University of California Berkeley 
 
 Gift of 
 HENRY C. WARING 
 
'/S LIBRARY. 
 
 
 
 
 isl' 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 
 
 INCLUDING SOME .fOEMS 
 NOT HITHERTO INTRODUCED IN HIS WORKS 
 
 TO WHICi: IS ADDED 
 
 A FULL AND IMPARTIAL 
 
 0F 
 
 With Original Notes and Explanatory Remarks to the Poema 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HURST & CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 
 NO. 122 NASSAU STREET. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1882. 
 
 BY HENKY L,. WILLIAMS. 
 
 "a 
 
 ARGYLE PRESS, 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING, 
 24 A 26 WOOSTER ST., N. Y. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAG. 
 
 Biographical Data 5 
 
 Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe 11 
 
 The Raven 53 
 
 Lenore 62 
 
 The Bell 65 
 
 Annabel Lee 70 
 
 Ulalume > 73 
 
 The Coliseum 78 
 
 To Helen 80 
 
 To 82 
 
 A Valentine 85 
 
 To My Mother 86 
 
 A Hymn 87 
 
 An Enigma 88 
 
 The Haunted Palace 89 
 
 The Conqueror Worm 92 
 
 To One in Paradise 94 
 
 To F. S. S. O. D : 96 
 
 The City in the Sea 97 
 
 Silence 100 
 
 The Sleeper 101 
 
 The Valley of Unrest 104 
 
 A Dream within a Dream 106 
 
 Dreamland , 107 
 
 To Zante 110 
 
 Eulalie Ill 
 
 Eldorado 113 
 
 Israfel 115 
 
 3 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 For Annie 118 
 
 To F 123 
 
 Bridal Ballad 124 
 
 To 126 
 
 Scenes from "Politian" 128 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Sonnet. To Science 150 
 
 Al Aaraaf 151 
 
 To the River 170 
 
 Tamerlane 171 
 
 Fairy-land 180 
 
 To L. M. S. 182 
 
 Romance 183 
 
 To 184 
 
 A Dream 185 
 
 The Lake. To 187 
 
 Song 188 
 
 Hymn in Honor of Harmodius and Aristogeiton 189 
 
 Introductory Preface 191 
 
 The Happiest Day 193 
 
 Lines Written in an Album 193 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL DATA. 
 
 January 19, 1809. Born at Boston, Massachusetts. 
 December 8, 1811. His mother died at Richmond, Virginia. 
 " [Edgar Poe adopted by Mr. John Allan. J 
 1816. Brought to Europe, and placed at school In 
 Stoke Newington. 
 
 1821. Returns to the United States. 
 
 1822. Placed at school in Richmond, Virginia. 
 February 1, 1826. Enters University of Virginia. 
 
 [Signs matriculation book, 14th February 
 
 1836.] 
 December 15, 1826. Leaves University of Virginia. 
 
 1827. "Tamerlane and Other Poems " printed at 
 
 Boston. 
 
 June? 1827. Departs for Europe. 
 
 March, 1829. Returns to Richmond, Virginia. 
 
 " Publishes " Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and 
 
 Minor Poems," at Baltimore. 
 July 1, 1830. Admitted as cadet to West Point Military 
 
 Academy. 
 
 March 6, 1831. Dismissed the Military Academy. 
 " Publishes "Poems, "New York. 
 
 Autumn, 1833. Gains prize from Saturday Visiter (Bal- 
 timore). 
 December, 1835. Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger 
 
 (Richmond, Virginia^. 
 May 16, 1836. Married to his cousin, Virginia Clemm, at 
 
 Richmond. [Virginia C. born August 
 
 13th, 1822.] 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL DATA. 
 
 January, 
 
 July, 
 
 Autumn, 
 July, 
 
 June, 
 
 January, 
 April, 
 Spring, 
 Autumn, 
 
 1837. 
 
 1837-8. 
 1838. 
 
 1838. 
 1839. 
 
 1840. 
 1840. 
 
 1841. 
 1842. 
 1843. 
 1844. 
 
 January 29, 1845. 
 
 February 28, 1845. 
 
 March 8, 
 
 July, 
 
 
 November 1, " 
 
 1846. 
 
 Winter, 
 
 December, 
 
 February, 
 
 June 23, 
 
 28, 
 
 Summer " 
 
 January 30, 1847. 
 February 17, " 
 
 Resigns editorship of Southern Literary 
 Messenger. 
 
 Resides in New York. 
 
 "Arthur Gordon Pym" published, New 
 York and London. 
 
 Removes to Philadelphia. 
 
 Editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, Phila- 
 delphia. 
 
 "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque" 
 published, Philadelphia. 
 
 "The Conchologist's First Book" pub- 
 lished, Philadelphia. 
 
 Resigns editorship of Gentleman's Maga* 
 eine. 
 
 Editor of Graham's Magaz ine, Philadelphia. 
 
 Resigns editorship, of Graham's Magazine. 
 
 Gains $100 prize for " The Gold Bug." 
 
 Sub- editor of the Evening Mirror, New 
 York. 
 
 "The Raven" published in the Evening 
 Mirror. 
 
 Lectures in New York Historical Society's 
 room. 
 
 Joint-editor of the Broadway Journal. 
 
 " Tales " published, New York and London. 
 
 Sole-editor of the Broadway Journal. 
 
 Proprietor of Broadway Journal. 
 
 " The Raven and Other Poems " published, 
 New York and London. 
 
 Lectures at Boston Lyceum. 
 
 Broadway Journal disposed cf 
 
 "The Literati" begun in Godey's Lady's 
 Book. 
 
 Evening Mirror publishes libel. 
 
 " Reply" to libel in Philadelphia Saturday 
 Gazette. 
 
 Removes to Fordham. 
 
 His wife dies. 
 
 Gains libel suit against Evening Mirror. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL DATA. in 
 
 February b, 1848. Lectures in New York Historical Society's 
 
 room. 
 Summer, " " Eureka " published, New York. 
 
 " Richmond, Virginia, revisited. 
 
 -' Lectures at Lowell, Mass., and Providence, 
 
 R. I. 
 
 October, " Betrothed to Mrs. Whitman. 
 
 December, " Engagement with Mrs. Whitman broken oft 
 
 June 30, 1849. Departs for the South. 
 Autumn, " In Richmond and neighbourhood. 
 
 October 7, " Dies at Baltimore, Man-land. 
 
 November 17. 1875. Monument Inaugurated, Baltimore. 
 
. . MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 
 
 ||J0^APOLEON, when a flattering courtier 
 f|lld|| sought to prove that the Corsican was de- 
 <gf^i!lc) scended from some great mediaeval an- 
 p cestor, tersely rebuked the sycophant by 
 saying, " I am the Rudolph of my race." Poe's ill- 
 judging friends might have spared themselves much 
 useless labor if they had been satisfied with giving 
 us the particulars of his life, and left the shadowy 
 forms of his ancestry to float in the dim, hazy at- 
 mosphere of the seas of Morven. Nothing re- 
 liable is known of his ancestors till his paternal 
 grandfather, David Poe, arrived in America 
 while very young, in the company of his parents. 
 This gentleman grew up an ardent lover of his 
 adopted country, and was a prominent figure in 
 many of the memorable affairs leading to, and 
 
 11 
 
12 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POK 
 
 forming part of the struggles and sacrifices for In- 
 dependence. Eb was much esteemed for his ability 
 and probity, and attained the rank of General. His 
 son David, the father of Edgar, received an ex- 
 cellent education in the private schools of the city of 
 Baltimore. Here we may remark, in passing, that 
 the schools of that day whatever may have been 
 their shortcomings in other respects fulfilled the 
 leading purpose of all educational institutions ; they 
 formed good scholars. After leaving school David 
 was placed with Mr. William Gwynn to study law. 
 He had, however, no desire to be enrolled among 
 the disciples of Marshal and Story, but had a strong 
 desire to emulate the labors and share the laurels 
 of Garrick and Macklin. He was a leading spirit 
 in an Amateur Company, and clandestinely left 
 Baltimore for Charleston, where he was about to 
 make his appearance as an actor. His uncle, 
 William Poe, however, induced him to relinquish 
 his design, and placed him in the law office of the 
 Honorable John Forsyth of Augusta, Georgia- 
 This gentleman was related to the Poes by mar- 
 riage. Rumor was not disposed to credit this some- 
 what tame account of young David's reason for 
 going to Charleston. It was generally believed 
 that the young devotee of the Drama had seen and 
 fallen in love with a very fair and very clever 
 young lady, Miss Elizabeth Arnold. Attempts ap- 
 pear to have been made by David Poe's relatives 
 to interfere in this little love affair, and with the 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POK 13 
 
 usual result. The lovers were married. The lady 
 and her husband had at the time of their bridal 
 attained the ripe age of nineteen. Angry at what 
 they deemed a rash and foolish union, the bride- 
 groom's parents reused to countenance it. Thus 
 thrown upon their own resources, the young people 
 determined to look to the stage for support. 
 Elizabeth Arnold, now Mrs. David Poe, was born 
 at sea, of English parents, who belonged to re- 
 spectable families in their native country. There 
 was not a scintilla of evidence to support the ridicu- 
 lous story once set afloat that she was related to 
 the traitor Benedict Arnold. 
 
 Edgar Poe's mother was quite handsome, and 
 evinced considerable ability both as a vocalist 
 and an actress. His father never attained any 
 eminence upon the stage, but had varied and re. 
 liable qualities. Mrs. David Poe appears to have 
 had an excellent education, and some good paint- 
 ings executed by her are still extant. But little 
 is known of the pecuniary results of their dramatic 
 efforts during the years following their marriage ; 
 but as the lady played such leading characters as 
 Ophelia and Cordelia, and the husband performed 
 mostly in secondary roles, their emoluments, even 
 in those times, must have been considerable. It 
 has been noted as a singular circumstance, by those 
 inclined to note parental influences, that on an even- 
 ing just nine months -before Mrs. Poe gave birth 
 to her gifted (and seemingly predestined to grief f 
 
14 MEMOIR OF EDGAll ALLAN POE. 
 
 son, she appeared in the gloomy " Robbers," under 
 unusually trying and depressing surroundings. 
 
 Edgar Foe was born in Boston, Mass., on the 
 19th of January, 1809. He was the second child, 
 the first being William Henry, and the third 
 Rosalie. 
 
 When the terrible tragedy of the conflagration 
 of tho Richmond Theatre occurred in the year 
 1811, Edgar':, mother and father were performing 
 in that house Both fortunately escaped, only to 
 die very soon thereafter by early, but quite natural 
 deaths. 
 
 Even when still a mere infant, Edgar Poe ap- 
 pears to have been gifted with more than usual 
 beauty, and had a pleasing disposition, as he won 
 the liking of his grandfather's folks ; for by this 
 time, thanks to his mother's attractive qualities and 
 excellent character, the disinherited David had 
 been forgiven his disobedient act in marrying so 
 young. 
 
 Edgar remained with his mother until her death. 
 Prior to which a wealthy merchant, Mr. John 
 Allan, a Scotchman by birth, but a Virginian by 
 choice, adopted the boy. Hence, for many years, 
 he went by the name of Edgar Allan. Mr. Allan, 
 besides being exceedingly wealthy, was married to 
 a beautiful, accomplished and most affectionate 
 lady. But the worthy pair were childless. It was 
 given out, and generally believed, that Edgar Allao 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 15 
 
 would be the sole heir to the worthy people who 
 had so kindly adopted him. 
 
 Edgar, at a very early period, displayed unusual 
 precocity. Even before he could read well, he 
 could memorize, and declaim choice passages from 
 the English dramatists and other poets, with fiery 
 energy and good expression. Add to this, that his 
 manner s were refined andhis disposition kindly. 
 Although such displays must have been pleasing to 
 this child of genius, and gratifying to those who 
 had adopted him, yet they were sowing seeds that 
 afterwards blossomed into poisonous flowers , men- 
 tal henbane and nightshade. When his excitable 
 nature and fervid impulses should have been calmed 
 and repressed, they were inordinately excited and 
 fired by injudicious and probably extravagant 
 eulogies. 
 
 He was kept at the best schools in Richmond, 
 until 1816, when he went with Mr. and Mrs. Allan 
 to Great Britain. His adoptive parents resided in 
 London, while Edgar was placed at a school in 
 Stoke Newington, then an adjacent parish now 
 a part of London, the mighty metropolis. The 
 master of this school, Dr. Bransby, was a fair 
 scholar, and, as was the custom of that period, a 
 stern disciplinarian. "When Poe retired from this 
 school he was credited with being a fair French 
 and Latin scholar, and having an unusually good 
 acquaintance with general literature. Dr. Bransby, 
 speaking of Poe in after years, says he was " a 
 
16 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POK 
 
 quick and clever boy," but, poor fellow, his parents 
 spoiled him by giving him. an extravagant allowance 
 of pocket money, which enabled him to get into all 
 manner of mischief. The peculiar appearance of 
 the school itself, a sombre old manor house, and its 
 gloomy surroundings, no doubt had a gre-it influ- 
 ence on Foe's morbidly sensitive mind one capa- 
 cious of harboring and brooding over tho gloomy 
 and the wierd. Some five years of Poe's short life 
 were spent in this venerable academy, almost mon- 
 astic in its seclusion, environed as the grounds were 
 by a high and solid brick wall, topped with a la} T er 
 of mortar and broken glass. At an angle of this 
 ponderous wall, frowned a more ponderous gate, 
 rivetted and studded with iron bolts, and sur- 
 mounted with iron spikes. These particulars of his 
 school-house were indelibly fixed in the future 
 poet's exceptive soul, and with many others were 
 introduced by him in his stories. Poe's school 
 recollections, taken altogether, do not appear un- 
 pleasant, and he doubtless derived much of that 
 extraordinary mastery of detail, which afterwards 
 displayed itself in his most popular and peculiar 
 productions, by the strict methodical manner and 
 method of the old English school pedagogues. 
 
 In the year 1821, the boy came back to his native 
 land, and after a few months of not unprofitable 
 idling for he was already mapping out future 
 poems he was sent to a school in Eichmond. 
 Here the Allans had resumed their abode. Here, 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 17 
 
 too, for some unexplained reason, he was again 
 known as Edgar A. Poe. According to the recol- 
 lections of his school-fellows, the youth now in his 
 fifteenth year attracted notice among his com- 
 panions by his athletic performances. Proving 
 himself a wonderful runner, leaper and swimmer. 
 Indeed, some of his recorded f^its excel those of 
 " champions " of the present age, when great at- 
 tention is given to such exercises. But it was not 
 only by his excellence in bodily exercises that Poo 
 was rendered famous. As a Latinist he was only 
 second in the large academy, and in general learn- 
 ing he was easily first. Even at this cany period 
 of his life he displayed great excellence in the met- 
 rical formation of verses. At this time, too, a lady 
 of the finest culture to whom one of Poe's friends 
 had shown some of his poetry, praised it very highly. 
 The gentleman who gives these recollections of 
 Poe's school-days, also suggests that the poet's 
 morbid sensitiveness may have been increased, if 
 not engendered, by the circumstance that in those 
 days the society the so-called upper classes was 
 at that time permeated with an aristocratic feeling, 
 in which the pride of birth was a prominent ele- 
 ment. Now boys catch this feeling very quickly, 
 and display it in an exaggerated form, so that very 
 ottcn Edgar's proficiency as a scholar and his skill 
 as an athlete were rather acknowledged grudgingly 
 than yielded freely. As Poe was looked down 
 upon as being the orphan child of an actress, and 
 
18 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOR 
 
 the protege of a business man. Both professions 
 being looked down upon with a kind of dignified 
 contempt by the sons of the landed gentry. With 
 many boys the ill-concealed slights of these thought- 
 less lads would only have been food for a hearty 
 laugh from others, more passionate, would have 
 been repaid with a smart blow ; but Edgar, evi- 
 dently, let the slight but poisoned wounds fester 
 and gall him with their venom. His own descrip- 
 tion of his disposition before he had received much 
 unkindness from the world, he has himself furnished 
 us with. "My own tenderness of heart was so 
 conspicuous as to make me the jest of my compan- 
 ions. I was especially fond of animals, and was 
 indulged by my parents with a great variety of 
 pets. With these I spent most of my time, and 
 never was so happy as when feeding and caressing 
 them. This peculiarity of my character grew with 
 my growth, and in my manhood I derived from it 
 one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those 
 who have cherished an affection for a faithful 
 and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble 
 of explaining the nature or the intensity of the 
 gratification thus derivable. There is something in 
 the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, 
 which goes directly to the heart of him who has 
 had frequent occasions to test the paltry friend- 
 ship and gossamer fidelity of mere man." With all 
 this gentleness and kindheartedness, there was noth- 
 ing girlish in his feelings ; for about this time it 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 19 
 
 was that lie started with a companion, "Robert Mayo, 
 Jr., in his " celebrated swim from Richmond to 
 Warwick Bar, six miles down James River. The 
 day was oppressively hot," continues Mayo, " and 
 I concluded rather than continue the infliction to 
 stop at Tree Hill, three miles from town. Poe, 
 however, braved the eun,and kept on, reaching the 
 goal, but emerging from the water with neck, face, 
 and back blistered." This feat, however, being 
 doubted, Robert G. Cabel, afterwards not only at- 
 tested its truthfulness, but added, as of his own 
 knowledge, that Mr. Poe did not seem at all 
 fatigued, and walked back to Richmond immedi- 
 ately after the feat." 
 
 A schoolmate of Edgar A. Poe, Mr. Andrew 
 Johnston, says that in 1823 he went to a school, 
 then taught by a Mr. William Burke, and there he 
 met with Edgar A. Poe. The too be famous poet 
 was " then a much more advanced pupil than any 
 of us ; but there was no other class for him, and 
 he had nothing to do to keep his headship of the 
 class. We all admired his great and varied talents, 
 and were proud of him as the most distinguished 
 schoolboy of the town. In person he was active, 
 sinewy and graceful. In athletic exercises he 
 was foremost. ****** H| S disposition was 
 amiable, and his manners pleasant and courteous." 
 
 While at this academy, Poe went with a school- 
 mate to his home, and saw Mrs. Helen Stannard, 
 the mother of his young friend. This lady re- 
 
20 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 
 
 ceived the orphan lad very kindly, and afterwards 
 became the confidant of all his boyish sorrows, and 
 hers was the one redeeming influence that saved 
 and guided him in the earlier days of his turbu- 
 lent and passionate youth. 
 
 Even at this early age Foe was haunted by those 
 dismal fancies, which grew with his growth, that 
 " the dead are not wholly dead to consciousness," 
 and it was this feeling, those who knew him be- 
 lieve that restrained him more than once from con- 
 tracting another marriage after his beloved wife's 
 death. He sometimes shuddered as he feared 
 
 Lest the dead, who is forsaken, 
 May not be happy now." 
 
 During his school-days at Richmond, Edgar fell 
 in love with a Miss S. Elmira Royster. The 
 parents of the young Miss lived directly opposite 
 the residence of Mr. Allan, and the two families 
 were quite intimate. The boy-lover plunged over 
 head and ears in platonic admiration, and wrote 
 glowing tributes to the young maiden's charms. 
 Her father intercepted his passionate pleas, and 
 it was only after the young lady became a wife, as 
 Mrs. Shelton, that Poe became aware that the first- 
 lings of his Muse never reached the fair object of 
 his adoration. The youthful passion if so pure a 
 feeling can be denominated passion was not with- 
 out an effect on the warm-hearted visionary, and 
 tinged much of his writing with melancholy hue. 
 
 In 1826 Edgar entered as a pupil the University 
 
POES COTTAGE AT FORDHAM. 
 
MEMOIR OF ED GAR ALLAN POK 21 
 
 of Virginia, at Charlottesville, and. proved a dili- 
 gent pupil and a well-behaved young man. Here 
 he attained some distinction as a student in both 
 ancient r.nd modern languages. He was well liked 
 by his fellow-scholars. But even then the more 
 observing marked his reserved manners, so unusual 
 in a lad of his years. At this time he practiced 
 charcoal drawing, covering the walls of his dor- 
 mitory with life-size pictures. His favorite amuse- 
 ment at this period was rambling about and in the 
 Ragged Mountains near the University. He rarely 
 had any companion except his dog. Some of the 
 solitudes were so lone and seemingly inaccessible 
 that Foe has written, " 1 could not help believing 
 that the green sods and the gray rocks upon which 
 I had stood had been trodden never before by the 
 foot of a human being." Of course this manner 
 of life nourished his melancholic temperament, and 
 added to his grave and sombre aspect. Just a 
 month before he attained his fifteenth year he left 
 the University. A few evenings previously he 
 kindled a fire in his room with what remained of 
 his candles and the fragments of his table. 
 
 The City of Boston, which saw his birth, was 
 also honored by seeing the entrance upon this "great 
 stage of fools" of his first literary offering to fame. 
 Much investigation has been given to his reasons 
 for going to the tri-mountain city in order to pub- 
 lish his little volume. It was, probably, because 
 even then the city in which Holmes lives, and in 
 
22 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 which Longfellow died, was esteemed the most 
 " literary " place in our country hence styled 
 " the Athens of America." His first venture was 
 a little volume of forty pages, and entitled, "Tam- 
 erane and other Poems." By a Bostonian. 
 
 " Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, 
 
 And make mistakes for manhood to reform. COWPEB. 
 Poston: Calvin Thomas, 1827. 
 
 The book, for some never explained reason, was 
 soon suppressed. Though crude in expression and 
 strongly infected with the worst Byronisms, it had 
 yet many passages betraying the latent powers of 
 the writer. Of these powers he was by no means 
 unconscious, as witness such lines as follow: 
 
 " There is a power in the high spirit 
 To know the fate it will inherit : 
 The soul, which knows such power, will still 
 Find pride the ruler of its will." 
 
 Most of the pieces, the author tells us in his 
 preface, were written when he was but fourteen. 
 
 The young poet's visit to Europe, in the early 
 summer of 1827, has never been very satisfactorily 
 detailed. He appears to have been filled with the 
 same romantic Hellenism which surcharged the 
 heart of him who so gloriously sung : 
 
 " To Greece we give our shining blades." 
 
 But, unlike Byron, he has left no record of his 
 movements on the sacred soil where 
 
 " Homer sung and Sappho loved." 
 
 One biographer of the poet says that Poe had 
 written a novel, founded upon the circumstances 
 
MEMOIR OF EbGAR ALLAN POE. 23 
 
 ih. which he figured while in Europe, but he 
 deemed it too sensational to suit American tastes. 
 Certain it never saw the light in print. He was 
 away from Richmond nearly two years ; and on 
 his return to the erewhile hospitable home, he 
 found that his truest friend, the amiable Mrs. Allan, 
 had been buried the day before he readied her late 
 residence. Edgar deeply felt the loss of his adop- 
 tive mother, and always alluded to her with reve- 
 rent affection. Mr. Allan appears to have looked 
 coldly upon the young man, and for a time he vis- 
 ited round among the friends of his real father 
 About this time he published his second poetical 
 venture ; this time under his own name. A brothei 
 poet, John Neal, being applied to by Foe for an 
 opinion, gave him considerable praise and much 
 useful advice. This edition contained " Tamerane" 
 much improved, and the new poem of "Al Aaraaf ." 
 Passages of power and beauty abound in the pieces 
 composing this work, and appreciative readers 
 might well have foreseen the future greatness of the 
 writer. 
 
 In the year 1830 Edgar was admitted as a cadet 
 at West Point Military Academy. General Win- 
 field Scott, among other influential personages, 
 added the weight of his recommendation to open the 
 doors of the institution to him. He was just then 
 in his twenty -first year, a little later and he would 
 have been too old to enter the portals of that 
 famous fortress. The exercises, both mental and 
 
24 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOR 
 
 physical, at that time were prolonged and incessant 
 Edgar early discovered that the iron rules of dis- 
 cipline and set forms of study were entirely unsuited 
 to his erratic, if not to say vagrant, disposition. 
 He did not take kindly to the military drill or the 
 stern mathematical studies which form the great 
 part of the education. He seemed to have little 
 liking for the place or its inmates. A fellow cadet 
 says of him : " At this time Poe had a worn, weary, 
 discontented look, not easily forgotten by those who 
 were intimate with him." He, however, established 
 a high reputation for genius, and his poems and 
 squibs, of local interest, were daily going the round 
 of the classes. Some of his classmates recall many 
 acts of irregularity, hard to tolerate even in an 
 academy not bound by such cast iron rules. 
 
 A classmate of Foe's, writing of this portion of 
 the latter's life, says that " his acquaintance with 
 English literature was extensive and accurate, and 
 his verbal memory wonderful. He would repeat 
 both prose and verse by the hour, and seldom or 
 never repeated the same passage twice to the same 
 person." 
 
 By the end of the year 1830 Foe seems to have 
 grown tired of his life at the Academy, and ex- 
 pressed a desire to leave it. This idea did not suit 
 Mr. Allan, and he refused to sanction it. The 
 gentleman who had hitherto found funds for the 
 young cadet was now the husband of a second wife, 
 and an heir had been born to him, so that lie had, 
 
MEMOIR Or EDGAR ALLAN POE. 2i 
 
 presumably, pretty heavy drafts upon his exchequer. 
 Be that as it may, he refused peremptorily to apply 
 for his removal from West Point. The consequence 
 was that Edgar purposely was guilty of offences 
 against discipline, for which he was court martialed 
 aad dismissed the service, and ceased to be con- 
 sidered a member of the Military Academy after 
 the 6th of March, 1881. 
 
 Proceeding to New York, he determined to make 
 a living by his pen. A few months later he pub- 
 lished " A Volume of Poems. By Edgar A. Poe. 
 Elam Bliss, publisher." All the poems in this 
 book of 124 pages are contained in his later collec- 
 tions. It was dedicated to his comrades, " The 
 United States Corps of Cadets." The young officer* 
 subscribed liberally for volumes, at two dollars an*!; 
 a half each. But the fledgling generals were muci. 
 disappointed, as the book contained none of tin 
 squibs and satires with which he had delighted them 
 in the Academy. Prefixed to this volume was a 
 long preface, only remarkable as showing how thor- 
 oughly he had investigated all the pros and cons of 
 rhythm and rhyme. The profits of this volume 
 were small, and soon expended ; and he quickly 
 made his way back to Eichmond. Going straight 
 to Mr. Allan's house, he met that gentleman's 
 second wife. He was told Mr. A. was sick, and 
 declined to see him. He appears to have spoken 
 his mind freely, if not sharply, to the young wife. 
 The ultimate result of the interview was that he 
 
26 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POti. 
 
 angrily left the mansion never again to enter it, 
 A brief correspondence ensued between the father 
 and his adopted son ; and the young man, who had 
 been taught to consider himself presumptive heir 
 to a large fortune, found himself penniless. 
 
 The next two years are a complete blank in the 
 author's history. "We have half a dozen imaginary 
 stories, but nothing on which the least reliance can 
 be placed. If, as has been alleged, he found in 
 literature a living, it is very strange that no pub- 
 lisher can recall the fact of having employed him. 
 It seems impossible, too, that in twenty-four 
 months he should have written nothing in prose or 
 poetry of sufficient merit to have called forth abun- 
 dant praise if not proiit. 
 
 With certainty we next hear of him in Baltimore. 
 This was in 1833. At this time he wrote several 
 of his bizarre stories. His recompense was very 
 slight, and he was, consequently, living in extreme 
 poverty. In 1833 he was awarded prizes of one 
 hundred, and of fifty dollars, respectively, for the 
 best story and the best poem offered for competi- 
 tion. The three gentlemen who decided his wcrk 
 to be the best, were both astonished and charmed 
 with the great merit the author had shown, and 
 Mr. Kennedy (himself an able author) invited him 
 to dine with him. It needs no lively fancy to 
 divine what must have been the poor but proud 
 young man's humiliation when penning the follow- 
 ing reply : 
 
OF EDGAR AltAlf P0 27 
 
 " Yonr invitation to dinner has wounded me to 
 the quick. I cannot come for reasons of the most 
 humiliating nature my personal appearance. You 
 may imagine my mortification in making this dis- 
 closure to you, but it is necessary." 
 
 Mr. Kennedy visited him ; found his sad story 
 too true ; and thenceforward proved himself one 
 of his most reliable friends. After this his pros- 
 pects grew brighter as to the possibility of making a 
 living by his literary labors. And in good time 
 came this assurance, for his adoptive father died on 
 the 7th of March, 1834. Edgar Allan Foe's 
 name was not even mentioned in his will. 
 
 At different times portions of his tragedy of 
 u Politian " were published, which, though full of 
 passages of great power and exceeding beauty, 
 were apparently not so highly thought of as to in- 
 duce Poe to publish it entire. It was, however, 
 translated into French, and highly spoken of by 
 its readers in that language. 
 
 For several years Poe continued to write, for dif- 
 ferent magazines, many of those wierd, unearthly 
 stories, that fill the reader with alternate fear, hor- 
 ror, dislike and admiration. They are absolutely 
 unique and original in all respects. He also, during 
 this time, wrote many of those profound, analytical. 
 but deep-cutting reviews which attracted much at- 
 tention, some admiration, and made for the author 
 many life-long and inveterate enemies. The black- 
 est cloud has the brightest lining, and so it seemed 
 
28 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 in Poe's case. For during his extreme poverty, 
 he met, at Baltimore, his Aunt Maria, the widow of 
 his Uncle William. A man who had patriotically 
 given largely of his time and means to the cause 
 of his country during the Revolution, and was able 
 to leave his widow a faultless reputation and 
 comparative poverty. The widow invited Edgar 
 to live beneath her humble roof, and offered to 
 share what little room she had with her brother's 
 son. 
 
 Mrs. Clemm had " one only daughter, and she 
 was passing fair" indeed all persons that had seen 
 her unite in ascribing to her " the beauty of a 
 fairy and the purity of a seraph." Edgar, now in 
 the early months of manhood, became completely 
 tnthralled by the charms of the lovely Virginian. 
 As the girl was born on the 13th of August, 1822, 
 she was as yet almost a child, when she became the 
 wife of her gifted but penniless cousin. The mar- 
 riage took place on the 6th of May, 1836, at Rich- 
 mond. The young bride's mother took up her 
 abode with the youthful pair ; who surely needed 
 some guardian to direct their immature beginnings. 
 But Poe's literary earnings were very small, al- 
 though he labored assiduously on the " Southern 
 Literary Messenger" and scarcity of funds was the 
 dominant condition of the little household. 
 
 Soon after we find Poe in New York, where nis 
 mother-in-law tried to eke out their limited means 
 by keeping a boarding-house. An inmate of their 
 
MAKIA CLEMM, MOTHER OF VIRGINIA FOB. 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAX POK 29 
 
 residence, by no means addicted to flattery, thus 
 speaks of the young couple at this time : " Mr. Poe 
 was uniformly quiet, reticent, gentlemanly in de- 
 meanor, and during this time not the slightest trace 
 of intoxication or dissipation was discernible in the 
 illustrious inmate. He had an extra inducement to 
 be a good man as well as a good husband, for he 
 had a wife of matchless beauty and loveliness ; her 
 eyes could match those of an houri, and her face 
 defy the genius of a Canova to imitate, a temper 
 and disposition of surprising sweetness, besides she 
 seemed as much devoted to him and his every in- 
 terest as a young mother is to her first-born. Poe 
 had a remarkably pleasant and prepossessing coun- 
 tenance, what the ladies would call decidedly hand- 
 some." 
 
 Too soon the passionately loving husband became 
 convinced of the fact that, in his own eloquent 
 phrase, " the finger of death was upon her bosom 
 that, like the ephemeron, she had been made per- 
 fect only to die." 
 
 Thanks to the untiring teaching of her husband, 
 Virginia had learned several languages, and had be- 
 come an accomplished musician. 
 
 In 1838, Harper & Bros., the even then cele- 
 brated publishers, issued " The Narrative of Arthur 
 Gordon Pym, of Nan tucket." As full of truthful 
 realism as any of Defoe's wonderful books. But 
 neither poetry nor prose although both teemed 
 with genius, originality, and exquisite diction 
 
6 MEMOIR OF ED G AH ALLAN POE. 
 
 brought in the " shekels." Like the apostle he 
 might truly aver, " silver and gold have I none." 
 
 Toward the close of 1838 Foe was a resident of 
 Philadelphia, writing industriously, for small pay, 
 brilliant stories and able reviews. Soon after he 
 published a volume entitled " Tales of the Grotesque 
 and Arabesque." This work attracted a good deal 
 of attention ; but the profits from its sale were small. 
 IH 1840 the names of Burton and Poe appear as 
 joint editors on the cover of u The Gentleman's 
 Magazine." It seems like a conjunction of honey and 
 verjuice, this union of the over jolly ; 'Toodles" and 
 the grave, not to say saturnine author of the sombre 
 " Haven." W. E. Burton and Poe had a misunder- 
 standing in reference to a disputed account, and Poe 
 transferred his talents to " Graham's Magazine." 
 In this periodical appeared the greater number of 
 his famous " analytical " stories, in which he puts 
 together and afterward dissects some of the most 
 ingenious mental problems that ever a vivid imagina- 
 tion conceived and figured out These stories have 
 been translated into many languages. 
 
 For nearly two years he remained with Mr. Gra- 
 ham, and during that period the circulation of the 
 then famous magazine was continuously increasing. 
 Why he severed his connection with it has never 
 been explicitly told. But we may surmise that the 
 habit of taking stimulants had unsettled his habits 
 of industry and regularity. The poet and the pub- 
 lisher parted company the best of friends * and Mr. 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 31 
 
 Graham, writing afterwards about his talented 
 sditor, said : " He, Poe, had the docility and kind- 
 heartedn-ss of a child. No man was more quickly 
 touched by a kindness, none more prompt to atone 
 an injury. For three or four years I knew him in- 
 timately. * * * Knowing all his hopes and fears 
 and little annoyances of life, as well as his high- 
 hearted struggle with adverse fate yet lie was 
 always the same polished gentleman the quiet, un- 
 obtrusive scholar the devoted husband frugal in 
 his personal expenses . . . and the soul of 
 honor in all his transactions." Poe himself, in 
 answer to the inquiries of a friend, gave as a reason 
 for his falling into "irregularities," which injured 
 himself more than any other, the facts that " Six 
 years ago the greatest c evil' which can befall a man 
 befell me. Six years ago, a wife, whom I loved 
 as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood- 
 vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I 
 took leave of her forever, and underwent all the 
 agonies of her death. She recovered partially, and 
 I again hoped. At the end of a year the vessel 
 broke again. I went through precisely the same 
 scene. * * * Then again again and even once 
 again, at varying intervals. Each time I felt all 
 the agonies of her death and at each accession of 
 
 O 
 
 the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to 
 her life with more desperate pertinacity. * * * 
 I became insane, with long intervals of horrible 
 sanity. During these fits of absolute insanity J 
 
32 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAH POE. 
 
 drank God only knows how often or how much. 
 As a matter of course, my enemies referred the in- 
 sanity to the drink, rather than the drink to the in- 
 sanity." Farther on, in answering his mean and 
 vindictive assailants, he says : " I have absolutely 
 not the slightest pleasure in the stimulants in which 
 I sometimes indulge so madly. It has not been in 
 the pursuit of pleasure that I have perilled life, 
 and reputation, and reason. It lias been the des- 
 perate attempt to escape from torturing memories." 
 
 The death of the young, lovely and idolized wife 
 was the last shaft from the bow of misfortune, and 
 it remained quivering in the sensitive heart of the 
 poet long ai life lasted. The friends of the poet 
 dwell lovingly on the home and its surroundings, of 
 the poet and his wife. One writes : " She (Vir- 
 ginia) had a voice of wonderful sweetness, and was 
 an exquisite singer, and in some of their more pros- 
 perous days, when they were living in a pretty little 
 moss-covered cottage on the outskirts of Philadel- 
 phia, she had her harp and piano." 
 
 Captain Mayne Reid, the famous author and 
 gallant soldier, in writing of Poe and his surround- 
 ings at this period, gives us some little insight into 
 his manner of life. Poe, 1 have known for a whole 
 month closeted in his house,all the time hard at work 
 with his pen, poorly paid and hard driven to keep 
 the wolf from the door, visited only by a few select 
 friends, who always found him what they knew him 
 to be, a generous host, an affectionate son-in-law 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE, 33 
 
 and husband." ****** Of Mrs. Poe, 
 Reid says, " she was angelically b eautiful in per- 
 son, and not less beautiful in spirit. No one who 
 remembers that dark-eyed, dark-haired daughter of 
 Virginia her grace, her facial beauty, her demeanor, 
 so modest as to be remarkable, no one who has ever 
 spent an hour in her company, but will endorse 
 what I have said. I remember how we, the friends 
 of the poet, used to talk of her high qualities, and 
 when we talked of her beauty, I knew well that the 
 rose-tint upon her cheek was too bright, too pure 
 to be of earth. It was consumption's color, that 
 sadly beautiful light that beacons to an early 
 tomb." At this time it was only through the good 
 management of Virginia's mother, Mrs. Clemm, 
 that the little furniture was kept together, and that 
 they were able to keep a roof over their heads. 
 For it must be constantly borne in mind that Edgar 
 knew positively nothing of housekeeping affairs 
 for while at home with his mother he was a mere 
 child ; and while living with the Allans he had 
 every want supplied before he expressed a wish for 
 it. For Mr. A. kept house " like a fine old Vir- 
 ginia gentleman, at a bountiful old rate." While 
 the Poes lived in this little cottage Virginia broke 
 a blood-vessel, while in the act of singing. From 
 that moment she was a great sufferer, as was her 
 husband, who was perpetually haunted by fear of 
 her sudden death. Such a delicate invalid requires 
 all the soothings and shields with which wealth can 
 
34 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 protect from chill winds or stifling atmospheres ; 
 as well as all those nourishing viands and strength- 
 ening drinks so necessary to keep up the vital 
 forces. Poe, who well knew how impotent he was 
 to provide all these for his sick wife, suffered ten 
 times the anguish that a man of a less sensitive 
 nature would. In vain he threw off article after 
 article, countersigned by the stamp of the finest 
 genius few and paltry were the rewards that came 
 to the depleted exchequer of the isolated little 
 cottage. 
 
 But we need not linger over these sadly at- 
 tractive details of our author's life. 
 
 About this time he wrote to several of his friends 
 some of whom he presumed had more or less in- 
 fluence with the Administration at Washington, 
 imploring them to try to procure him a post under 
 government even one of five hundred dollars a 
 year, but in vain. He was not of the stuff of which 
 successful office-seekers are moulded. 
 
 There is but a scant supply of Macenases in 
 modern times, else Burns had not been a gauger, 
 and Poe an unsuccessful applicant for a paltry 
 custom-house clerkship. Locke, the author of one 
 Moon Hoax, got a clerkship, but they were evi- 
 dently too much afraid of overburthening the de. 
 partments with brains to appoint the author of 
 another to office. Or, perhaps, they thought that 
 people who knew so much about Luna, might be a 
 species of Lunatics. 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 35 
 
 In November, 184:2, unusual attention was at- 
 tracted to Snowden's Magazine, in which appeared 
 Poe's great prose tale of " The Mystery of Marie 
 Roget." This was in reality founded upon " the 
 untimely taking off" of Mary Cscelia Rogers, 
 otherwise known as the Beautiful Cigar Girl. The 
 subject just suited Poe's peculiar train of thought, 
 and among thinking people the story was a very 
 great success. In 1843 Poe received the prize of 
 $100 offered for the best story. The piece was 
 named " The Gold Bug," and was undeniably the 
 most popular of his prose stories. Of Tennyson, 
 Poe thus says in a critique on Channing, written 
 at this time " For Tennyson, as for a man im- 
 bued with the richest and rarest poetical impulses, 
 I have an admiration a reverence unbounded." 
 This shows our poet's keen appreciation of literary 
 genius. For at the time this was written Tenny- 
 son had not yet been unanimously crowned lord 
 of all the realms of poesy. 
 
 In 1849 we find the poet once more in New 
 York. Mr. N. P. Willis speaks of being visited 
 by Mrs. Clemm on his behalf, and remarks of the 
 occasion, that the poet " wrote with fastidious dif- 
 culty, and in a style too much above the popular 
 level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary 
 difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in 
 want of the merest necessities of life." 
 
 Poe was soon engaged on the Evening Mirror, 
 a journal owned and edited by Morris and Willis. 
 
36 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 
 
 X. P. Willis is, perhaps, better appreciated as h 
 poet at this time than lie was during his life. Yery 
 many of his sacred poems are fairly imbued with 
 holy tli oughts expressed in exquisite versification. 
 George P. Morris, still remembered for many pleas- 
 ing songs, deserves a warmer remembrance for his 
 genial and hospitable nature, and generous actions, 
 As an offset to the slurs and insinuations of others 
 regarding Poe's conduct, it may not be amiss to 
 quote here somo further remarks made about him 
 by N. P. Willis a gentleman who was by no 
 means prone to shower laudations upon brother 
 poets : " As time went on, however, he was invari- 
 ably punctual and industrious. With his pale, 
 beautiful and intellectual face, as a reminder of 
 what genius was in him, it was impossible, of 
 course, not to treat him always with deferential 
 courtesy, and to our occasional request that he 
 would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he 
 would erase a passage colored too highly with his 
 resentments against society and mankind, he readily 
 and courteously rssented far more yielding than 
 most men, on points so excusably sensitive. * * 
 During all his intercourse with us, we had seen but 
 one presentiment of the man a quiet, patient, in- 
 dustrious and most gentlemanly person, commend- 
 ing the utmost respect and good feeling by his un 
 varying ability. 
 
 At this period Poe added to his labors some 
 translating from the French, but by this he added 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAV POK 37 
 
 little to his fame, and less to his finances. He still 
 continued to write brief articles for the 3lirror,and 
 occasionally stories. Some of the latter very supe- 
 rior. But the continued drudgery brought in but 
 poor pecuniary results. 
 
 In 184:5 Poe seemed to have reached the high- 
 est point of his literary aspirations he h^,d sue- 
 Boedal in gatting tli3 sole control of a paper of his 
 own, " The Broadway Journal" It was on the 
 29th of January of this year that the never-to-be- 
 silenced croaking of " The" Raverfs " sad refrain 
 " Nevermore " smote the ear. It was universally 
 copied, recited publicly and privately, and wildly 
 estolled. It took its ph\ce side by side with " Ye 
 Ancient Mariner," probably never to be displaced ; 
 so manifold are its merits, so few its defects, so 
 quaint, subtle, harmonious, yet so wierd by disso- 
 nant are some of its chords bearing that strange, 
 yet dismal fascination, akin to the unearthly melo- 
 dies of the -^Eolian harp which sometimes sounds as 
 if angel and demon fingers were touching differ- 
 ent strings of the same instrument. 
 
 Prior to the issuance of his masterly poem, " The 
 Haven," Poe was personally known to but few. 
 But now the doors of many of the best people, who 
 had any literary proclivities or pretentious, flew 
 open at his approach. Many stories, some greatly 
 embellished, and others entirely baseless, were 
 abroad, touching his peculiar habits and idiosin- 
 crasies ; all this, added to his sad visage and melan- 
 
38 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 choly eyes, invested him with a species of romantic 
 mysticism. 
 
 The day after " The Haven" appeared, Poe might 
 have said like Byron that he " awoke in the 
 morning and found himself famous." 
 
 Foe continued to write industriously stories, criti- 
 cisms and satires of uneven merit, but all bearing, 
 more or less distinctly, struck the " Tower mark" 
 of talent. A collection of his stories was printed 
 in New York and reprinted in England, of these 
 Martin F. Tupper wrote very highly. In France, 
 from a keener critic, they received the eulogism 
 of a translation. The Spaniards quickly naturalized 
 his works in vivid translations; and the Germans 
 and Italians transmuted his thoughts into their 
 several languages. 
 
 "While writing in reference to Mrs. Mowatt's tak- 
 ing to the stage as a profession, Poe seizes the 
 opportunity to speak thus eloquently of the theatre 
 and its votaries : " We have no sympathies with the 
 prejudices that would have dissuaded Mrs. Mowatt 
 from the stage. There is no cant more contempt- 
 ible than that which habitually decries the theatrical 
 profession a profession which, in itself, embraces 
 all that can elevate and enoble, and absolutely noth- 
 ing to degrade. If some, if many, or if nearly all 
 of its members are dissolute, this is an evil not 
 arising from the profession itself, but from the 
 unhappy circumstances which surround it. * * * 
 In the mere name of actress she can surely iind 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 39 
 
 nothing to dread nothing, or she would be un- 
 worthy of the profession, not the profession un- 
 worthy of her. The theatre is ennobled by its high 
 facilities for the development of genius facilities 
 not afforded elsewhere in. equal degree. By the 
 spirit of genius we say it is ennobled, it is sanctified 
 beyond the sneer of the fool or the cant of the 
 hypocrite. The actor of talent is poor of heart, 
 indeed, if he do not look with contempt upon the 
 mediocrity even of a king. The writer of this 
 article is himself the son of an actress, has invari- 
 ably made it his boast, and no earl was ever prouder 
 of his earldom than he of his descent from a woman 
 who, although well born, hesitated not to consecrate 
 to the drama her brief career of genius and of 
 beauty." 
 
 While Poe continued editing " The Broadway 
 Journal" he still found time to write for the 
 American Review some powerful papers upon the 
 American Drama. He also contributed " Mar- 
 ginalia " to the Democratic Review ; which notes 
 abounded in quaint, at times, at other times shrewd 
 apothegms and wise saws. 
 
 Soon after this Poe severed his connection with 
 the Broadway Journal, but not without firing some 
 farewell shots at his many antagonists. 
 
 Not a little scandal was generated by the friend- 
 ship, which existed between Mrs. Frances S. Os- 
 good, the poetess, and Edgar A. Poe. The " true 
 inwardness " of it was that the poet had admired, 
 
10 MEMOIR Or EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 and highly and intelligently lauded some of the 
 poetry of the lady. She naturally felt pleased at 
 finding the Stylus that usually flowed with vitriol 
 now filled with honied sweets. 
 
 Then followed an introduction. The poet be- 
 came the Mentor of the inspired Sappho ; taught 
 her how to improve her already fine poems, while 
 she gratified his vanity by praising his really great 
 productions. If at times their lines were couched 
 in. warmer terms than is common out of the shades 
 of Parnassus, their intercourse was truly Platonic, 
 and the lady had as white a soul as ever lodged in 
 anybody's breast. 
 
 Writing of Poe's home life, Mrs. Osgood says : 
 "It was in his own simple, yet poetical residence, 
 that to me the character of Edgar Poe appeared in 
 its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, 
 witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted 
 child for his young, gentle and idolized wife, and 
 foi 1 all who came, he had, even in the midst of his 
 most harrassing literary labors, a kind word, a 
 pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. 
 At his desk, beneath the picture of his loved and 
 lost Lenore, he would sit, hour after hour, patient, 
 assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing in an ex- 
 quisitely clear chirography, and with almost super- 
 human swiftness, the lightning thoughts, 'the rare 
 and radiant fancies,' as they flashed through his 
 wonderful and ever wakeful brain. I recollect 
 one morning toward the close of his residence in 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POR 41 
 
 this city, when he seemed unusually gay and light 
 hearted. Virginia, his sweet wife, had written me 
 a pressing invitation to come to them ; and I, who 
 never could resist her affectionate summons, and 
 who enjoyed his society far more in his own house 
 than elsewhere, hastened to Amity street. I found 
 him just completing a series of papers entitled, 
 6 The Literati of New 1? 01 k.~ ' See,' said he, dis- 
 playing several rolls of paper, * by the difference in 
 length of these, the different degrees of estimation 
 in which I hold all you literary people.' ***** 
 Come, Virginia, help me ! " And one l>y one they 
 unfolded them. At last they came to one which 
 seemed interminable. Virginia, laughingly ran to 
 one corner of the room, with one end, and her hus- 
 band to the opposite, with the other. "And whose 
 lengthened sweetness, long drawn out, is that ? said 
 L." " Hear her," he cried, " just as if her little 
 vain heart didn't tell her its herself ! " 
 
 After this little home picture, it may not be 
 amiss to here quote what this lady says in reference 
 to his habits of life. " I have been told that when 
 his sorrows and pecuniary embarresments had driven 
 him to the use of stimulants, which a less delicate 
 organization might have enabled him to have borne 
 without injury, he was in the habit of speaking 
 disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It 
 is difficult for me to believe this ; for to me, to 
 whom he came during the year of our acquaintance 
 for counsel and kindness in all his many anxieties 
 
42 MEMOIR OF ED G AH A LLA N P OK 
 
 and griefs, lie never spoke irrevently of any woman, 
 save one, and then only in my defence ; and though 
 I rebuked him for his momentary forgetfulness of 
 the respect due to himself and to me, I could not 
 but forgive the offence for the sake of the generous 
 impulse which prompted it. Yet, even were these 
 sad rumors true of him, the wise and well informed 
 knew how to regard, as they would the impetuous 
 anger of a spoiled infant, baulked of its capricious 
 will, the equally harmless and unmeaning phrenzy 
 of that stray child of Poetry and Passion. For 
 the few unwomanly and slander-loving gossips who 
 have injured him and themselves only by repeating 
 his ravings, when in such mood they have accepted 
 his society. I have only to vouchsafe my wonder 
 and my pity. They cannot surely harm the good 
 and pure, who, reverencing his genius and pitying 
 his misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by their 
 timely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad 
 career." 
 
 Mrs. Osgood's charitable and kind opinion of 
 Poe was fully reciprocated by him, for lie speaks of 
 her in these enthusiastic sentences: "In character 
 she is ardent, sensitive and impulsive. The very 
 soul of truth and honor; a worshiper of the beau- 
 tiful, with a heart so radically artless as to seem 
 abundant in art ; universally admired, respecteJ and 
 beloved. In person she is about the medium height, 
 slender even to fragility, graceful whether in action 
 or repose ; complexion unusually pale, hair black 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POK 4:) 
 
 and glossy, eyes a clear luminous gray, large and 
 with singular capacity for expression." Their ac- 
 quaintance, personally, only lasted a year. The 
 lady then left to travel for her health. She kept 
 up a correspondence with him to please his wife, 
 who believed that he was guided by her advice as 
 to disusing all stimulants. Although from the 
 tenor of every one of Poe's letters to ladies, and 
 the responses thereto, it is quite evident that all the 
 improprieties were summed up in the one phrase, 
 " Want of deference to social usages" yet his 
 numerous adversaries made the most of every in- 
 discretion, and reared mountains out of molehills. 
 One female person we cannot desecrate the words 
 " lady" or " woman" by applying them to her 
 happened to see on the poet's desk an opened letter 
 from Mrs. Osgood, and she made all the scandal 
 she could out of its really innocent contents. A 
 self-constituted committee of Mrs. Grundys spoke 
 to Mrs. O., and pictured in frightful colors the 
 terrible consequences which might follow such a 
 correspondence, and persuaded the somewhat timid 
 poetess to authorize them to recall all her letters 
 from Poe's hands. The committee called at Poe's 
 house, and the justly enraged poet dismissed them 
 as a set of busy-bodies. One of the most officious 
 of this set had herself corresponded with Poe. He 
 took his revenge by placing her letters in a package, 
 and privately sending them to her. Mrs. Osgood 
 
44 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 and Poe never met again, but they kept up a coi> 
 respondence to the end of their lives. 
 
 Poe was, meanwhile, failing in health, while his 
 wife was daily weakening. At the same time he 
 was increasing his notoriety, rather than his popu- 
 larity, by smart, bitter, but oftentimes unjust criti- 
 cisms upon the writings of his cotemporaries. As 
 the months of summer passed away, with their 
 golden evenings, day by day faded out the strength 
 of his young wife ; and the concomitant effect was 
 that Poe was rendered more and more unfit to tug 
 at the oar. Although the daily bread of three 
 persons depended upon his exertions. As the chill 
 winds of Fall begun to whistle about the little cot- 
 tage that scarcely sheltered them, the beloved Vir- 
 ginia sank rapidly into a consumption. 
 
 Mrs. Grove Nichols herself a woman of genius 
 draws this pitiful picture of the state of affairs 
 at the Fordham cottage. " I saw her (Virginia) in 
 her bedchamber. Everything .was so neat, so 
 purely clean, so scant and poverty-stricken, that I 
 saw the poor sufferer with such a heartache. * * * 
 There was no clothing on the bed, which was only 
 straw, but had a snow-white counterpane and sheets. 
 The weather was cold, and the sick lady had the 
 dreadful chills that accompanied the hectic fever of 
 consumption. She lay on the straw bed, wrapped 
 in her husband's great coat, with a large tortoise- 
 shell cat in her bosom. The wonderful cat seemed 
 conscious of her great usefulness. The coat and 
 
FAC-SIMJLE LETTER TO MRS, MARIE LOUISE SHEW. 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 45 
 
 the cat were the sufferer's only means of warmth, 
 except as her husband held her hands, and her 
 mother her feet. ****** AS goon as 
 I was made aware of these painful facts, 1 came fo 
 New York and enlisted the sympathies and services 
 of a ladv, whose heart and hand were ever open to 
 the poor and miserable. A feather bed and abund 
 ance of bed clothing and other comforts were the 
 first fruits of my labor of love. The lady headed 
 a private subscription, and carried them sixty dol- 
 lars the next week. From the first day this kind 
 lady saw the suffering family of the poet, she 
 watched over them as a mother watches over her 
 babe. She saw them often and ministered to the 
 comfort of the dying and the living." 
 
 This lady, who so unostentatiously filled the role 
 of the Good Samaritan, deserves to have her name 
 held in grateful rememberance, was then Mrs. 
 Shew, since, Houghton. (What's in a name ? " 
 may here be asked, though it breaks the current of 
 the story. Something surely. For it is with the 
 name of Houghton that the Little Church Around 
 the Corner is as closely entwined as by its own 
 clustering ivy.) 
 
 N. P. Willis, with the best intentions, publicly 
 called attention to the circumstances of the poet, 
 and greatly hurt his feelings by so doing. 
 
 The pulse of poor Virginia fluttered feebler and 
 feebler every hour. But Mrs. Shew hovered about 
 the invalid's bed ? with all the loving care of a 
 
46 MEMOIR OF EDO AH ALLAN POE. 
 
 heavenly guardian angel. Poe expressed the fee' 
 ings of himself and his little household in tht 
 following note : 
 
 '"KINDEST, DEAEEST FEIEND, My poor Virginia still lives, 
 although failing f.xst and now suffering much pain. May God 
 grant her life until she sees you and thanks you once again 
 Her bosom is fu]l to overflowing, like my own with a bound 
 less inexpressible gratitude to you. Lest she may never see yon 
 more, she bids me say that she sends you her sweetest kiss of 
 love and will die blessing you. But come oh, come to-morrow ! 
 Yes, I will be cn,lm everything you so nobly wish to see me. 
 My mother sends you, also, her ' warmest love and thanks. ' 
 
 "She bogs me to ask you, if possible, to make arrangements at 
 home, so that you may stay with us to-morrow night. I enclose 
 the order to the Postmaster. 
 
 " Heaven bless yon arid farewell. EDGAE A. POE." 
 
 Mrs. ohew continued her merciful ministrations 
 day after day. Bat was not present at the supreme 
 moment when Virginia resigned her gentle spirit. 
 The remains of the poor young wife were " dressed 
 for the grave in beautiful linen," by the kind lady 
 who had befriended the little family. 
 
 The funeral was shorn of " all pomp and pagean- 
 try of woe," Edgar following the remains of Vir- 
 ginia to the grave, wrapped in the old military 
 cloak that had erst done duty in shielding the sick 
 wife. By the kind permission of the owner, Mrs. 
 Poe was buried in the family vault of the Valen- 
 tines, at Fordham. 
 
 For a few days Poe seemed stunned by the loss of 
 his wife ; but he had to rouse himself to renewed 
 exertion. The gaunt wolf, want, was only kept 
 from the door by the continued kindness of Mrs, 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 47 
 
 Shew. But it was clearly unfair that kind heart 
 and the ready hand should be a continuous sup- 
 port. 
 
 By the generosity of a number of friends, (among 
 them General Scott, who had procured Foe his 
 cadetship at West Point), a sum of money was 
 raised sufficient to pay off a number of little debts. 
 
 The poet continued ill for months ; but the 
 instant he began to gain a little physical strength, 
 he went to work at his literary avocations. He 
 seldom quitted the little abode in which Virginia 
 had breathed her last ; and was only visited by 
 Mrs. Shew occasionally, and a few other devoted 
 friends. Mrs. Clemm, during these dull months, 
 was as attentive and careful as a real mother to 
 the unfortunate man. 
 
 In the beginning of 1848, Poe once more had 
 his harness on for " the war of the one against 
 many." For nearly his whole life appears to have 
 been a combat, and frequently with foes who really 
 had no just cause for their enmity. Once again he 
 seemed in a fair way to start his " Stylus." During 
 a lecturing tour in Massachusetts, he had occasion 
 to s.peak in glowing terms of the poetry of Mrs. 
 Helen Whitman. This led to an introduction. 
 The result was that the poet fell desperately in love 
 with the beautiful and gifted "American Sappho," 
 and poured out his soul in a stream of Abelardish 
 adoration. The lady responded in some very ele- 
 gant epistles. This correspondence, though entirely 
 
48 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 
 
 proper between betrothed lovers, might, perhaps, 
 quite as well have been buried in the tomb of the 
 Capulets, with the bijouterie of the Italian lovers. 
 We give a brief extract from one of Edgar's 
 letters : 
 
 " Could I but have held you close to my heart and whispered 
 to you the strange secrets of its passionate history, then, indeed, 
 you would have seen that it was not and never could have been 
 in the power of any other than yourself to move me as I am now 
 moved -to oppress me with this ineffable emotion to surround 
 and bathe me in this electric light, illuminating and enkindling 
 my whole nature filling my whole soul with glory, with won- 
 der, and with awe. During our walk in the cemetery, I said to 
 you, while the bitter, bitter tears sprang into my eyes. Helen, 
 I love you now now, for the first and only time." 
 
 But this love was too passionate to last. The 
 lady, yielding to the advice of friends, and partly 
 moved by Foe's appearance at her house in a state 
 of great excitement to use the mildest term in- 
 timated, kindly but firmly, that their engagement 
 must be canceled. After a number of scenes of 
 parting and making up again, Mrs. Whitman at 
 last yielded to the almost raving poet an oppor- 
 tunity to meet her once again. When he appeared 
 in her presence we now use the lady's words : 
 
 " I was at last convinced that it would be in 
 vain longer to hope against hope. I knew that he 
 had irrecoverably lost the power of self -recovery 
 So 1 gathered together some papers which he had 
 intrusted to my keeping, and placed them in his 
 hands without a word of explanation or reproach, 
 and utterly worn-out and exhausted by mental con- 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 40 
 
 flicts and anxieties and responsibilities of the last 
 few days, I drenched my handkerchief with ether, 
 and threw myself on a sofa, hoping to lose myself in 
 utter unconsciousness. Sinking 0:1 his knees be- 
 side me, he entreated me to speak to him hut one 
 word. At last I responded almost maudibly, ' What 
 can I say ?' ' Say that you love me, Helen. I love 
 you.' These were the last words I ever spoke to 
 him." 
 
 Certain it is, that whoever was in fault in this 
 unfortunate affair, the " Helen" of it came out far 
 differently from her fair namesake of Troy she 
 came out with a fame as spotless as the white bosom 
 of a swan. 
 
 Almost paralleled with Poe's ardent epistles to 
 " Helen," were running a series of letters to the 
 fair and accomplished lady, " Annie," whose ac- 
 quaintance he had made in Lowell, Mass. This 
 correspondence marked on the poet's side with all 
 the fiery utterances of a man master of all love's 
 eloquent sentences, was responded to by the lady 
 in a different key. She had heard of the many 
 troublous incidents in the poet's sad, if wayward 
 career, and she did pity them " 'twas pitiful, she 
 s;dd 'twas wondrous pitiful," and some of the 
 pale-leaved flowers, akin to love's, sprang up. The 
 poet was impassioned and impetuous the lady kind 
 and sympathizing; but there is every reason to 
 believe she passed on "in maiden meditation fancy 
 free." It would not be proper to give publicity to 
 
50 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 these letters, for not only are they partly filled with 
 those passionate pleadings, so liable to be miscon- 
 strued by people who keep watch and ward over 
 every letter they indite ; but they have frequent 
 reference to persons who still live. 
 
 In the summer he visited Richmond, and called 
 on many of his former friends. Here he saw Mrs. 
 Shelton, whom he had known as Miss Royster, 
 w r hen he was a lad. He received a very kindly 
 reception. But he now appeared to have a fatal 
 facility for falling in love. On his second visit lie 
 proposed to the lady now a widow. The result 
 of his meeting with the lady of his boyish love will 
 be seen by the fact that lie wrote to Mrs. Clemm, to 
 let her know that he was about to wed Mrs. Shelton, 
 and intended that she (Mrs. C.) should come to 
 Richmond, permanently to reside with them. Sad 
 presentiments appear to have clouded the minds of 
 both Poe and the lady, when he left to transact 
 some business in New York. 
 
 It was on the first or second of October, that he 
 departed for New York, and he safely arrived at 
 Baltimore in due time. From this time, almost to 
 the instant of his death, his wanderings have never 
 been clearly traced. The most likely story is that 
 having arrived at a time when an exciting election 
 was taking place, he was drugged into semi-uncon- 
 sciousness, and taken from one polling place to 
 another, casting votes as directed by his unprinci- 
 pled captors. As every scoundrel who had a hand 
 
FOB'S MONUMENT AT BALTIMORE, (November 17th, 1875.) 
 
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POC 61 
 
 in tins fiendish, and, as it turned out to be, murder- 
 ous crime, had every motive for concealment, the 
 exact facts will probably never be brought to light. 
 The next we know in this last scene of all was that 
 he was found sleeping on a bench on Light Street 
 wharf. Here some of his relatives found him ; he 
 was kindly cared for ; partial recovery took place ; 
 but the iron had entered too deeply into the soul ; 
 and from the terrible shock he never recovered. 
 He expired on the Tth of October, 1849- 
 
 Two days after he was buried in the family plot, 
 in the Baltimore Westminster grave-yard, verifying 
 one of his saddest refrains touching "the lonesome 
 October." A stone, which one of his relatives in- 
 tended to mark his resting place, was curiously 
 shattered by a railway train, showing that " un- 
 merciful disaster " followed him beyond the 
 grave. 
 
 Several of the lady friends of Foe and Virginia 
 mitigated the grief of the venerable Mrs. Clemm. 
 Dickens, when in this country, called on her, and 
 had along and sympathetic interview with her. He 
 also left her a substantial gift, as proof of his re- 
 spect for Poe's memory. The old lady died in 
 1871, and was buried beside her well-beloved 
 Edgar. 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 This wonderful poem originally appeared in the Jfcw York 
 Mirror. Amidst the resounding applauses with which it was 
 greeted there were heard, however, some mutterings of disap- 
 proval. We do not allude to the assaults of petty assailants 
 Avho are always ready to traduce a superior, out of sheer envy. 
 We never heard of Shakspeare or Milton disparaging the works 
 of their cotemporaries. But in some of the attacks upon Poe, 
 anent his entire originality in this matter, there was considerable 
 plausibility. As it is a matter that has evolved a good deal of 
 discussion, we lay before the reader some of the salient points 
 of the affair. It was charged that Poe had boldly plagarised 
 not only the general idea of the " Raven" but even many of the 
 preculiarities of rythm and rhyme from Albert Pike's poem 
 " Isadore." This having appeared in the New York Mirror, in 
 1843, at a time when Edgar A. Poe was engaged as a writer on 
 that journal. It certainly seems hardly possible that a poem of 
 such real merit, and in many respects of such peculiar construc- 
 tion, could have been un-noticed and un-appreciated by one 
 "who was nothing if not critical." The truth, doubtless, is 
 that in this instance Poe mistook recollection for invention ; and 
 supposed that he was originating when he was, indeed, but re- 
 membering. We append two stanzas from " Isadore," in order 
 that the reader can judge in the case between Albert Pike and 
 Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 Stanzas from " ISADORE." 
 
 Thou art lost to me forever I have lost thee, Isadore 
 Thy head will never rest on my loyal bosom more, 
 Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, 
 Nor thy arm around me lovingly, and trustingly entwine 
 Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. 
 
 My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlorn; 
 The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor. 
 
 53 
 
54 THE RA YEN. 
 
 The mocking bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain, 
 For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain. 
 Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. 
 
 Mr. John H. Ingraham, Edgar A. Poe's most judicious critic, 
 and greatest admirer does not in this instance, appear at his 
 best. For he rather superciliously, if not sneeringly, writes of 
 Albert Pike as being " unacquainted with metrical laws." Now, 
 the truth is that the author of " Isadore " is a poet little inferior 
 to Poe himself, and has written many very beautiful poems 
 "that were not born to die." By the way, it is a very singular 
 fact not apropos in this connection, perhaps but still worth 
 recording, that Albert Pike poet and soldier was always 
 equally welcome to the lodges of the Wild Indians and of the 
 Free Masons. Two classes of mankind as opposite as well can 
 be in precept and practice. N. P. Willis thus launched this 
 poem upon the billows of success. " In our opinion this is the 
 most effective single example of ' fugitive poetry ' ever publish- 
 ed in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for sub- 
 tle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consist- 
 ent sustaining of imaginative lift. It is one of those ' ' dainties 
 bred in a book," which we feed on. It will stick to the mem- 
 ory of every body who reads it. The poem was immediately 
 re-published in most American papers. Poe, for some reason 
 not explainable or at least not explained appended to it the 
 signature of " Quarles," when it was printed in the American 
 Review, (but not published until after its appearance in the Mir- 
 ror.) The poem gave occasion for a great deal of more or less 
 sharp criticism ; but Poe very ably defended it from all comers. 
 
 upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder. 
 
 ed, weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgot 
 
 ton lore, 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there 
 
 .came a tapping, 
 
THE It A YEN. 55 
 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my 
 
 chamber door. 
 "'Tis some visitor," 1 muttered, "tapping at my 
 
 chamber door, 
 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak De- 
 cember, 
 
 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 
 
 dcor. 
 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
56 THE RA YEN. 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no 
 
 longer, 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
 
 implore : 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you 
 
 came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 
 
 chamber door, 
 That. I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened 
 
 wide the door. 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 
 
 wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to 
 
 dream before. 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the 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. 
 
 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 : 
 
THE HA FA'-Y. 57 
 
 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 mein of lord or lady, perched above my 
 chamber door, 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my cham- 
 ber door, 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebon 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 Haven, wandering from 
 
 the Nightly shore. 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's 
 
 Plutonian shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
58 PEE ZA YEN. 
 
 Much I marveled tliis ungainly fowl to hear dis 
 
 course so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning little relevancy 
 
 bore ; 
 For we can not 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 Haven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, 
 
 spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he 
 
 did outpour. 
 Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then 
 
 he fluttered, 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 
 
 have flown before ! 
 On the morrow Tie will leave mo, 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 unmerci- 
 ful Disaster 
 
THE It A YEN. 59 
 
 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 Ra^en still beguilling 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 om- 
 inous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
 pressing 
 
 pi tJSB.Li.lg 
 
 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 lamplight 
 
 gloated o'er, 
 But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight 
 
 gloating o'er, 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore f 
 
60 THE HAVEN. 
 
 Then, methouglit, the air grew denser, perfumed 
 
 from an unseen censer 
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the 
 
 tufted floor. 
 "Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by 
 
 these angels He hath sent thee 
 
 \3 
 
 Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories 
 
 of Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the 
 
 lost Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet ! " cried 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 en- 
 chanted 
 
 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 ! " cried 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 dis- 
 tant Aidenn. 
 
THE It A YEN. 61 
 
 It shall ciasp 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 oar 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 Haven, " 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 lamplight o'er him streaming throws his 
 
 shadow on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
 
 on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted nevermore I 
 
LENORK 
 
 This very melodious piece of versification, was published 
 in the Broadway Journal. Having been greatly altered and 
 improved since it originally appeared under the title of " The 
 Psean." 
 
 ) broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown 
 
 forever! 
 Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the 
 
 Stygian river ; 
 And, Guy De Yere, hast ihou 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 qneenliest 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 ! 
 
 62 
 
A SAINTLY SQUL FLOATS ON THE STVQIAN RIVER/ 1 
 
LENOEE. 63 
 
 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 tliee wild for the dear child that should 
 
 have been thy bride ! 
 For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly 
 
 lies, 
 The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her 
 
 eyes, 
 The life still there, upon her hair, the death upon 
 
 her eyes. 
 " Avaunt ! To-night my heart is light ! No dirge 
 
 will I upraise, 
 But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old 
 
 days ! 
 
 Let no bells toll ! lest her sweet soul, amid its hal- 
 lowed mirth, 
 Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the 
 
 damned Earth ! 
 To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant 
 
 ghost is riven,, 
 
LENORE. 
 
 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the 
 
 Heaven, 
 From grief and groan to a golden throne, beside the 
 
 .King of Heaven." 
 
THE BELLS. 
 
 " The Bells" originated in some suggestions made to Poe by 
 his good friend and benefactress, Mrs. Shew who was a greatly 
 accomplished, as well as benevolent lady. The poet was writ- 
 ing at a window, which was open, and admitted the sound of 
 neighboring church bells. Mrs. Shew said, pleasantly, " there 
 is paper ; " but Poe, declining it, declared, "I so dislike the noise 
 of bells to-night, I cannof write. I have no subject I am ex- 
 hausted." The lady then took up the pen, and, pretending to 
 imitate his style, wrote, " The Bells, by E. A. Poe ; " and then, 
 in pure sportiveness, " The Bells, the Little Silver Bells," Poe 
 finishing off the stanza. She then suggested the next verse, 
 ' The Bells, the Heavy Iron Bells ; " and this, also, Poe extend- 
 ed into a stanza. He next copied out the complete poem, and 
 headed it, " By Mrs. Shew," remarking that it was her poem, 
 as she had suggested and composed so much of it. The next 
 moment Poe could hardly recall any of the incidents of his 
 evening's work. 
 
 I. 
 
 I EAR 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 oversprinklc 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 65 
 
66 THE BELLS. 
 
 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 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 I 
 
OF . ORIGIN ALjMss. OF "THE 
 
 I 
 Jj ft 
 
 
 ftt 
 
 Di qjrv w. fo 
 
 * 
 
 urvyyicwt, 
 
 d. thus* kisvLc, it" i& urno 
 fu 
 
 fa 
 rrt 
 
 of 
 
 
 n. 
 
 &JL 
 &f 
 
 of fa *^ 
 
TEE BELLS. 67 
 
 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, shriek, 
 
 Out of tune, 
 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now now to sit, or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 
 Of Despair ! 
 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air I 
 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. 
 
68 THE BELLS. 
 
 By the sinKing or the swelling in the anger of the belli 
 
 Of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells, 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, 
 
 Iron bells I [pels ! 
 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody com- 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone I 
 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 psean from the bells ! 
 
THE BELLS. 
 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 "With the psean of the bells, 
 And he dances, and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time^ 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the paean of the bells, 
 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells, - 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 To the rolling of the bells,^- 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells, 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells t 
 
ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 This daintily beautiful poem was written at Fordham, in 1849. 
 Mrs. Osgood, who was intimately acquainted with Poe's acts 
 and thoughts, remarks of this piece, that the idea of this song 
 was suggested to the poet by the fate of his wife. " The only 
 woman," she goes on to say, " whom he truly loved." This is 
 evidenced by the exquisite pathos of the little poem [Annabel 
 Lee] lately written, and which is by far the most natural, sim- 
 ple, touchingly beautiful of all his songs. I have heard it said 
 that it was intended to illustrate a late love affair of the author ; 
 but they who believe this have, in their dulness, evidently mis- 
 understood or missed the beautiful meaning latent in tte most 
 lovely of all its verses where he says, 
 
 *A wind blew out of a cloud chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 So that her high-lorn kinsmen came, 
 
 And bore her away from me.' 
 
 There seems a strange, almost profane, disregard of the sacred 
 purity and spiritual tenderness of this delicious ballad, in thus 
 overlooking the allusion to the kindred angels and the heavl,y 
 Father of the lost and unforgotten wife." 
 
 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. 
 70 
 
HER HIGH-BORN KINSMEN CAME AND BORE HER 
 AWAY FROM ME." 
 
ANNABEL LEE. 71 
 
 / was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea: 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love, 
 
 I and my ANNABEL LEE ; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; 
 So that her highborn kinsmen came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me, 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we. 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE : [dreams 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me 
 
73 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 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. 
 
ULALUME. 
 
 This poem was written early in 1847. It first appeared in the 
 American Eeview for December, in that year. It was without 
 the author's name, and as it soon afterward was reproduced in 
 the Home Journal, it was erroneously ascribed to N. P. Willis. 
 The last stanza was omitted from some of the editions by Poe,. 
 at the instance of Mrs. Whitman. Years afterwards the lady 
 advised its return, as, on mature consideration, she became con- 
 vinced the lines were needed to complete the work. 
 
 skies they were ashen and sober ; 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere, 
 The leaves they were withering and sere, 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 
 Of my most immemorial year ; 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 In the misty mid-region of Weir, 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir 
 
 Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
 Of cypress, I roamed with my soul, 
 Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
 
 These were days when my heart was volcanic 
 As the scoriae rivers that roll 
 
 As the lavas that restlessly roll 
 73 
 
74 ULALUME. 
 
 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 hereV- 
 
 Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 And now, as the night was senescent, 
 The star-dials pointed to morn, 
 As the star-dials hinted of morn, 
 
 At the end of our path a liquescent, 
 And nebulous luster 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, 
 
ULALUME. 75 
 
 And has come past the stars of the Lion 
 To point us the path to the skies, 
 To the Lethean peace of the skies, 
 
 Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
 To shine on us with her bright eyes, 
 
 Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
 With love in her luminous eyes." 
 
 But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
 Said, " Sadly this star I mistrust, 
 Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 
 
 Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger ! 
 Oh, fly ! let us fly ! for we must." 
 
 In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
 Wings 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 splendor is beaming 
 
 With Hope and in Beauty to-night.: 
 
 See ! it flickers up the sky through the night I 
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
 
 And be sure it will lead us aright. 
 We safely may trust to a gleaming 
 
 That can not but guide us aright, 
 
 Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 
 
ULALUME. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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 r 
 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." 
 
 Said we then the two, then " Ah, can it 
 Have been that the woodlandish ghouls 
 The pitiful, the merciful ghouls 
 
 To bar up our path and to ban it 
 
 From the secret that lies in these wolds 
 
ULALUME. 
 
 77 
 
 Had drawn up the spectre of a planet 
 From the limbo of lunary souls 
 
 This sinfully scintillant planet 
 
 From the hell of the planetary souls ? n 
 
THE COLISEUM. 
 
 This was preferred by a Committee of literary gentlemen 
 from several poems, offered in competition for a prize offered 
 by the Baltimore Visitor, in which periodical it appeared. The 
 Committee adjudged it the best poem ; but as Poe had just 
 received a prize for the best prose story, they awarded the priza 
 very unjustly, we think to the second best poem. 
 
 YPE 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,) 
 1 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 
 Oh, spells more sure than e'er Judean king 
 Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 
 Oh, 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 a mimic eagle glared in gold, 
 
 78 
 
THE COLISEUM. 79 
 
 A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 
 
 Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
 
 Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! 
 
 Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, 
 
 Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, 
 
 Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, 
 
 The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 
 
 But stay ! These walls these ivy-clad arcades 
 
 These mouldering plinths these sad and blackened 
 
 shafts 
 
 These vague entablatures this crumbling frieze 
 These shattered cornices this wreck this ruin 
 These stones alas ! these gray stonesare they all 
 All of the famed and the colossal left 
 By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 
 
 " Not all ! " the echoes answered me. " Not all ! 
 Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 
 From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, 
 As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
 We rule the hearts of mightiest men ! we rule 
 With a despotic sway all giant minds ! 
 We are not impotent w r e pallid stones. 
 Not all our power is gone ! not all our fame I 
 Not all the magic of our high renown I- 
 Not all the wonder that encircles as ! 
 Not all the mysteries that in us lie! 
 Not all the memories that hang upoii 
 And cling around about us as a garment, 
 Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." 
 
TO HELEN. 
 
 These lines were meant to apply to Mrs. Helen Stannard. 
 The poet's acquaintance with her commenced in this wise : A 
 lad, the son of this lady, took Edgar home with him from 
 school, one day. This lady, on his entering the room, took his 
 hand, and spoke some gentle and gracious words of welcome, 
 which so penetrated the sensitive heart of the orphan boy as to 
 deprive him of the power of speech. The lady afterwards be- 
 came the confidant of all his boyish sorrows, and hers was the 
 one redeeming influence that saved and guided him in the 
 earlier days of his turbulent and passionate youth. 
 
 / ?| SAW tliee once only once years ago : 
 
 I must not say Jiow 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 upturned faces of a thousand 
 Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
 Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe, 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
 Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death, 
 
 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 
 
 80 
 
TO HELEN. 8] 
 
 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 upturned faces o the roses. 
 
 And on thine own, up turned,- -alas, in sorrow! 
 
 Was it not Fate, that, on this xtrly midnight 
 
 Was it not Fate (whose name ie also Sorrow) 
 
 That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
 
 To breathe the incense of those s?,arcbering roses ? 
 
 No footstep stirred : the hated woj'M all slept, 
 
 Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heawi ! oh, God ! 
 
 How my heart beats in coupling thos<a two words ! ) 
 
 Save only thee and me ! I paused I looked 
 
 And in an instant all things disappeared. 
 
 (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted $ 
 
 The pearly luster of the moon went out : 
 The mossy banks and the meandering paths 
 The happy flowers and the repining trees 
 Were seen no more : the very roses' odors 
 Died in the arms of the adoring air. 
 All all expire d save me save less than thon: 
 Save only the divine light of 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 uniil the moon went down. 
 What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten 
 
82 TO HELEN. 
 
 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 sl.ive. 
 
 Their office is to illumine and enkindle 
 
 My duty to fie 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 
 
 Yenuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 
 
TO 
 
 "VTOT long ago, the writer of these lines, 
 ^ In the mad pride of intellectuality, 
 Maintained " the power of words," denied that ever 
 A thought arose within the human brain 
 Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : 
 And now, as if in mockery of that boast, 
 Two words two foreign soft dissyllables 
 Italian tones, made only to be murmured 
 By angels dreaming in the moonlit " dew 
 That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," 
 Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, 
 Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, 
 .Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 
 Than even the seraph harper, Israf^ 
 (Who has " the sweetest voice cf all God's creatures' 5 ) 
 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 can not write I can not speak or think 
 Alas, I can not 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, 
 83 
 
84 
 
 TO 
 
 And thrilling as I see, upon the right, 
 Upon the left, and all the way along, 
 Amid unpurpled vapors, far away, 
 To where the prospect terminates tkee only. 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 [eyes, 
 
 her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous 
 ~ Brightly expressive of the twins of Loeda, 
 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 [ure 
 
 That must be worn at heart. Search well the meas- 
 
 The words the syllables ! Do not forget 
 The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor ! 
 
 And yet there is in this no Gordian knot 
 Which one might not undo without a sabre, 
 
 If one could merely comprehend the plot. 
 Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering 
 
 Eyes scintillating soul, there liesperdus 
 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 cow 
 nection with the second letter of the second line, the third Utter of tht 
 third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The namt 
 will thus appear.] 
 
 85 
 
TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Zf>ECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, 
 W 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 
 jou, 
 
 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 own soul-life. 
 
 86 
 
ELIZABETH POE, 
 (Mother of the Poet). 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 This appeared, in a less perfect form, in one of Foe's storief 
 named "Morella." 
 
 HIT morn at noon at twilight dim 
 
 Maria, thou hast heard my hymn I 
 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 overcast - 
 Darkly my Present and my Past, 
 Let my Future radiant shine 
 With sweet hopes of thee and thin/ 
 
 87 
 
AN ENIGMA. 
 
 This piece appeared in tlie Union Magazine, in 1848, and 
 was written for " Stella" (Mrs. Estella Anna Lewis). For Poe 
 like Swift appears to have delighted in giving his pet cor- 
 respondents more or less classical names. 
 
 <-* ^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. 
 
THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 A] Art from, the merits of this poem, it attracted considerable 
 attention and controversy. Poe always contended that Long- 
 fellow's poem, " The Beleagured City," was a plagiarism of his 
 idea. Color is given to this imputation, by the fact that Long- 
 fellow's poem did not appear until the November of 1839 ; 
 while Poe's was printed in The Museum, of April, in the same 
 year. It is quite possible, however, that the similarity was ac- 
 cidental ; as there is quite a similitude in both Poe's and Long- 
 fellow's poems to " The Deserted House," by Tennyson, and 
 that was published in 1830. 
 
 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,) 
 Arid every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 
THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley, 
 
 Through two luminous windows, saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 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 ever more, 
 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. 
 
THE HA UNTED PALACE. 9} 
 
 And travelers, now, within that valley, 
 
 Through the red-litten windows see 
 Yast forms, that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody, 
 While, like a ghastly rapid river ? 
 
 Through the pale door 
 A hideous throng rush out forever 
 
 And laugh, but smile no more. 
 
THE CONQUEROR WORM. 
 
 O ! 'tis a gala night 
 
 "Within the lonesome latter years. 
 An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
 
 In veils, and drowned in tears, 
 Sit in a theater, 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 
 92 
 
THE CONQUEROR WORM. 
 
 To the selfsame 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 imbrued. 
 
 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,, 
 
TO ONE IN PARADISE. 
 
 CHOU 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 Lifo 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, 
 94 
 

 TO ONE IN PARADISE. 
 
 And all my nightly dreams 
 Are where thy dark eye glances, 
 
 And where thy footstep gleams,- 
 In whafc ethereal dances, 
 
 By what eternal streams. 
 
 95 
 
TO F - S. S. D. 
 
 (MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD.) 
 
 Published in 1840. In the Life of Poe, prefixed to this 
 volume, will be found some allusion to this very lovely and 
 talented lady. 
 
 woulJst 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. 
 
 96 
 
THE CITY IN THE SEA. 
 
 This poem was originally entitled " The Doomed City.'* 
 
 O ! Death has reared himself a throne 
 
 In a strange city lying alone 
 Far do\vn within the dim West, [the best 
 
 Where the good and the bad and the worst and 
 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 kindly 
 Up fanes up Babylon-like walls 
 Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
 
 Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers 
 97 
 
18 TEE CITY OF T&E SEA. 
 
 Up many and many a marvelous shrine 
 Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
 The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
 
 Resignedly, beneath the sky 
 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
 So blend the turrets and shadows thert 
 
 That all seem pendulous in air ; 
 
 While, from a proud tower in the town p 
 
 Death looks gigantically down. 
 
 There open fanes and gaping graves 
 
 Yawn level with the luminous waves 5 
 
 But not the riches there that lie 
 
 In each idol's diamond eye, 
 
 Not the gayly-jeweled dead 
 
 Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
 
 For no ripples curl, alas ! 
 
 Along the wilderness of glass ; 
 
 No swellings tell that winds may be 
 
 Upon some far-off happier sea ; 
 
 No heavings hint that winds have been 
 
 On scenes 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, 
 And if their tops had feebly given 
 A void within the filmy Heaven. 
 
THE CITT OF THE SEA. 
 
 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. 
 
SILENCE 
 
 This Bonet appeared in the May number of the Gentleman** 
 Magazine. It is particularly noticeable for containing the germ 
 idea of " The Raven," in the refrain " No More." 
 
 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 gracesj 
 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 I 
 
 100 
 
THE SLEEPER. 
 
 T midnight, in the month of June, 
 I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
 An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
 Exhales from out her golden rim, 
 And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
 Upon the quiet mountain top, 
 Steals drowsily and musically 
 Into the universal valley. 
 The rosemary nods upon the grare ; 
 The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
 Wrapping the frog 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 liee 
 (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, 
 101 
 
102 THE SLEEPER. 
 
 And wave the cur tarn can op j 
 So fitfully so fearfully 
 Above the closed and fringed lid 
 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies nid 5 
 That, o'er the floor and down the wall, 
 Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall I 
 Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 
 Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 
 Sure thou are come o'er far-off seas, 
 A wonder to these garden-trees ! 
 Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dresa I 
 Strange, above all, thy length of tress, 
 And this all solemn silentness 1 
 
 The lady sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
 "Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
 Heaven have her in its secret keep ! 
 This chamber changed for one more holy, 
 This bed for one more melancholy, 
 I pray to God that she may lie 
 Forever with unopened eye, 
 "While the dim sheeted ghosts go by ! 
 
 My love, she sleeps ! Oh, may she 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, 
 
r lHE SLEEPER. 103 
 
 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 I 
 It was the dead who groaned within- 
 
THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 
 
 Thi poem grew out of some previous lines entitled " The 
 Valley Nis." 
 
 it smiled a silent dell 
 Where the people did not dwell; 
 They nad gone unto the wars, 
 Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
 Nightly, from their azure towers, 
 To keep watch above the flowers, 
 In the midst of which all day 
 The red sunlight lazily lay. 
 Now each visitor shall confess 
 The sad valley's restlessness. 
 Nothing there is motionless, 
 Nothing save the airs that brood 
 Over the magic solitude. 
 Ah, by no wind are stirred those treed 
 That palpitate like the chill seas 
 Around the misty Hebrides ! 
 Ah, by no wind these 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,-* 
 104 
 
THE VALLEY OF UNREST. ICi 
 
 Over the lilies there that wave 
 
 And weep about a nameless grave ! 
 
 They wave: -from out their fragrant tops 
 
 Eternal dews come down in drops, 
 
 They weep : from off their delicate stem* 
 
 Perennial tears descend in gems. 
 
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. 
 
 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 f 
 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 ! 
 Oh, God ! can I not grasp 
 Them with a tighter clasp ? 
 Oh, God ! can I not save 
 One from the pitiless wave ? 
 Is all that we see or seem 
 
 But a dream within a dream ! 
 106 
 
DREAM-LAND. 
 
 These singularly elegant verses are full of floating reminis- 
 cences of previous writings from his own pen. 
 
 Y a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 "Were an Ediolon, 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 
 From 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. 
 107 
 
108 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 By the lakes that thus outspread 
 Tiieir lone waters, lone and dread, 
 Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily, 
 By the mountains near the river 
 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, 
 By the gray woods, by the swamp 
 Where the toad and the newt encamp, 
 By the dismal tarns and pools, 
 Where dwell the Ghouls, 
 By each spot the most unholy, 
 In each nook most melancholy, 
 There the traveler meets aghast 
 Sheeted Memories of the Past, 
 Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
 As they pass the wanderer by, 
 White-robed forms of friends long given 
 In agony, to the Earth, and Heaven. 
 
 For the heart whose woes are legion 
 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region, 
 For the spirit that walks in shadow 
 'Tis oh, 'tis an Eldorado ! 
 But the traveler, traveling through it, 
 May not dare not openly view it ; 
 .Never its mysteries are exposed 
 To the weak human eye unclosed ; 
 80 wills its Kings, who hath forbid 
 The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 
 And thus the sad Soul that here passes 
 
DREAM-LAND. 10 
 
 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. 
 
TO ZANTE. 
 
 Written soon after 1827. 
 
 isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, 
 Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! 
 How many memories of what radiant hours 
 
 At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! 
 How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 
 
 How many thoughts of what entombed hopes ! 
 How many visions of a maiden that is 
 
 No more no more upon thy verdant slopes ! 
 No more ! Alas, that magical sad sound [more, 
 
 Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no 
 Thy memory no more ! Accursed ground 
 
 Henceforth I hold thy flower-enameled shore, 
 Oh, hyacinthine isle ! Oh, purple Zante ! 
 " Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante 1 " 
 
 110 
 
EULALIE. 
 
 This poem appeared in Grahams Magazine, in 1845. It is a 
 very singular coincidence that this unusual name " Eulalie," is 
 often repeated in a story which followed immediately after 
 Albert Pike's " Isadore," in the Mirror. What is still more 
 strange, is that Poe had not written any poetry for years, and 
 yet in the July after the appearance of Pike's poem, he wrote 
 "Eulalie" which in many ways, closely resembles, if it does 
 not imitate that Poem. For instance Pike wrote 
 
 Thy face, 
 
 "Which thou didst lovingly upturn with 
 Pure and trustful gaze." 
 
 While in Poe, we read, 
 
 Dear Eulalie, upturns her matron eyes." 
 
 While in both poems, the " gaze" is upturned to the moon. 
 There are several minor points of likeness in the poems. 
 
 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 
 111 
 
113 EULALIE. 
 
 Than the eyes of the \ adi.!\?- girl ; 
 And never a flake 
 That the vapor can make 
 With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, 
 Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded 
 
 oarl,- 
 
 Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most 
 humble and careless curl. 
 
 Now Doubt now Pain 
 Corne never again, 
 For her soul gives me sigh for sigh. 
 And all day long 
 Shines bright and strong, 
 Astarte within the sky, 
 "While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron 
 
 eye, 
 
 "While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet 
 eye. 
 
"Gaily bedight, 
 
 A gallant Kniglit, 
 In sunshine and in shadow, 
 
 Had journeyed long. 
 
 Singing a song 
 In search of Eldorado." 
 
ELDORADO. 
 
 ,AYLY 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, 
 
 A-nd o'er his heart a shadow 
 Fell as he found 
 No spot of ground 
 
 That looked like Eldorado. 
 
 And, as his strength 
 Failed him at length, 
 
 Jle met a pilgrim Shadow. 
 " Shadow," said he, 
 " Where can it be 
 
 This land of Eldorado ? " 
 
 " Over the Mountains 
 
 Of the Moon, 
 113 
 
114 
 
 ELDORADO, 
 
 Down the Yalley of the Shadow, 
 Bide, boldly ride," 
 The Shade replied, 
 ' If you seek for Eldorado I" 
 
ISRAFEL" 
 
 This poem first appeared in a little volnme cf the poet'g 
 , published in 1831. 
 
 Heaven a spirit doth dwell, 
 " Whose heartstrings are a lute.*' 
 None sing so wildly well 
 As the angel Jsrafel, 
 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 enamored moon 
 Blushes with love, 
 
 While, to listen, the red leven 
 
 (With the rapid Pleiades, even ; 
 
 Which were seven,) 
 
 Pauses in Heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choir 
 And the other listening things) 
 
 *And the angel Israfel, whose heartstrings art ? mte, and 
 who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. 
 
lit ISRAPfiL. 
 
 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 s 
 
 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 s 
 With the fervor of thy lute : 
 Well may the stars be mute ! 
 
 Yes, Heaven is tkine ; but this 
 Is a world of sweets and sours : 
 Our flowers are merely flowers, 
 
ISRAFEL. 117 
 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 Where Israf el 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody, 
 "While a bolder note than this might 
 
 From my lyre within the sky. 
 
FOR ANNIE- 
 
 This was addressed to a lady, full of all virtues and gentl 
 ness who had evinced a sister's affection for the poet r.i 
 his household. 
 
 /If HANK Heaven ! the crises 
 
 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 composed 
 
 Now, in my bed. 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead, 
 Might start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 118 
 
THANK HEAVEN, THE CRISIS, THE DANGER IS PAST. 
 
FOR ANNIE. li 
 
 The moaning and groaning 
 
 The signing 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 napthaline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst : 
 I have drank of a water 
 
 That quenches all thirst *-- 
 
 Of a water that flows, 
 
 "With a lullaby sound, 
 From a spring but a very ffc'< 
 
 Feet unaei ground, 
 Prom a cavern not very far 
 
 I/own under ground. 
 
120 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 And ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy, 
 
 And narrow my bed ; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a difficult 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 new, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 A holier odor 
 
 About it, of pansies, 
 A rosemary odor 
 
 Commingled with pansies,-~ 
 "With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 
 And so it lies happily, 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the truth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie, 
 
FOR ANNIE. 121 
 
 Browned in a br.tLc 
 
 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) 
 And I rest so contentedly, 
 
 Now on 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, 
 
122 
 
 FOR ANNttt. 
 
 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. 
 
TO F 
 
 E LOVED, 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 my 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. 
 
 183 
 
BRIDAL BALLAD. 
 
 /JTHE 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 Ms who fell 
 In the battle down the dell, 
 
 And who is happy now. 
 
 But he spoke to reassure me, 
 
 And he kissed my pallid brow, 
 While a reverie came o'er me, 
 And to the churchyard bore me, 
 And I sighed to liim before me, 
 Thinking him dead D'Elormie, 
 " Oh, I am happy now ! " 
 
 And thus the .words well spoken, 
 
 And this the plighted vow, 
 124 
 
BRIDAL BALLAD. 13d 
 
 And, though my faith be broken, 
 And, though my heart be broken, 
 Behold the golden token 
 
 me happy now 
 
 Would to God I could awaken ! 
 
 For I dream I know not how; 
 And my soul is sorely shaken 
 Lest an evil step be taken, 
 Lest the dead who is forsaken 
 
 May not be happy now. 
 
TO 
 
 This poem, as we now print it, appeared in the edition of 
 1829. The stanzas had been remodeled and excised afterward 
 but T .ve deem it just, to give them as they originally came 
 from the hand of the author. They, in their present form, are 
 not only valuable from their poetic qualities, but they give us 
 an insight into the author's feelings at that early period of his 
 life. 
 
 ! I care not that my earthly lot 
 Hath little of earth in it 
 That years of love have been forgot 
 In the fever of a minute. 
 
 I heed not that the desolate 
 
 Are happier, sweet, than I 
 But that you meddle with my fate, 
 
 Who am a passer-by 
 
 It is not that my founts of bliss 
 
 Are gushing strange ! with tears 
 
 Or that the thrill of a single kiss 
 Hath palsied many years. 
 
 'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs, 
 
 "Which have withered as they rose, 
 12 j 
 
TO 
 
 Lie dead on my heartstrings 
 
 With the weight of an age of snows. 
 
 Tis not that the grass oh ! may it thrive ! 
 
 On my grave is growing or grown 
 But that, while I am dead, yet alive 
 
 I cannot be, lady, alone. 
 
 127 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 " 
 
 AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 
 
 These portions of a never- finished drama were written at inter- 
 rals from 1831-6. Portions were published, from time to time, 
 in the Southern Literary Messenger. The main interest of the 
 drama is derived from its following, more or less closely, the 
 incidents in the real tragedy involved in Beauchamp's murder 
 of Sharp, Solicitor- General of Kentucky. No genius could add 
 to the true horrors of that affair; but the poet evinced much 
 dramatic capacity by seizing the most telling scenes. 
 
 I. 
 
 ROME. A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione. 
 
 fll LESSANDRA. Thou art sad, Castiglione. 
 
 Castiglione. Sad ! not I. 
 Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Home ! 
 A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 
 Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! [irig 
 
 Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of show- 
 Thy happiness ! What ails thee, cousin of mine ? 
 Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? 
 
 Cas. Did I sigh ? 
 
 I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 
 A silly a most silly fashion I have 
 When I am very happy. Did I sigh f Sighing.) 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 129 
 
 Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou 
 
 hast indulged 
 
 Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
 Late hours and wine, Castiglione, these 
 Will ruin thee ! Thou art alre idy altered, 
 Thy looks are haggard : nothing so wears away 
 The constitution as late hours and wine. 
 
 Cos. (musing). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing, 
 
 even deep sorrow, 
 "Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
 I will amend. 
 
 Aless. Do it ! I would have thee drop 
 Thy riotous company, too. Fellows low born 
 111 suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir 
 And Alessandra's husband. 
 
 Cas. I will drop them. [more 
 
 Aless. Thou wilt, thou must. Attend thou also 
 To thy dress and equipage. They are over plain 
 For the lofty rank and fashion : much depends 
 Upon appearance. 
 
 Cas. I'll see to it. 
 
 Aless. Then see to it ! Pay more attention, sir, 
 To a becoming carriage. Much thou wantest 
 In dignity. 
 
 Cas. Much, much : oh, much I want 
 In proper dignity. 
 
 Aless. (haughtily.) Thou mockestme, sir! 
 
 Cas. (abstractedly). Sweet, little Lalage! 
 
 Aless. Hoard I aright ? 
 I speak to him, he speaks of Lalage ! 
 
X30 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN. 
 
 Sir Count ! (places her hand on his shoulder) what 
 
 art them dreaming ? 
 He's not well ! What ails thee, sir ? 
 
 Cos. (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 1 Madam, the Duke ! 
 
 (Enter Di Broglio^) 
 
 Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee ! 
 Hey ! what's the matter ? (observing Alessandra.) 
 P 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 Home, Politian, Earl of Leicester ! 
 We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit 
 To the imperial city. 
 
 Aless. What! Politian, 
 Of Britian, Earl of Leicester ? 
 
 Di Brog. The same, my love. 
 
 We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young 
 In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him, 
 3$ut Humor speaks of him as of a prodigy, 
 Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth, 
 And high descent. We'll have him at the wev.Mk>g. 
 
 Aless. I have heard much of this Politian. 
 Gay, volatile, and giddy, is he not ? 
 And little given to thinking. 
 
 Di Brog. Far from it, love. 
 No branch, they say 5 of all philosophy 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 131 
 
 So deep abstruse lie lias not mastered it. 
 Learned as few are learned. 
 
 Aless. 'Tis very strange ! 
 I have known men who have seen Politian, 
 And sought his company. They speak of him 
 As of one who entered madly into life, 
 Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. 
 
 Cas. Bidiculous ! Now I have seen Folitian, 
 And know him well. Nor learned nor mirthful he ; 
 He is a dreamer, and a man shut out 
 From coirmon passions. 
 
 Di Brog. Children, we disagree. 
 Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air 
 Of the garden. Did I dream or did I hear 
 Politian was a melancholy man \ 
 
 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 a:i 1 a hand mirror. In the back- 
 ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. 
 
 Lilage. Jacinta ! is it thou ? 
 Jacinta (pertly). Yes, ma'am ; I'm here. 
 Lai. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
 Sit down, let not my presence trouble you : 
 Sit down, for I am humble, most humble. 
 Jac. (aside). 'Tis time. 
 
 (Jacinta seats herself in a sidelong manner upon the 
 chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding 
 her mistress with a contemptuous look, LoiUnge con- 
 tinues to read.} 
 
133 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 Lai. " It in another climate, so he said, 
 Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil ! " 
 
 (Pauses, tarns 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 ! 
 Oh, happy land ! (pauses). She died ! the maiden 
 
 died! 
 
 Oh, 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 1 
 Thus speaking 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 I (Still no answer^) 
 
 Here's a far sterner story: 
 But like oh, very like, in its despair 
 To that Egyptian queen, winning so easily 
 A thousand hearts, losing at length her own. 
 She died. Thus endeth the history : and her maids 
 Lean over her and weep. Two gentle maids, 
 With gentle names Eiros and Charmion ! 
 Rainbow and dove ! Jacinta ! 
 
 Jac. (pettishly). Madam what is it ? 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" 133 
 
 LaL "Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind 
 As go down in the library and bring me 
 The Holy Evangelists ? 
 
 Jac. Pshaw ! (Exit.} 
 
 Lai. If there be balm 
 
 For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there ! 
 Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble 
 Will there be found : " dew sweeter far than that 
 Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." 
 (Re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.) 
 
 Jac. There, ma'am, 's the book ! (Aside.) In- 
 deed, she's very troublesome. 
 
 Lai. (astonished}. What didst thou say, Jacinta ? 
 Have I done ought 
 
 To grieve thee or to vex thee ? I am sorry ; 
 For thou hast served me long, and ever been 
 Trustworthy and respectful. (Resumes her reading.} 
 
 Jac. (aside). I can't believe 
 She has any more jewels ! No, no ! She gave me all ! 
 
 Lai. What didst thou say, Jacinta ? Now I be 
 
 think me. 
 
 Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
 How fare's good Ugo ? and when is it to be ? 
 Can I do aught ? Is there no further aid 
 Thou needest, Jacinta ? 
 
 Jac. (aside}. Is there no further aid ! 
 That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not 
 Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 
 
 Lai. Jewels, Jacinta ! Now, indeed, Jacinta. 
 I thought not of the jewels. 
 
134 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 Jac. Oh, perhaps not ! 
 But then I might have sworn it. After all, 
 There's Ugo says the ring is only paste, 
 For he's sure the Count Castiglione never 
 Would have given a real diamond to such as you : 
 And at the best I'm certain, madam, you can not 
 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. ) 
 
 Lai. 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 me. 
 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 long departed ;- Hope, the Seraph Hope, 
 Inurned and in tombed ! Now, in a tone 
 Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, 
 Whispers of early grave untimely yawning [not ! 
 For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true ! thou liest 
 TJiou 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 apartmer^ 
 and approaches unobserved.) 
 
SCENES mOM "POLITIAN." 135 
 
 Monk. Refuge thou hast, 
 
 Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things ! 
 Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray ! 
 
 Lai. (arising hurriedly}. I can not pray ! My 
 
 soul is at war with God ! 
 The frightful sounds of merriment below 
 Disturb my senses ! Go ! I can not pray ! 
 The sweet airs from the garden worry me ! 
 Thy presence grieves me ! Go ! Thy priestly raiment 
 Fills me with dread ! Thy ebony crucifix 
 With horror and awe ! 
 
 Monk. Think of thy precious soul ! 
 
 Lai. 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 wast thou saidst of prayer 
 And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith, 
 And vows before the throne ? 
 
 Monk. I did. 
 
 Lai. '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 ! 
 
 Lai. Father, this zeal is anything but well I 
 Hast thou a crucifix jit for this thing ? 
 
13G SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 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 raiment 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 ! 
 
 Lai. 'Tis sworn ! 
 
 III. 
 
 An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar. 
 
 Baldazzar. Arouse thee, now, Politian ! 
 Thou must not nay indeed, indeed, thou shai*: not 
 Give way unto these humors. Be thyself ! 
 Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
 And live, for now thou diest ! 
 
 Politian. Not so, Baldazzar ! 
 Surily I live. 
 
 Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me 
 To see thee thus. 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 13? 
 
 P&l. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
 To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. 
 Command me, sir ! What wouldst thou have me do 1 
 At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
 Which from my forefathers I did inherit, 
 Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, 
 And be no more Politian, but some other. 
 Command me, sir ! 
 
 Bal. To the field, then ! to the field ! 
 To the senate or the field. 
 
 Pol. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 There is an imp would follow me even there ! 
 There is an imp hath followed me even there I 
 There is what voice was that ? 
 
 Bal. I heard it not. 
 I heard not any voice except thine own, 
 And the echo of thine own. 
 
 Pol. Then I but dreamed. 
 
 Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams : the camp- 
 the court 
 
 Befit thee. Fame awaits thee ! Glory calls I 
 And h r the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear. 
 In hearkening to imaginary sounds 
 And phantom voices. 
 
 Pol. It is a phantom voice ! 
 Didst thou not Lear it then f 
 
 Bal. I heard it not. 
 
 Pol. Thou heardst it not ! Baldazzar, speak na 
 
 more 
 To me, Politian, of thy camps and rourte 
 
138 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 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, 
 
 Arid now are friends, yet shall not be so long : 
 
 For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 
 
 A kind and gentle office, and a Power 
 
 A Power august, benignant, and supreme 
 
 Shall then absolve thee of all further duties 
 
 Unto thy friend. 
 
 Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
 I will not understand. 
 
 Pol. Yet now as Fate 
 
 Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, 
 The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, 
 And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas ! alas ! 
 I can not 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 luster the quiet moon 
 Sitteth in heaven. Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say 
 Thou nearest not noiv, Baldazzar ! 
 
 Bal. Indeed, I hear not. 
 
 Pol. Not hear it ? Listen, now ! listen ! the 
 
 faintest sound, 
 
 And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! 
 A lady's voice !- -and sorrow in the tone ! 
 
SCENES FKOM "POLITIAtf." 13d 
 
 Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! 
 Again ! again ! how solemnly it falls 
 Into my heart of hearts ! That eloquent voice 
 Surely I never heard : yet it were well 
 Had I 'but heard it, with its thrilling tones, 
 In earlier days ? 
 
 Bal. I myself hear it now 
 Be still ! The voice, if I mistake not greatly, 
 Pr. ceeds from yonder lattice, which you may sea 
 Yery 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 spake 
 As the betrothed of Castiglione, 
 His son and heir. 
 
 Pol. Be still ! It comes again ! 
 
 Voice " And is thy heart so strong 
 (very faintly). 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 ! " 
 
 Ba^. The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
 In merry England, never so plaintively : 
 Hist ! hist ! it comes again ! 
 Voice " Is it so strong 
 (more loudly). As for to Jeave me thus, 
 
 Who hath loved thee so long, 
 
140 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay ! " 
 Bal. 'Tis hushed, and all is still ! 
 Pol. All is not still. 
 Bal. Let us go down. 
 Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go ! 
 Bal. The hour is growing late. The Duke 
 
 awaits us : 
 
 Thy presence is expected in the hall 
 Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian ? 
 
 Voice " Who hast loved thee so long, 
 (distinctly). In wealth and woe among, 
 And is thy heart so strong ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay ! " 
 
 Bal. Let us descend ! 'tis time ! Politian, give 
 These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, 
 Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness 
 Unto the Duke. Arouse thee ! and remember ! 
 Pol. Remember ? I do. Lead on ! I do re- 
 member. (Going.) 
 Let us descend. Believe me, I would give 
 Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 
 To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice. 
 " To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear 
 Once more that silent tongue." 
 
 Bal. Let me beg you, sir, 
 Descend with me : the Duke may be offended. 
 Let us go down, I pray you. 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 141 
 
 Voice (loudly). Say nay ! Say nay ! 
 
 Pol. (aside). 'Tis strange ! 'tis very strange ! 
 Me thought the voice 
 Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay. 
 
 (Approaching the icindow.) 
 
 Sweet voice ! I heed thee, and will surely stay. . 
 Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate, 
 Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make 
 Apology unto the Duke for me : 
 I go not down to-night. 
 
 Bal. Your lordship's pleasure. 
 Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian. 
 
 Pol. Good-night, my friend, good night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The gardens of a Palace Moonlight. Lalage and Politian, 
 
 Lalage. And dost thou speak of love 
 To me, Politian ? Dost thou speak of love 
 To Lalage ? Ah, woe ! ah, woe is me ! 
 This mockery is most cruel ! most cruel, indeed ! 
 Politian. Weep not ! Oh, sob not thus ! Thy 
 
 bitter tears 
 
 Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage ! 
 Be comforted ! I know I know it all, 
 And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, 
 And beautiful Lalage ! Turn here thine eyes ! 
 Thou askest me if I could speak of love, 
 Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen 
 Thou askest me that ; and thus I answer thee, 
 
142 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. 
 
 eeling.} 
 
 Sweet Lalage, I love thee love thee love thee / 
 Through good and ill through 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 I- 
 Thy beauty and thy woes. 
 
 Lai. Alas, proud Earl, 
 And dost forget thyself, remembering me ! 
 How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens 
 Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, 
 Could the dishonored Lalage abide ? 
 Thy wife, and with a tainted memory ? 
 My seared and blighted name, how would it tally 
 With the ancestral honors of thy house,. 
 And with thy glory ? 
 
 Pol. Speak not to me of glory ! 
 I hate I loathe the name ! I do abhor 
 The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
 Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ? 
 Do I not love ? Art thou not beautiful ? 
 What need we more ? Ha ! glory ! Now speak not 
 
 of it! 
 By all I hold most sacred and most solemn, 
 
8GENES FROM "POLITIAN." 143 
 
 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 w r e go down unhonored and forgotten 
 Into the dust, so we descend together ? 
 Descend together, and then and then, perchance, 
 
 Lai. Why dost thoa pause, Politian ? 
 
 Pol. And then, perchance, 
 Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
 The starry and quiet dwelling of the blest, 
 And still 
 
 Lai. Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 
 
 Pol. And still together together. 
 
 Lai. Now, Earl of Leicester, 
 Thou lovest me ! And in my heart of hearts 
 I feel thou lovest me truly. 
 
 Pol. Oh, Lalage ! (Throwing himself upon his knee.} 
 And lovest thou me ? 
 
 Lai. Hist ! hush ! Within the gloom 
 Of yonder trees methought a figure passed, 
 A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless,. 
 Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noise- 
 less. ( Walks across and returns. \ 
 
 I was mistaken : 'twas but a giant bough 
 Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! 
 
 Pol. My Lalage my love ! why art thou moved ? 
 Why dost thou turn so pale I Not Conscience' self, 
 
144 SCENES frxOM "POLITIAN." 
 
 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. 
 
 Lai. 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 untrammeled flow, with air to breathe 
 Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter, 
 In days that are to come ? 
 
 Pol. Oh, wilt thou wilt thou 
 Fly to that Paradise ? My Lalage, wilt thou 
 Fly thither with me ? There Cpre 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 w r orship thee, and call thee my beloved, 
 My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, 
 My all ! Oh, wilt thou wilt thou, Lalage, 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 147 
 
 Fly thither with me ? 
 
 Lai. A deed is to be done . 
 Castiglione lives ! 
 
 Pol. And he shall die ! (Exit.) 
 
 Lai. (after a paused). And he shall die ! 
 Alas ! Castiglione die ! Who spoke the words 1 
 Where am I ? What was it he said ? Politian ! 
 Thou art not gone ! thou are not gone, Politian ! 
 I feel thou art not gone, yet dare not look, 
 Lest I beholJ thee not ! Thou couldst not go 
 With those words upon thy lips ! Oh, speak to me ! 
 And let me hear thy voice ! one word one word 
 To say thou art not gone ! one little sentence 
 To say how thou dost scorn how thou dost hate 
 My womanly weakness ! Ha ! ha ! thou art not gone ! 
 Oh, speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go ! 
 I knew thou wouldst not, couldst n^i, durst not go ! 
 Villain, thou art not gone ! Thou mockest me ! 
 
 And thus 1 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 ! 
 
 Y. 
 
 The suburbs. Politian alone. 
 Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am 
 
 faint, 
 And much I fear me ill. It will not do 
 
148 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 To die ere I have lived ! Stay stay thy hand, 
 Oh, Azrael, yet a while ! Prince of the Powers 
 Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh pity me ! 
 Oh, pity me ? Let me not perish now 
 In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! 
 Give me to live yet yet a little while. 
 'Tis 1 who pray for life ! I who so late 
 Demanded but to die ! "What sayest the Count ? 
 Enter Baldazzar. 
 
 Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or 
 
 feud 
 
 Between the Earl Politian and himself, 
 He doth decline your cartel. 
 
 Pol. What didst thou say ? 
 
 What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ? 
 With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 
 Laden from yonder bowers ! A fairer day, 
 Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 
 No mortal eyes have seen ! What said the Count ? 
 
 Bal. That he, Castiglione, not being aware 
 Of any feud existing, or any cause 
 Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, 
 Can not accept the challenge. 
 
 Pol. It is most true ! 
 
 All this is very true. When saw you, sir, 
 When saw you now r , Baldazzar, in the frigid 
 Ungenial Britain, which we left so lately, 
 A heaven so calm as this ? so utterly free 
 From the evil taint of clouds ? And he did say? 
 
 Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir. 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 147 
 
 The Count Castiglione will not fight, 
 Having no cause of quarrel. 
 
 Pol. Now this is true : 
 
 All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, 
 And I have not forgotten it. 'Thou't do me 
 A piece of service. Wilt tlunTgo back and say 
 Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
 Hold him a villain ? Thus much, I prythee, say 
 Unto the Count. It is exceeding just 
 He should have cause for quarrel. 
 
 Bal. My lord ! my friend ! 
 
 Pol. (aside). 'Tis he ! He comes himself ! 
 (Aloud). Thou reasonest well. [sage. 
 
 I know what thou would st say, not sent the mes- 
 Well, I will think of it : I will not send it ! 
 Now, prithee, leave me. Hither doth come a person 
 With whom affairs of a most private nature 
 I would adjust. 
 
 Bal. I go. To-morrow we meet, 
 Do we not, at the Yatican ? 
 
 Pol. At the Yatican. (Exit Bal.) 
 
 (Enter Castiglione.) 
 
 Castiglione. The Earl of Leicester here ? 
 
 Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest. 
 Dost thou not, that I am here. 
 
 Cas. My lord, some strange 
 Some singular mistake misunderstanding 
 Hath without doubt arisen. Thou hast been urged 
 Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
 Some words most unaccountable, in writing, 
 
148 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 
 
 To me, Castiglione, the bearer being 
 
 Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 
 
 Of nothing which might warrant thce in this thing 
 
 Having given thee no offence. Ha ! am I right ? 
 
 'Twas a mistake, undoubtedly. We all 
 
 Do err at times. 
 
 Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more ! 
 
 Cas. Ha ! draw ! and villain ! 
 Have at thee, then, at once, proud Earl ! (Draws.} 
 
 Pol. (drawing). Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
 Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee, 
 In the name of Lalage ! 
 
 Cas. (letting fall Jiis sword, and recoiling to the extremity of 
 the stage.} 
 
 Of Lalage ! 
 
 Hold off thy sacred hand ! Avaunt, I say 1 
 Avaunt ! I will not fight thee ! Indeed, I dare not, 
 Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me, didst say, Sir 
 
 Count ? 
 
 Shall I be baffled thus ? Now, this is well ! 
 Didst say thou darest not ? Ha ! 
 Cas. I dare not ! dare not ! 
 Hold off thy hand ! With that beloved name 
 So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee ! 
 I can not ! dare not ! 
 
 Pol. Now, by my halidom, 
 I do believe thee ! Coward, I do believe thee ! 
 Cas. Ha ! coward ! This may not be ! 
 (Clutches his sword, and staggers toward Politian, lut his pur- 
 pose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his 
 knee at the feet of the Earl.) 
 
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." 149 
 
 Alas ! alas ! my lord, it is it is most true ! 
 
 In such a cause I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me ! 
 
 Pol. (greatly softened). Alas ! I do ! Indeed, I 
 pity thee ! 
 
 Cas. And Lai age 
 
 Pol. Scoundrel! Arise, and die ! 
 
 Cas. It needeth not be thus thus oh, let 
 
 me die 
 
 Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting 
 That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
 For in the fight I will not raise a hand 
 Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home ! 
 
 (Baring his botom.) 
 
 Here is no let or hinderance to thy weapon ! 
 Strike home ! I will not fight thee ! 
 
 Pol. Now 's Death and Hell ! 
 Am I not am I not sorely greviously 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, [me ? 
 
 Dost hear ? with cowardice ! Thou wilt not fight 
 Thou liest ! Thou shall ! (Exit.) 
 
 Cas. Now, this deed is just! 
 Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven. 
 
J3ocm0 tDntten in fjotttl); 
 
 SONNET.-TO SCIENCE. 
 
 CjCIENCE! 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 would st not leave him in his wandering 
 To seek for treasure in the jeweled 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 ? 
 
 * 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 
 
 150 
 
AL AARAAF * 
 
 This poem first appeared in a small volume issue by the poet 
 at Baltimore in 1829. The place " Al Aaraaf," is designated by 
 the Mohammedans, as an abode wherein a mild system of pur- 
 gatory is instituted for the benefit of those, who, though too 
 good for hell, are not fitted for heaven 
 
 " Apart from heaven's eternity and yet how far from hell!" 
 
 This poem of " Al Aaraaf," abounds in happy and melodious 
 passages, and has never yet received its due meed of praise; 
 some portions of the lyrical intermedial chant are exquisitely 
 and musically onomatopocial in construction 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 , 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 
 Oh, 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, 
 
 *A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe, which appeared sud- 
 denly in the heavens; attained, in a few days, a brilliancy sur- 
 passing that of Jupiter; then as suddenly disappeared, and has 
 never been seen since. 
 
 151 
 
152 AL AARAAF. 
 
 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 bowerB 
 Adorn yon world afar, afar 
 The wandering star. 
 
 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace for they 
 Her world lay lolling on the golden air, 
 Near four bright suns a temporary rest 
 An oasis in desert of the blest. 
 Away away 'mid seas of rays that roll 
 Empyrean splendor o'er the unchained soul- 
 The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) 
 Can struggle to its destin'd eminence 
 To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, 
 And late to ours, the f avor'd one of God, 
 But now the ruler of an anchor 'd realm, 
 She throws aside the sceptre leaves the helm, 
 And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, 
 Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. 
 
 Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, 
 Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty " into birth, 
 (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, 
 Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, 
 It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) 
 She look'd into Infinity and knelt. 
 Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled 
 Fit emblems of the model of her world 
 
AL AARAAF. 153 
 
 ^een but in beauty not impeding sight 
 
 tf other beauty glittering thro' the light 
 wreath that twined each starry form around. 
 And all the opal'd air in color bound. 
 
 All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed 
 Of flowers : of lilies such as rear'd the head 
 On the fair Capo Deucato,* and sprang 
 So eagerly around about to hang 
 Upon the flying footsteps of deep pride 
 Of her who lov'd a mortal and so died.f 
 The Sephalica, budding with young bees, 
 Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees : 
 And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'dj: 
 Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd 
 All other loveliness : its honied dew 
 (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) 
 Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, 
 And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 
 In Trebizond and on a sunny flower 
 So like its own above, that to this hour 
 It still remaineth, torturing the bee 
 With madness, and unwonted reverie : 
 In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 
 And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief 
 Disconsolate linger, grief that hangs her head 
 
 *On Santa Maura olhn Deucadia. 
 f Sappho. 
 
 % This flower is much noticed by LewenhoecK ana Tournefort. 
 The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated. 
 
154 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Repenting follies tluit full long have fled, 
 Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, 
 Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair : 
 Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light 
 She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : 
 And Clytia* pondering between many a sun, 
 While pettish tears adown her petals run : 
 And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth 
 And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,f 
 Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing 
 Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king : 
 And Valesnerian lotus { thither flown 
 From struggling with the waters of the Hhone : 
 And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante ! 
 Jsola d'oro ! Fior di Levante ! 
 And the Nelumbo bud II that floats forever 
 
 * Clytia, the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a 
 better known term, the Turnsol, which turns continually to- 
 ward 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. 
 
 f 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 odor of the vanilla, during the time of 
 its expan-don, which is very short. It does not blow till toward 
 the month of July. You then perceive it gradually open its 
 petals, expand them, fade, and die. St. Pierre. 
 
 \ There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valis- 
 nerian 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. 
 
 The hyacinth. 
 
 | 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. 
 
AL AAitAAP. 155 
 
 With Indian Cupid down the holy river 
 Fair flowers, and fairy ! to whose care is given 
 To bear the Goddess' song in odors up to 
 Heaven : * 
 
 '- 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 tnrneth at the view 
 
 Of thy barrier and thy bar 
 Of the barrier overgone 
 
 By the comets who were cast 
 From their prid ^ and from their throno, 
 
 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 ? 
 Thro' the beings whom thy Nesace, 
 
 Thy messenger hath known 
 Have dream'd for thy Infinity 
 
 * And golden vials, full of odors, which are the prefers of 
 the saints. Rev. St. John. 
 
156 AL AARAAP. 
 
 A model of their own.* 
 Thy will i.i done, oh God ! 
 
 The star hath ridden high 
 Thro' many a tempest, but she rodo 
 
 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,f 
 
 My embassy is given, 
 Till secrecy shall knowledge be 
 
 * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as 
 having really a human form. Vide Clarke's Sermons, vol. i, p. 
 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. Samner's Notes on Mil- 
 ton'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 praesides nemorum Deae, 
 Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine 
 Natura solers finxit human um genus? 
 Eternus, incorruptus, aequsevus polo, 
 Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. 
 
 And afterwards: 
 
 Non cui profundum Caecitas lumen dedit 
 Dircseus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc. 
 f Seltsamen Tochter Jovis 
 Seinem Schosskinde 
 Der Phantasie. Gcethe. 
 
sLL AARAAF. 157 
 
 In the environs of Heaven." 
 She ceased : and buried then her burning cheek 
 Abash'd amid the lilies there, to seek 
 A shelter from the fervor of His eye ; 
 For the stars trembled at the Deity. 
 She stirr'd not breath'd not for a voice was 
 
 there 
 
 How solemnly pervading the calm air ! 
 A so and of silence on the startled ear 
 Which dreamy poets name " the music of the 
 
 sphere." 
 
 Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call 
 " Silence," which is the merest word of all. 
 All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things 
 Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings : 
 But ah ! why not so when, thus, in realms on 
 
 high 
 
 The eternal voice of God is passing by, 
 And the red winds are withering in the sky ! 
 
 " What tho' in worlds which sightless* cycles 
 
 run, 
 
 Link'd to a little system, and one sun 
 Where all my love is folly, and the crowd 
 Still think my terrors but the thunder-cloud, 
 The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean wrath 
 (Ah ! will they cross me in my angrier path ?) 
 What tho' in worlds which own a single sun 
 
 * Sightless too smaL to be seen. Legge. 
 
158 AL AARAAF. 
 
 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 the crystal home, and fly, 
 
 With all thy train, athwart the moony sky 
 
 Apart like fireflies* 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 ! " 
 
 Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, 
 The single-mooned eve ! on Earth we plight 
 Oar faith to one love and one moon adore 
 The birthplace 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 Therasseanf reign. 
 
 PAET II. 
 
 High on a mountain of enamel'd head 
 Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed 
 
 * I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fireflies. 
 They will collect into a body and fly off, from a common center, 
 into innumerable radii. 
 
 f Therasaea, or Theraseft, the island mentioned by Seneca, 
 which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of oston, 
 ished mariners. 
 
AL AARAAF. 
 
 159 
 
 Of giant pasturage lying at bis ease, 
 Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees 
 With many a mutter'd " hope to be forgiven * 
 "What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven 
 Of rosy herd, that towering far away 
 Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray 
 Of sunken suns at eve at noon of night, 
 While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger 
 
 light 
 
 Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile 
 Of gorgeous columns 0:1 th' unburtben'd air, 
 Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile 
 Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, 
 And nursled the young mountain in its lair. 
 Of molten stars* their pavement, such as fall 
 Thro' the ebon air besilvering the pall 
 Of their own dissolution, while they die 
 Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. 
 A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, 
 Sat gently on these columns as a crown 
 A window of one circular diamond, there, 
 Look'd out above into the purple air, 
 And rays from God shot down that meteor cnain 
 And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, 
 Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring. 
 Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing. 
 But on the pillars seraph eyes have seen 
 The dimness of this world ; that grayish green 
 
 * Some star, which, from the ruin'd roof 
 Of shak'd Olyinpus, by mischance did fall. Milton, 
 
160 AL AARAAF. 
 
 That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave 
 Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave 
 And every sculp tur'd cherub thereabout 
 That from his marble dwelling peered out, 
 Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche 
 Achaian statues in the world so rich ? 
 Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis,* 
 From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 
 Of beautiful Gomorrah !| Oh, the wave 
 Is now upon thee but too late to save ! 
 
 Sound loves to revel in a summer night : 
 Witness the murmur of the gray twilight 
 That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,J 
 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 
 
 * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says : " Je connois bien 
 1'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines : mais un palais erige au 
 pied d'une chaine des rochers sterils peut il etre un chef 
 d'ceuvre des arts ! " 
 
 } " Oh, the wave" Ula Deguisi, is the Turkish appellation ; 
 but on its shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There 
 were undoubtedly more than two cities engulfed in the " Dead 
 Sea." In the valley of Siddam 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, Nan, 
 Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux] that after an excessive drought, 
 the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are seen above the surface. 
 At any season, such remains may be discovered by looking 
 down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would 
 argue the existence of many settlements in the space now 
 usurped by the ' ' Asphaltites. " 
 
 \ Eyraco Chaldea. 
 
AL AABAAF. 161 
 
 I* not its form its voice most palpable and 
 loud ? * 
 
 But what is this ? It cometh, and it brings 
 A music with it ; 'tis the rush of wings. 
 A pause and then a sweeping, falling strain. 
 And Nesace is in her halls again. 
 From the wild energy of wanton haste 
 
 Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart ; 
 And zone that clung around her gentle waist 
 
 Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart 
 Within the center of that hall to breathe, 
 She pans'd and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath, 
 The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair, 
 And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there ! 
 
 Young flowersf were whispering in melody 
 To happy flowers that night and tree to tree ; 
 Fountains were gus'ting music as they fell 
 In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell ; 
 Yet silence came upon mat< rial 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 bluebell or streamer, 
 Or tufted wild spray, 
 
 * I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of 
 the darkness as it stole over the horizon. 
 
 f Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Merry Wives of 
 Windsor. 
 
162 AL AARAAF. 
 
 That keeps from the dreamer 
 
 The ^moonbeam away:* 
 Bright beings that ponder, 
 
 With half -closing eyes, 
 On the stars which your wonder 
 
 Hath drawn from the sk : es, 
 'Till they glance thro' the shade, and 
 
 Come down to your brow 
 Like eyes of the maiden 
 
 Who calls on you now, 
 Arise from your dreaming 
 
 In violet bowers, 
 To duty beseeming 
 
 These star-litten hours, 
 And shake from your tresses 
 
 Encumber'd with dew 
 The breath of those kisses 
 
 That cumber them too 
 (Oh, how, without you, Love, 
 
 Could angels be blest ?) 
 Those kisses of true love 
 
 Thatlull'dyetorest! 
 Up ! shake from your wing 
 
 Each hindering thing : 
 The dew of the night 
 
 It would weigh down your flight ; 
 
 * la 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. 
 
AL AARAAF 163 
 
 And true love caresses 
 Oh, 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,* 
 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 tliy vigilance keep- 
 The sound of the rain 
 
 "Which leaps down to the flower, 
 And dances again 
 
 * The albatross is said to sleep ou the wing. 
 
164 AL AARAAF. 
 
 In the rhythm of the shower-"* 
 The murmur that springs* 
 
 From the growing of grass 
 Are the music of things 
 
 But are model'd, 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 en jewel its breast, 
 Where wild flowers, creeping, 
 
 Have mingled their shade 
 On its margin is sleeping 
 
 Full many a maid : 
 Some have left the cool shade, and 
 
 Have slept with the bee,f 
 
 * 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 pleasante sounde which the trees of the forest do make 
 when they growe." 
 
 f The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moon- 
 light. 
 
 The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, 
 has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from 
 Sir Walter Scott, or rather from Claude Halero, in whose 
 mouth I admired its effect : 
 
 " Oh, were there an island, 
 
 Though ever so wild, 
 Where woman might smile, and 
 Nomanbebeguil'd." 
 
AL AARAAF. 165 
 
 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 lull'd him to rest \ " 
 
 Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 
 
 A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean through, 
 
 Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight, 
 
 Seraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light 
 
 That fell, refracted, through thy bounds, afar 
 
 Oh, Death ! from eye of God upon that star : 
 
 Sweet was that error sweeter still that death, 
 
 Sweet was that error ev'n with us the breath 
 
 Of Science dims the mirror of our joy, 
 
 To them 'twere the Simoon, 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 ecstacy of satiate life ; 
 
 Beyond that death no immortality, 
 
166 AL AARAAF. 
 
 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 !* 
 
 With 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 
 Oli, 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."f 
 
 He was a goodly spirit he who fell : 
 A wanderer by mossy-mantled well, 
 A gazer on the lights that shine above, 
 A dreamer on the moonbeam by his love ! 
 What wonder ? for each star is eyelike there, 
 
 * 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 sor- 
 row which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, 
 in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passion- 
 ate 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 the 
 residence after life, is final death and annihilation. 
 
 f There be tears of perfect moan, 
 Wept for thee in Helicon. Milton, 
 
DEATH THE WHILE STOLE O'ER MY SENSES IN THAT 
 LOVELY ISLE." 
 
AL AAtiAAF. 167 
 
 And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's Lair; 
 
 And they, and every mossy spring were holy 
 
 To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. 
 
 The 2iight 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 turn'd it upon her, but even then 
 
 It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. 
 
 " lanthe, dearest, see, how dim that ray ! 
 
 How lovely 'tis to look so far away ! 
 
 She seem'd 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 dropp'd, in Lemnos, with a spell 
 
 On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall 
 
 Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall 
 
 And on my eyelids oh, the heavy light I 
 
 How drowsily it weigh' i them into night ! 
 
 On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran 
 
 With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan : 
 
 But oh, 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. 
 
 " The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon 
 
168 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon.* 
 More beauty clung around her column'd wall 
 Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,f 
 And when old Time my wing did disenthrall, 
 Thence sprang 1^ 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 chant unto my view 
 Tenantless cities of the desert, too ! 
 lanthe, beauty crowded on me, then, 
 And half I wish'd to be again of men." 
 
 u My Angelo ! and why of them to be ? 
 A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee ; 
 And greener fields than in your world above, 
 And woman's loveliness and passionate love." 
 " But, list, lanthe ! when the air so soft 
 Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,J 
 Perhaps my brain grew dizzy ; but the world 
 I left so late was into chaos huii'd,- 
 Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, 
 And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 
 Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, 
 And fell, not swiftly as I rose before, 
 
 * It was entire in 1687, the most elevated spot in Athens. 
 
 more beauty in their airy brows 
 ;he white breasts of the Queen o: 
 
 J Pennon for pinion. Milton. 
 
 \ Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
 Thau have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
AL- AAUAAF 169 
 
 But with a downward, tremulous motion, through 
 Light, brazen rajs, 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 Dsedalion on the timid Earth. 
 
 * We came, and by thy Earth ; but not to us 
 
 Be given our lady's bidding to discuss : 
 
 We came, by love ; around, above, below, 
 
 Gay firefly of the night we come and go, 
 
 Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod 
 
 She grants to us, as granted by her God. 
 
 But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurl'd 
 
 Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world ! 
 
 Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 
 
 Alone could see the phantom in the skies, 
 
 When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be 
 
 Headlong thitherward o'er the .starry sea ; 
 
 But when its glory swell'd upon the sky, 
 
 As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, 
 
 We paus'd before the heritage of men, 
 
 And thy star trembled, as doth Beauty then ! " 
 
 Thus, in discourse, the lovers whil'd away [day. 
 
 The night that waned and waned and brought no 
 
 They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts 
 
 Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 
 
TO THE RIVER 
 
 JAIH 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 worshiper 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. 
 
 170 
 
TAMERLANE. 
 
 This poem was originally published in 1827, and gav tht 
 
 title to his first printed volume. 
 
 JIT LND 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 revel'd 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. 
 
 Know thou the secret of a spirit 
 
 Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. 
 
 Oh, 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 feur again ! 
 171 
 
172 TAMERLANE. 
 
 Oh, craving heart, for the lost flowers 
 And sunshine of my summer hours 1 
 The undying voice of that dead time, 
 With its interminable chime, 
 -Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
 Upon my emptiness a knell. 
 
 I have not always been as now : 
 The fever'd diadem on my brow 
 
 I claim'd and won usurpingly. 
 Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
 
 Home to Caesar this to me ? 
 
 The heritage of a kingly mind, 
 And a proud spirit which hath striven 
 Triumphantly with human kind. 
 On mountain soil I first drew life : 
 
 The mists of the Taglay have shed 
 
 Nightly their dews upon my head ; 
 And, I believe, the winged strife 
 And tumult of the headlong air 
 Have nestled in my very hair. 
 
 So late from Heaven that dew it fell 
 ('Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
 
 Upon me with the touch of Hell, 
 While the red flashing of the light 
 
 From clouds that hun<r like banners o'er 
 
 O 
 
 Appeared to my half-closing eye 
 The pageantry of monarchy : 
 And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 
 
TAMERLANE. 173 
 
 Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
 Of human battle, where my voice 
 
 My own voice, silly child ! was swelling 
 (Oh, how my spirit would rejoice, 
 
 And leap within me at the cry) 
 
 The battle-cry of Victory ! 
 
 The rain came down upon my Lead 
 Unshelter'd ; and the heavy wind 
 Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 
 
 It was bat man, I thought, who shed 
 
 Laurels upon me : and the rush 
 The torrent of the chilly air 
 
 Gurgled within my ear the crust 
 
 Of empires with the captive's prayer 
 
 The hum of suitors and the tone 
 
 Of flattery round a sovereign's throne. 
 
 My passions, from that hapless hour, 
 
 Usurp'd a tyranny which men 
 Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, 
 My innate nature : be it so. 
 
 But father, there liv'd one who, then, 
 Then in my boyhood when their fire 
 
 Burn'd with a still intenser glow 
 (For passion must, with youth expire) 
 
 E'en then who knew this iron heart 
 
 In woman's weakness had a part. 
 
 I have no words, alas ! to tell 
 
174 TAMERLANE. 
 
 The loveliness of loving well ! 
 for 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. 
 
 Oh, she was worthy of all love ! 
 
 Love, as in infancy was mine ! 
 Twas such as angel minds above 
 
 Might envy ; her young heart the shrine 
 On which my every hope and thought 
 
 Were incense, then a goodly gift, 
 
 For they were childish and upright, 
 Pure, as her young example taught : 
 
 Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
 Trust to the fire within for light ? 
 
 We grew in age and love together 
 Roaming the forest and the wild ; 
 
 My breast her shield in wintry weather, 
 And when the friendly sunshine smilM 
 
 And she would mark the opening skies, 
 
 /saw no Heaven but in her eyes. 
 
 Young Love's first lesson is the heart : 
 
TAMERLANE. 
 
 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 ask'd no reason why, 
 But turn'd on me her quiet eye ! 
 
 Yet more than worthy of the love 
 My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
 When, on the mountain-peak, alone, 
 Ambition lent it a new tone, 
 I had no being but in thee. 
 
 The world, and all it did contain 
 In the earth the air the sea 
 
 Its joy its little lot of pain 
 That was new pleasure, the ideal 
 
 Dim vanities of dreams by night, 
 AnJ dimmer nothings which were real, 
 
 (Shadows, arid a more shadowy light !) 
 Parted upon their misty wings, 
 And so, confusedly, became 
 Thine image and a name ! 
 Two separate yet most intimate things. 
 
 I was ambitious. Have you known 
 
 The passion, father 3 You have not I 
 A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
 
176 TAMERLANE 
 
 Of half the world as all my own, 
 
 And murmur'd at such lowly lot. 
 
 But, just like any other dream. 
 Upon the vapor of the dew 
 
 My own had past, did not the beam 
 
 Of beauty which did while it through 
 
 The minute the hour the day oppress 
 
 My mind had double loveliness. 
 
 "VVe walk'd together on the crown 
 Of a high mountain that look'd down 
 Afar from its proud natural towers 
 
 Of rock and forest, on the hills, 
 The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers, 
 
 And spouting with a thousand rills. 
 
 I spoke to her of power and pride, 
 
 But mystically, in such guise 
 That she might deem it naught beside 
 
 The moment's converse. In her eyes 
 I read, perhaps too carelesfcly, 
 
 A mingled feeling with my own. 
 The flush on her bright cheek, to me 
 
 Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
 Too well that I should let it be 
 
 Light in the wilderness alone. 
 
 1 wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, 
 And donn'd a visionary crown: 
 Yet it was not that Fantasy 
 Had thrown her mantle over me ; 
 

 jdut mat, among the rabble men s 
 
 Lion ambition is chain'd down, 
 And crouches to a keeper's hand ; 
 Not so in deserts, where the grand- 
 The wild the terrible conspire 
 With their own breath to fan his fire. 
 
 Look round thee now on Samarcand ! 
 
 Is she not queen of Earth ? Her pride 
 Above all cities ? In her hand 
 
 Their destinies ? In all beside 
 Of glory which the world hath known 
 Stands she not nobly and alone ? 
 Falling, her veriest stepping-stone 
 Shall form the pedestal of a throne ! 
 Arid who her sovereign ? Timour, he 
 
 Whom the astonish'd people saw 
 Striding o'er empires haughtily, 
 
 A diadem'd outlaw ! 
 
 Oh, human love ! Thou spirit given, 
 On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven ! 
 Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
 Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, 
 And, failing in thy power to bless, 
 But leav'st the heart a wilderness I 
 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 ! 
 
178 TAMERLANE 
 
 When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see 
 
 No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
 His pinions were bent droopingly, 
 
 And homeward turn'd his sofien'd 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 harken) as one 
 "Who, in a dream of night, would fly, 
 But can not, from a danger nigh. 
 
 What though the moon the white moon-* 
 Shed all the splendor of her noon, 
 Her smile is chilly, and her beam, 
 In that time of dreariness, will seem 
 (So like you gather in your breath) 
 A portrait taken after death. 
 And boyhood is a summer sun 
 "Whose waning is the dreariest one. 
 For all we live to know is known, 
 And all we seek to keep hath flown : 
 Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
 With the noonday beauty, which is all. 
 
 I reach'd my home my home no more ! 
 For all had flown who made it so. 
 
TAMERLANE. 17$ 
 
 I pass'd from out its mossy door, 
 
 And, though my tread was soft and low, 
 A voice came from the threshhold stone 
 Of one whom I had earlier known: 
 Oh, I defy thee, Hell, to show 
 On beds of fire that burn below, 
 A humbler heart a deeper woe. 
 
 Father, I firmly do believe 
 
 I know for Death who comes for me 
 From regions of the blest afar, 
 
 Where there is nothing to deceive, 
 
 Hath left his iron gate ajar, 
 And rays of truth you can not see 
 Are flashing through 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 trellis'd rays from Heaven, 
 
 JTo more 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 ? 
 
FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 IM vales and shadowy floods 
 
 And cloudy-looking woods, 
 Whose forms we can't discover 
 For the tears that drip all over : 
 Huge moons there wax and wane, 
 Again again again 
 Every moment of the night, 
 Forever changing places, 
 And they put out the starlight 
 With the breath from their pale faces. 
 About twelve by the moon-dial, 
 One more filmy than the rest 
 Comes down still down and down 
 With its center 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 
 
 180 
 
FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 In a labyrinth of light ; 
 
 And then, how deep ! oh, 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 anything 
 
 Or a yellow albatross. 
 
 They use that moon no more 
 
 For tho same end as before, 
 
 Yidelicet, 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. 
 
 
TOL 
 
 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 unhallow'd 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 were written by 
 
 him, 
 
 Bv him who, as he pens them, thrills to think 
 His spirit is communing with an angel's. 
 
 182 
 
ROMANCE. 
 
 O MANGE, who love 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 
 
 To 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 } ( nd rhyme 
 
 To while away forbidden tilings ! 
 My heart would feel to be a crime, 
 
 Unless it trembled with the strings. 
 
 188 
 
TO 
 
 HE 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 enshrin'd, 
 
 Then desolately fall, 
 Oh, 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. 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 
 
 This poem was published in the edition of 1827. The first 
 four lines, as given here, were in that edition, hut were subse- 
 quently omitted, for no obvious reason. We give it in its 
 entirety. 
 
 fll WILDERED spirit from my birth, 
 ** My spirit spurned control ; 
 But now abroad on the wide earth, 
 Where wanderest thou, my soul. 
 
 In visions of the dark night 
 
 I have dream'd 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. 
 
 185 
 
186 A DitEAM. 
 
 What tho' that light, thro' storm and night, 
 
 So trembled from afar, 
 What could there be more purely bright 
 
 In Truth's day star ? 
 
THE LAKE.-TO 
 
 " 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 loveliness 
 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 jeweled mine 
 Could teach or bribe me to define, 
 Nor Love although the Love were thine. 
 
 Death was in that poisonous wave, 
 
 And 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. 
 187 
 
SONG. 
 
 SAW thee on the 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. 
 
 188 
 
HYMN IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND 
 ARISTOGEITON. 
 
 This poem which only appears tame by contrast with some 
 of Poe's own poems appeared in the edition of 1827. By some 
 mischance they have failed to appear in any subsequent edition. 
 The great Hymn has been translated again, and again, and 
 still again ; but few have given it as truthful and poetic a 
 rendering. Some have fancied it one of the out-comes of Poe's 
 Hellenic expedition if that ever took place except in his fertile 
 brain. 
 
 H^KEATHED in myrtle, iny sword I'll conceal, 
 **^ Like those champions, devoted and brave, 
 When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, 
 And to Athens deliverance gave. 
 
 Beloved heroes, your deathless souls roam 
 In the joy-breathing isles of the blest ; 
 
 Where the mighty of old have their home. 
 Where Achilles and Diomed rest. 
 
 In fresh myrtles my blade I'll entwine 
 
 Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, 
 When he made at the tutelar shrine 
 
 A libation of tyranny's blood. 
 189 
 
190 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Ye deliverers of Atlun3 from sliamo 
 Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs J 
 
 Endless ages shall cherub your fame. 
 Embalmed in their echoing songs. 
 
INTRODUCTORY PREFACE. 
 
 In the edition of 1829 appeared a poetical " Introduction" of 
 sixty-six lines, into which the Preface of 1829 had been ex- 
 panded From subsequent editions both of those articles were 
 suppressed. We deem it right, that the admirers of the poet 
 should have an opportunity of judging of the young writer's 
 powers at that time. So we give some thirty lines of the " In- 
 troduction," which, by the way, is rich in autobiographical 
 references : 
 
 jEUCCEEDING years, too wild for song, 
 
 Then rolled like tropic years along, 
 Where, through the garish lights that fly 
 Dying along the troubled sky, 
 Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, 
 The blackness of the general heaven, 
 That very blackness yet doth fling 
 Light on the lightning's silver-wing. 
 
 For being an idle boy iang syne, 
 Who read Anacreon and drank wine, 
 I early found Anacreon's rhymes 
 Were almost passionate sometimes 
 And by strange alchymy of brain, 
 
 His pleasures always turned to pain 
 
 His naivete to wild desire 
 
 His wit to love his wine to fire : 
 191 
 
19v INTRODUCTORY PREFACE. 
 
 And so, being young and dipt in folly 
 I fell in love with melancholly, 
 And used to throw my earthly rest 
 And quiet all away in jest. 
 I could not love except where Death 
 Was mingling his with Beauty's breath = 
 Or Hymen, Time and Destiny 
 Were stalking between her and me. 
 
 But now my soul hath too much room, 
 Gone are the glory and the gloom ; 
 The black hath mellowed into gray, 
 And all the fires are fading away. 
 
 My draught of passion hath been deep-= 
 I revelled and I now would sleep 
 And after drunkenness of soul 
 Succeed the glories of the bowl 
 An idle longing night and day 
 To dream my very life away. * * 
 
THE HAPPIEST DAY. 
 
 This poem appeared with " Tamerlane," in the Boston 
 edition of 1827. As is the case with many of Poe's productions, 
 it is strongly imbued with his personal feelings and recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 HE happiest day the happiest hour 
 
 My seared and blighted heart hath known ; 
 The highest hope of pride and power, 
 I feel hath flown. 
 
 Of power ? said I ? Yes ! such I ween ; 
 But they have vanished long, alas ! 
 But let them pass. 
 
 And pride, what have I now with thee ? 
 
 Another brow may even inherit 
 The venom thon hast poured on me 
 
 Be still, my spirit. 
 
 The happiest day the happiest hour 
 Mine eyes shall see have ever seen ; 
 
 The brightest glance of pride and power 
 I feel have been. 
 
 But were that hope of pride and power 
 193 
 
394 THE HAPPIEST DAY 
 
 Now offered with the pain, 
 Ev'n then I felt that brightest hour 
 I could not live again : 
 
 For on its wing was dark alloy, 
 
 And as it fluttered, fell 
 An essence, powerful to destroy 
 
 A soul that knew U well. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 These two stanzas appeared in the Southern Literary Messen- 
 ger, in Sept. 1835. They were addressed to Eliza White, the 
 daughter of the proprietor of the Magazine. This gentlemen 
 died in 1817, and the young lady was several times a welcome 
 visitor at the poet's house, at Fordham, in subsequent years. 
 
 LIZA ! Let the generous heart 
 
 From its present pathway part not; 
 Bring every thing which now thou art, 
 Be no thing which thou art not. 
 
 So with the world thy gentle ways 
 
 Thy unassuming beauty 
 And truth shall be a theme of praise 
 
 For ever and love a duty. 
 
PS 
 
 A I 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 M