not?—at the Vatican. + + POLITIAN. + At the Vatican. + [_Exit_ BALDAZZAR. + + _Enter_ CASTIGLIONE. + + CASTIGLIONE. + The Earl of Leicester here! + + POLITIAN. + I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, + Dost thou not? that I am here. + + CASTIGLIONE. + 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. + + POLITIAN. + Draw, villain, and prate no more! + + CASTIGLIONE. + Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once, + Proud Earl! + [_Draws._ + + POLITIAN [_drawing_]. + Thus to the expiatory tomb, + Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee + In the name of Lalage! + + CASTIGLIONE [_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. + + POLITIAN. + 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! + + CASTIGLIONE. + I dare not—dare not— + Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name + So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee— + I cannot—dare not. + + POLITIAN. + Now by my halidom + I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee! + + CASTIGLIONE. + 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. O pity me! + + POLITIAN [_greatly softened_]. + Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee. + + CASTIGLIONE. + And Lalage—— + + POLITIAN. + _Scoundrel!—arise and die!_ + + CASTIGLIONE. + It needeth not be—thus—thus—O 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. + + POLITIAN. + 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._ + + CASTIGLIONE. + Now this indeed is just! + Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! + +[Illustration] + + + + +POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. + + +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. + +[Illustration] + + +AL AARAAF.[2] + + +PART I. + + O! nothing earthly save the ray + (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye, + As in those gardens where the day + Springs from the gems of Circassy— + O! nothing earthly save the thrill + Of melody in woodland rill— + Or (music of the passion-hearted) + Joy’s voice so peacefully departed + That, like the murmur in the shell, + Its echo dwelleth and will dwell— + Oh, 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 scares (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 opaled 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,[3] and sprang + So eagerly around about to hang + Upon the flying footsteps of——deep pride— + Of her[4] who loved a mortal—and so died. + The Sephalica, budding with young bees, + Upreared its purple stem around her knees: + And gemmy flower,[5] of Trebizond misnamed— + Inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed + All other loveliness: its honied dew + (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew), + +[Illustration] + + Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from heaven, + And fell on gardens of the unforgiven + In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower + So like its own above that, to this hour, + It still remaineth, torturing the bee + With madness, and unwonted reverie: + In heaven, and all its environs, the leaf + And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief + Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head, + Repenting follies that full long have fled, + Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, + Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more fair: + Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light + She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: + And Clytia[6] pondering between many a sun, + While pettish tears adown her petals run: + And that aspiring flower[7] 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[8] thither flown + From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: + And thy most lovely purple perfume,[9] Zante! + Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante! + And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever; + With Indian Cupid[10] down the holy river— + Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given + To bear[11] 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[12] 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 winged Fantasy,[13] + 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 e’en 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! + + “What tho’ in worlds which sightless[14] 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[15] 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 ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban + Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!” + +[Illustration] + + Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, + The single-mooned eve!—on Earth we plight + Our faith to one love—and one moon adore— + The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. + As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, + Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, + And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain + Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan[16] reign. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +PART II. + + 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[17] 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 linked 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[18]— + From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss + Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave[19] + 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,[20] + 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?[21] + + 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; + And 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[22] + To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree; + Fountains were gushing music as they fell + In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit 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[23]— + 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, + Oh! is it thy will + On the breezes to toss? + Or, capriciously still, + Like the lone Albatross,[24] + 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[25] + From the growing of grass + Are the music of things— + But are modelled, alas!— + Away, then, my dearest, + Oh! 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[26]— + 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?” + +[Illustration] + + 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—e’en 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![27] + 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.”[28] + + He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: + A wanderer by mossy-mantled well— + A gazer on the lights that shine above— + A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: + What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, + And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair— + And they and ev’ry mossy spring were holy + To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. + The night had found (to him a night of 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 sat 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 sat, and on the draperied wall— + And on my eyelids—O the heavy light! + How drowsily it weighed them into night! + On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran + With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: + But O that light!—I slumber’d—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. + + [Illustration] + + “The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon + Was a proud temple called the Parthenon[29]— + More beauty clung around her column’d wall + Than e’en thy glowing bosom beats withal;”[30] + 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 pennon’d spirit leapt aloft,[31] + 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 fairier 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. + + +SONNET—TO SCIENCE. + + Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! + Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. + Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart, + Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? + How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, + Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering + To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, + Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? + Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? + And driven the Hamadryad from the wood + To seek a shelter in some happier star? + Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, + The Elfin from the green grass, and from me + The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? + +[Illustration] + + +TO THE RIVER ——. + + Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow + Of crystal, wandering water, + Thou art an emblem of the glow + Of beauty—the unhidden heart— + The playful maziness of art + In old Alberto’s daughter; + + But when within thy wave she looks— + Which glistens then, and trembles— + Why, then, the prettiest of brooks + Her worshipper resembles; + For in his heart, as in thy stream, + Her image deeply lies— + His heart which trembles at the beam + Of her soul-searching eyes. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +TAMERLANE. + + I. + 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—Oh 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. + + II. + 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. + + III. + 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. + + IV. + On mountain soil I first drew life: + The mists of the Taglay have shed + Nightly their dews upon my head, + And, I believe, the winged strife + And tumult of the headlong air + Have nestled in my very hair. + + V. + 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! + + VI. + 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. + + VII. + 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. + + VIII. + 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. + + IX. + 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? + +[Illustration] + + X. + 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. + + XI. + 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! + + XII. + 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. + + XIII. + 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. + + XIV. + 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. + + XV. + I spoke to her of power and pride, + But mystically—is 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. + +[Illustration] + + XVI. + 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. + + XVII. + 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! + + XVIII. + 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. + + XIX. + When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see + No cliff beyond him in the sky, + His pinions were bent droopingly— + And homeward turned his softened eye. + ’Twas sunset: when the sun will part + There comes a sullenness of heart + To him who still would look upon + The glory of the summer sun. + That soul will hate the ev’ning mist + So often lovely, and will list + To the sound of the coming darkness (known + To those whose spirits hearken) as one + Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly, + But _cannot_, from a danger nigh. + + XX. + 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. + + XXI. + 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. + +[Illustration] + + XXII. + 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 trelliced 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] + +[Illustration] + + +TO ——. + + The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see + The wantonest singing birds, + Are lips—and all thy melody + Of lip-begotten words— + + Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined + Then desolately fall, + O God! on my funereal mind + Like starlight on a pall— + + Thy heart—_thy_ heart!—I wake and sigh, + And sleep to dream till day + Of the truth that gold can never buy— + Of the baubles that it may. + +[Illustration] + + +A DREAM. + + In visions of the dark night + I have dreamed of joy departed— + But a waking dream of life and light + Hath left me broken-hearted. + + Ah! what is not a dream by day + To him whose eyes are cast + On things around him with a ray + Turned back upon the past? + + That holy dream—that holy dream, + While all the world were chiding, + Hath cheered me as a lovely beam + A lonely spirit guiding. + + What though that light, thro’ storm and night, + So trembled from afar— + What could there be more purely bright + In Truth’s day-star? + + +ROMANCE. + + Romance, who loves to nod and sing, + With drowsy head and folded wing, + Among the green leaves as they shake + Far down within some shadowy lake, + To me a painted paroquet + Hath been—a most familiar bird— + Taught me my alphabet to say— + To lisp my very earliest word + While in the wild wood I did lie, + A child—with a most knowing eye. + + Of late, eternal Condor years + So shake the very heaven on high + With tumult as they thunder by, + I have no time for idle cares + 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. + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + +[Illustration] + + +FAIRY-LAND. + + 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 starlight + 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] + +[Illustration] + + +THE LAKE. + +TO ——. + + 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. + + +SONG. + + I saw thee on thy bridal day— + When a burning blush came o’er thee, + Though happiness around thee lay, + The world all love before thee: + + And in thine eye a kindling light + (Whatever it might be) + Was all on Earth my aching sight + Of Loveliness could see. + + That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame— + As such it well may pass— + Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame + In the breast of him, alas! + + Who saw thee on that bridal day, + When that deep blush _would_ come o’er thee, + Though happiness around thee lay, + The world all love before thee. + + +TO M. L. S——. + + 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 the 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. + +[Illustration] + + +TO HELEN. + + Helen, thy beauty is to me + Like those Nicéan barks of yore + That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, + The weary way-worn 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, + And 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! + +[Illustration] + + + + +NOTES TO AL AARAAF. + + + + +NOTES. + + +[Footnote 2: page 149. _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.] + +[Footnote 3: P. 151. _On the fair Capo Deucato._ + +On Santa Maura—olim Deucadia.] + +[Footnote 4: P. 151. _Of her who loved a mortal—and so died._}—Sappho.] + +[Footnote 5: P. 152. _And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed._ + +This flower is much noticed by Leuwenhoek and Tournefort. The bee, +feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.] + +[Footnote 6: P. 153. _And Clytia pondering between many a sun._ + +Clytia—The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known term, +the turnsol—which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, +like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool +and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day.—_B. de +St. Pierre._] + +[Footnote 7: P. 153. _And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth._ + +There is cultivated in the king’s garden at Paris, a species of +serpentine aloes 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._] + +[Footnote 8: P. 153. _And Valisnerian lotus thither flown._ + +There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian +kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet—thus +preserving its head above water in the swellings of the river.] + +[Footnote 9: P. 153. _And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!_}—The +Hyacinth.] + +[Footnote 10: P. 154. + + _And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever; + With Indian Cupid down the holy river._ + +It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in +one of these down the river Ganges—and that he still loves the cradle +of his childhood.] + +[Footnote 11: P. 154. _To bear the Goddess’ song, in odours, up to +heaven._ + +And golden vials full of odours which are the prayers of the +saints.—_Rev. St. John._] + +[Footnote 12: P. 155. _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, &c. + 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,” &c.] + +[Footnote 13: P. 155. _By winged Fantasy._ + + Seltsamen Tochter Jovis + Seinem Schosskinde + Der Phantasie.—_Göthe._] + +[Footnote 14: P. 156. _What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run._ + +Sightless—too small to be seen.—_Legge._] + +[Footnote 15: P. 156. _Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night._ + +I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;—they will +collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerable +radii.] + +[Footnote 16: P. 158. _Her way—but left not yet her Therasæan reign._ + +Therassea, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a +moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners.] + +[Footnote 17: P. 160. + + _Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall + Thro’ the ebon air._ + + Some star which, from the ruin’d roof + Of shaked Olympus, by mischance, did fall.—_Milton._] + +[Footnote 18: P. 161. _Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis._ + +Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, “Je connois bien +l’admiration qu’inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais érigé au pied d’une +chaine des rochers sterils—peut-il être un chef-d’œuvre des arts?”] + +[Footnote 19: P. 161. _Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave._ + +“Oh! the wave”—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 engulfed 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, &c. 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.”] + +[Footnote 20: P. 161. _That stole upon the ear, in +Eyraco._}—Eyraco—Chaldæa.] + +[Footnote 21: P. 161. _Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and +loud?_ + +I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness +as it stole over the horizon.] + +[Footnote 22: P. 162. _Young flowers were whispering in melody._ + +Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—_Merry Wives of Windsor._] + +[Footnote 23: P. 163. _The moonbeam away._ + +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.] + +[Footnote 24: P. 164. _Like the lone Albatross._ + +The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.] + +[Footnote 25: PP. 165. _The murmur that springs._ + +I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to +obtain, and quote from memory:—“The verie essence and, as it were, +springe-heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde +which the trees of the forest do make when they growe.”] + +[Footnote 26: P. 165. _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, &c.] + +[Footnote 27: P. 168. _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.] + +[Footnote 28: P. 168. _Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect +moan.”_ + + There be tears of perfect moan + Wept for thee in Helicon.—_Milton._] + +[Footnote 29: P. 169. _Was a proud temple called the Parthenon._ + +It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.] + +[Footnote 30: P. 170. _Than e’en thy glowing bosom beats withal._ + + Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows + Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—_Marlowe._] + +[Footnote 31: P. 171. _Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft._ + +Pennon—for pinion.—_Milton._] + + + + +THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. + + +In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either +thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the +essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to +cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American +poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, +have left the most definite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of +course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me +to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, +whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my +own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not +exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat +contradiction in terms. + +I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch +as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the +ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through +a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would +entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout +a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at +the very utmost, it flags—fails—a revulsion ensues—and then the poem +is, in effect and in fact, no longer such. + +There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the +critical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admired +throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, +during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum +would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, +only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, +Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve +its Unity—its totality of effect or impression—we read it (as would +be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant +alternation of excitement and depression. After a passage of what +we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of +platitude which no critical 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, _cœteris 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 Pollok +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: + Oh! 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 than +in the popular view. + + The shadows lay along Broadway, + ’Twas near the twilight-tide— + And slowly there a lady fair + Was walking in her pride. + Alone walk’d she: but, viewlessly, + Walk’d spirits at her side. + + Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet, + And Honour charm’d the air; + And all astir look’d kind on her, + And call’d 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 honour’d well are charms to sell, + If priests the selling do. + + Now walking there was one more fair— + A slight girl, lily-pale; + And she had unseen company + To make the spirit quail— + ’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn, + And nothing could avail. + + No mercy now can clear her brow + For 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 differences +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 Abbaté 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 Pröem to Mr. Longfellow’s +“Waif.” + + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an Eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, + That my soul cannot resist; + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life’s endless toil and 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 quartrain 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 soften’d hearts should bear + The thought of what has been, + And speak of one who cannot share + The gladness of the scene; + Whose part in all the pomp that fills + The circuit of the summer hills, + Is—that his grave is green; + And deeply would their hearts rejoice + To hear again his living voice. + +The rhythmical flow, here, is even voluptuous—nothing could be more +melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The +intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of +all the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us +to the soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. +The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the +remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or +less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or +why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected +with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless, + + A feeling of sadness and longing + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + +The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so +full of brilliancy and spirit as the “Health” of Edward Coote Pinkney:— + + I fill this cup to one made up + Of loveliness alone, + A woman, of her gentle sex + The seeming paragon; + To whom the better elements + And kindly stars have given + A form so fair, that, like the air, + ’Tis less of earth than heaven. + + Her every tone is Music’s own, + Like those of morning birds, + And something more than melody + Dwells ever in her words; + The coinage of her heart are they, + And from her lips each flows + As one may see the burden’d bee + Forth issue from the rose. + + Affections are as thoughts to her, + The measures of her hours; + Her feelings have the fragrancy, + The freshness of young flowers; + And lovely passions, changing oft, + So fill her, she appears + The image of themselves by turns,— + The idol of past years! + + Of her bright face one glance will trace + A picture on the brain, + And of her voice in echoing hearts + A sound must long remain; + But memory, such as mine of her, + So very much endears, + When death is nigh my latest sigh + Will not be life’s, but hers. + + I fill’d this cup to one made up + Of loveliness alone, + A woman, of her gentle sex + The seeming paragon— + Her health! and would on earth there stood, + Some more of such a frame, + That life might be all poetry, + And weariness a name. + +It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south. +Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been +ranked as the first of American lyrists, by that magnanimous cabal +which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in +conducting the thing called “The North American Review.” The poem +just cited is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which +it induces, we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s +enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with +which they are uttered. + +It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_ +of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for +themselves. 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 call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss, + And thy Angel I’ll be ’mid the horrors of this,— + Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, + And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too! + +It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore Imagination, while +granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than whom +no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, +that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other +faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, +very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only_. But never was +there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a +true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind +no poem more profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative_, in the best sense, +than the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which are +the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember +them. + +One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy, one of the most singularly +fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always, +for me, an inexpressible charm: + + O saw ye not fair Ines? + She’s gone into the West, + To dazzle when the sun is down, + And rob the world of rest: + She took our daylight with her, + The smiles that we love best, + With morning blushes on her cheek, + And pearls upon her breast. + + O turn again, fair Ines, + Before the fall of night, + For fear the moon should shine alone, + And stars unrivall’d bright; + And blessed will the lover be + That walks beneath their light, + And breathes the love against thy cheek + I dare not even write! + + Would I had been, fair Ines, + That gallant cavalier, + Who rode so gaily by thy side, + And whisper’d thee so near! + Were there no bonny dames at home, + Or no true lovers here, + That he should cross the seas to win + The dearest of the dear? + + I saw thee, lovely Ines, + Descend along the shore, + With bands of noble gentlemen, + And banners waved before; + And gentle youth and maidens gay, + And snowy plumes they wore + It would have been a beauteous dream, + —If it had been no more! + + Alas, alas, fair Ines! + She went away with song, + With Music waiting on her steps, + And shoutings of the throng; + But some were sad and felt no mirth, + But only Music’s wrong, + In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, + To her you’ve loved so long. + + Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, + That vessel never bore + So fair a lady on its deck, + Nor danced so light before,— + Alas for pleasure on the sea, + And sorrow on the shore! + The smile that blest one lover’s heart + Has broken many more! + +“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems +ever written—one of the _truest_—one of the most unexceptionable—one of +the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution, +It is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length +renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it, +permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs.” + + One more Unfortunate, + Weary of breath, + Rashly importunate, + Gone to her death! + + Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care;—— + Fashion’d so slenderly, + Young, and so fair! + + Look at her garments + Clinging like cerements; + Whilst the wave constantly + Drips from her clothing; + Take her up instantly, + Loving, not loathing.— + + Touch her not scornfully; + Think of her mournfully, + Gently and humanly; + Not of the stains of her: + All that remains of her, + Now, is pure womanly. + + Make no deep scrutiny + Into her mutiny + Rash and undutiful; + Past all dishonour, + Death has left on her + Only the beautiful. + + 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. + + 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! + + Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care; + Fashion’d so slenderly, + Young, and so fair! + Ere her limbs frigidly + Stiffen too rigidly, + Decently,—kindly,— + Smooth, and compose them; + And her eyes, close them, + Staring so blindly! + + Dreadfully staring + Through muddy impurity, + As when with the daring + Last look of despairing + Fixed on futurity. + + Perishing gloomily, + Spurred by contumely, + Cold inhumanity, + Burning insanity, + Into her rest,— + Cross her hands humbly, + As if praying dumbly, + Over her breast! + Owning her weakness, + Her evil 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 the +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 remember’d kisses after death, + And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d + On lips that are for others; deep as love, + Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; + O Death in Life, the days that are no more. + +Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have +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 Dionæn 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 +recognises 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. + + Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all! + And don your helmes amaine: + Deathe’s couriers, Fame and Honour, call + Us to the field againe. + No shrewish teares shall fill our eyes + 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! + +[Illustration] + + LONDON:—PRINTED BY RICHARD CLAY, + BREAD STREET HILL + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79019 *** |