Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe pdf Edgar Allan Poe Free Download

Before those whom thou lovest —
Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain, — I’ll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice — thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt!
(exit.)

Cas. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

CONTENTS

POETRY

O, TEMPORA! O, MORES!

HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS

THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1831)

THE COLISEUM (1833)

TO ONE IN PARADISE (1835)

HYMN

ISRAFEL (1836)

TO ZANTE (1837)

THE HAUNTED PALACE (1838)

THE CONQUEROR WORM (1838)

SILENCE (1840)

DREAM-LAND

DREAM LAND (1844)

THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS

A VALENTINE

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

FANNY

SERENADE

TO F — — S S. O — — D

IMPROMPTU. TO KATE CAROL

EPIGRAM FOR WALL STREET

THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN

DEEP IN EARTH

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

The Poems

Fort Independence, Boston, Massachusetts, where Poe was stationed when in the army

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

Please note: poems from published collections appear first and are followed by uncollected poems and alternative versions.

COMMUNION WITH NATURE

A WILDER’D BEING FROM MY BIRTH

THE HAPPIEST DAY — THE HAPPIEST HOUR

INTRODUCTION (POEMS, 1831)

THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1845)

SONNET — TO ZANTE (1845)

THE CITY IN THE SEA

TO ONE IN PARADISE (1845)

EULALIE — A SONG

TO F — — s S. O — — d.

TO F — —

SONNET — SILENCE (1845)

THE CONQUEROR WORM (1845)

THE HAUNTED PALACE (1845)

SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

POETRY

O, TEMPORA! O, MORES!

HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS

AN ACROSTIC

THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1831)

THE COLISEUM (1833)

TO ONE IN PARADISE (1835)

HYMN

ISRAFEL (1836)

TO ZANTE (1837)

THE HAUNTED PALACE (1838)

THE CONQUEROR WORM (1838)

SILENCE (1840)

DREAM-LAND

DREAM LAND (1844)

THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS

A VALENTINE

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

FANNY

SERENADE

TO F — — S S. O — — D

IMPROMPTU. TO KATE CAROL

EPIGRAM FOR WALL STREET

THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN

DEEP IN EARTH

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

A-D E-H I-L M-S T-Z

A CAMPAIGN SONG

A DREAM

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

A PÆAN (1831)

A PÆAN.

A VALENTINE

A WILDER’D BEING FROM MY BIRTH

ANNABEL LEE

COMMUNION WITH NATURE

EPIGRAM FOR WALL STREET

HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS

IMITATION.

IMPROMPTU. TO KATE CAROL

INTRODUCTION (POEMS, 1831)

O, TEMPORA! O, MORES!

POETRY

ROMANCE

SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

SERENADE

SILENCE (1840)

SONG

SONNET — SILENCE (1845)

SONNET — TO SCIENCE

SONNET — TO ZANTE (1845)

THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN

THE CITY IN THE SEA

THE COLISEUM (1833)

THE COLISEUM (1845)

THE CONQUEROR WORM (1838)

THE CONQUEROR WORM (1845)

THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS

THE DOOMED CITY

THE FOREST REVERIE

THE HAPPIEST DAY — THE HAPPIEST HOUR

THE HAUNTED PALACE (1838)

THE HAUNTED PALACE (1845)

THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1831)

THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1845)

TO F — — S S. O — — D

TO F — — s S. O — — d.

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

TO MY MOTHER

TO ONE IN PARADISE (1835)

TO ONE IN PARADISE (1845)

POETRY

This is the earliest surviving poem by Edgar Allan Poe. It was written on the same page as some financial records belonging to John Allan, the young poet’s foster-father. These notes were filed among the Ellis & Allan’s papers in November, 1824.

Last night, with many cares and toils oppress’d
Weary, I laid me on a couch to rest —

Poe as a child

O, TEMPORA! O, MORES!

O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion
That you are changing sadly your dominion —
I mean the reign of manners hath long ceased,
For men have none at all, or bad at least;
And as for times, altho’ ‘tis said by many
The “good old times” were far the worst of any,
Of which sound doctrine l believe each tittle,
Yet still I think these worse than them a little.

I’ve been a thinking — isn’t that the phrase? —
I like your Yankee words and Yankee ways —
I’ve been a thinking, whether it were best
To take things seriously, or all in jest;
Whether, with grim Heraclitus of yore,
To weep, as he did, till his eyes were sore,
Or rather laugh with him, that queer philosopher,
Democritus of Thrace, who used to toss over
The page of life and grin at the dog-ears,
As though he’d say, “Why, who the devil cares?”

This is a question which, oh heaven, withdraw
The luckless query from a member’s claw!
Instead of two sides, Job [Bob] has nearly eight,
Each fit to furnish forth four hours debate.
What shall be done? I’ll lay it on the table,
And take the matter up when I’m more able,
And, in the meantime, to prevent all bother,
I’ll neither laugh with one, nor cry with t’other,
Nor deal in flatt’ry or aspersions foul,
But, taking one by each hand, merely growl.

Ah, growl, say you, my friend, and pray at what?
Why, really, sir, I almost had forgot —
But, damn it, sir, I deem it a disgrace
That things should stare us boldly in the face,
And daily strut the street with bows and scrapes,
Who would be men by imitating apes.
I beg your pardon, reader, for the oath
The monkeys make me swear, though something loth;
I’m apt to be discursive in my style,
But pray be patient; yet a little while
Will change me, and as politicians do,
I’ll mend my manners and my measures too.

Of all the cities — and I’ve seen no few;
For I have travelled, friend, as well as you —
I don’t remember one, upon my soul,
But take it generally upon the whole,
(As members say they like their logick [logic] taken,
Because divided, it may chance be shaken)
So pat, agreeable and vastly proper
As this for a neat, frisky counter-hopper;
Here he may revel to his heart’s content,
Flounce like a fish in his own element,
Toss back his fine curls from their forehead fair,
And hop o’er counters with a Vester’s air,
Complete at night what he began A.M.,
And having cheated ladies, dance with them;
For, at a ball, what fair one can escape
The pretty little hand that sold her tape,
Or who so cold, so callous to refuse
The youth who cut the ribbon for her shoes!

One of these fish, par excellence the beau —
God help me! — it has been my lot to know,
At least by sight, for I’m a timid man,
And always keep from laughing, if I can;
But speak to him, he’ll make you such grimace,
Lord! to be grave exceeds the power of face.
The hearts of all the ladies are with him,
Their bright eyes on his Tom and Jerry brim
And dove-tailed coat, obtained at cost; while then
Those eyes won’t turn on anything like men.

His very voice is musical delight,
His form, once seen, becomes a part of sight;
In short, his shirt collar, his look, his tone is
The “beau ideal” fancied for Adonis.
Philosophers have often held dispute
As to the seat of thought in man and brute;
For that the power of thought attends the latter
My friend, the beau, hath made a settled matter,
And spite of all dogmas, current in all ages,
One settled fact is better than ten sages.

For he does think, though I am oft in doubt
If I can tell exactly what about.
Ah, yes! his little foot and ankle trim,
‘Tis there the seat of reason lies in him,
A wise philosopher would shake his head,
He then, of course, must shake his foot instead.
At me, in vengeance, shall that foot be shaken —
Another proof of thought, I’m not mistaken —
Because to his cat’s eyes I hold a glass,
And let him see himself, a proper ass!
I think he’ll take this likeness to himself,
But if he won’t, he shall, a stupid elf,
And, lest the guessing throw the fool in fits,
I close the portrait with the name of PITTS.

HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS

Translation from the Greek

WREATHED in myrtle, my 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

III

In fresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine,
Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny’s blood.

Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty’s wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
Embalmed in their echoing songs!

1827.

TO — —

     I HEED not that my earthly lot
         Hath-little of Earth in it —
     That years of love have been forgot
     In the hatred of a minute: —
   I mourn not that the desolate
       Are happier, sweet, than I,
   But that you sorrow for my fate
   Who am a passer-by.

1829.

A PÆAN.

   How shall the burial rite be read?
       The solemn song be sung?
   The requiem for the loveliest dead,
       That ever died so young?

II.

   Her friends are gazing on her,
       And on her gaudy bier,
   And weep! — oh! to dishonor
       Dead beauty with a tear!

III.

   They loved her for her wealth —
       And they hated her for her pride —
   But she grew in feeble health,
       And they love her — that she died.

IV.

   They tell me (while they speak
       Of her “costly broider’d pall”)
   That my voice is growing weak —
       That I should not sing at all —

   Or that my tone should be
       Tun’d to such solemn song
   So mournfully — so mournfully,
       That the dead may feel no wrong.

VI.

   But she is gone above,
       With young Hope at her side,
   And I am drunk with love
       Of the dead, who is my bride. —

VII.

   Of the dead — dead who lies
       All perfum’d there,
   With the death upon her eyes,
       And the life upon her hair.

VIII.

   Thus on the coffin loud and long
       I strike — the murmur sent
   Through the grey chambers to my song,
       Shall be the accompaniment.

IX.

   Thou died’st in thy life’s June —
       But thou did’st not die too fair:
   Thou did’st not die too soon,
       Nor with too calm an air.

   From more than fiends on earth,
       Thy life and love are riven,
   To join the untainted mirth
       Of more than thrones in heaven —

XII.

   Therefore, to thee this night
       I will no requiem raise,
   But waft thee on thy flight,
       With a Pæan of old days.

TO MARGARET

This may be an unfinished poem, never published in Poe’s lifetime. In the original manuscript, dated 1827, Poe makes references to classical works in each of his lines. The seven-line poem, according to Poe’s notes, refers to John Milton’s Paradise Lost, William Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.

Who hath seduced thee to this foul revolt
From the pure well of Beauty undefiled?
So banish from true wisdom to prefer
Such squalid wit to honourable rhyme?
To write? To scribble? Nonsense and no more?
I will not write upon this argument
To write is human -- not to write divine.

ALONE

This 22-line poem was composed in 1829 and left untitled and unpublished during Poe’s lifetime. The original manuscript was signed “E. A. Poe” and dated March 17, 1829. In February of that year, Poe’s foster mother Francis Allan had died. In September 1875, the poem, which had been in the possession of a family in Baltimore, was published with its title in Scribner’s Monthly. The editor, E. L. Didier, also reproduced a facsimile of the manuscript, though he admitted he added the date himself. Alone is often interpreted as autobiographical, expressing the author’s feelings of isolation and inner torment. Poet Daniel Hoffman believed Alone was evidence that “Poe really was a haunted man.” The poem, however, is an introspective about Poe’s youth, written when he was only 20 years old.

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —

TO ISAAC LEA

This unfinished poem is believed to have been written in May 1829. Only four lines are known to exist. It seems to come from a letter Poe wrote to Isaac Lea, noted as a publishing partner in Philadelphia who was interested in natural history, especially conchology. Poe attached his name to The Conchologist’s First Book ten years later.

It was my choice or chance or curse
To adopt the cause for better or worse
And with my worldly goods & wit
And soul & body worship it ----

AN ACROSTIC

This is an unpublished 9-line poem written in 1829 for Poe’s cousin Elizabeth Rebecca Herring (the acrostic is her first name, spelled out by the first letter of each line). James H. Whitty discovered the poem and included it in his 1911 anthology of Poe’s works under the title “From an Album.” It was also published in Thomas Ollive Mabbott’s definitive Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe in 1969 as “An Acrostic.” The poem mentions “Endymion,” referring to an 1818 poem by John Keats with that name. The “L. E. L.” in the third line may be Letitia Elizabeth Landon, an English poet known for signing her work with those initials. “Zantippe” in line four is actually Xanthippe, wife of Socrates. The spelling of the name was changed to fit the acrostic.

Elizabeth it is in vain you say
“Love not” — thou sayest it in so sweet a way:
In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.
Zantippe’s talents had enforced so well:
Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,
Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes.
Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried
To cure his love — was cured of all beside —
His folly — pride — and passion — for he died.

ELIZABETH

Believed to have been written in 1829, this poem was never published in Poe’s lifetime. It was written for his Baltimore cousin, Elizabeth Rebecca Herring.

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