His towering intellect! his gigantic
power! To use an author quoted by himself, “Jai trouve souvent que la plupart des
sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce quelles avancent, mais non pas en ce
quelles nient,” and, to employ his own language, he has imprisioned his own conceptions
by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that
such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume
upon the night alone. In reading that man’s poetry I tremble, like one who stands
upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the
fire and the light that are weltering below.
* * * * *
What is Poetry? — Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many appellations as the
nine-titled Corcyra! Give me, I demanded of a scholar some time ago, give me a definition
of poetry? “Tres volontiers,” — and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.
Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakspeare! I
imagined to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous
Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B — — , think of poetry, and then think of — Dr.
Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and fairy-like, and then of all that is
hideous and unwieldy; think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then — and then think
of the Tempest — the Midsummer Night’s Dream — Prospero — Oberon — and Titania!
* * * * *
A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for its object an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end
music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music,
when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music without the idea is simply
music; the idea without the music is prose from its very definitiveness.
What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul?”
* * * * *
To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B — — , what you no doubt perceive, for
the metaphysical poets, as poets, the most sovereign contempt. That they have followers proves nothing —
No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.
INTRODUCTION (POEMS, 1831)
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been — a most familiar bird —
Taught me my alphabet to say —
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild-wood I did lie
A child — with a most knowing eye.
Succeeding years, too wild for song,
Then roll’d like tropic storms along,
Where, tho’ the garish lights that fly
Dying along the troubled sky.
Lay bare, thro’ 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 lang syne,
Who read Anacreon, and drank wine,
I early found Anacreon rhymes
Were almost passionate sometimes —
And by strange alchemy of brain
His pleasures always turn’d to pain —
His naivete to wild desire —
His wit to love — his wine to fire —
And so, being young and dipt in folly
I fell in love with melancholy,
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.
O, then the eternal Condor years
So shook the very Heavens on high,
With tumult as they thunder’d by;
I had no time for idle cares,
Thro’ gazing on the unquiet sky!
Or if an hour with calmer wing
Its down did on my spirit fling,
That little hour with lyre and rhyme
To while away — forbidden thing!
My heart half fear’d to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the string.
But now my soul hath too much room —
Gone are the glory and the gloom —
The black hath mellow’d into grey,
And all the fires are fading away.
My draught of passion hath been deep —
I revell’d, and I now would sleep —
And after-drunkenness of soul
Succeeds the glories of the bowl —
An idle longing night and day
To dream my very life away.
But dreams — of those who dream as I,
Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
Yet should I swear I mean alone,
By notes so very shrilly blown,
To break upon Time’s monotone,
While yet my vapid joy and grief
Are tintless of the yellow leaf —
Why not an imp the greybeard hath,
Will shake his shadow in my path —
And even the greybeard will o’erlook
Connivingly my dreaming-book.
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfum’d sea,
The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the beauty of fair Greece,
And the grandeur of old Rome.
Lo! in that little window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The folded scroll within thy hand —
A Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy land!
ISRAFEL (1831)
I.
In Heaven a spirit both dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute —
None sing so wild — so well
As the angel Israfel —
And the giddy stars are mute.
II.
Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamoured moon
Blushes with love —
While, to listen, the red levin
Pauses in Heaven.
III.
And they say (the starry choir
And all the listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
With those unusual strings.
IV.
But the Heavens that angel trod
Where deep thoughts are a duty —
Where Love is a grown god —
Where Houri glances are — —
— Stay! turn thine eyes afar! —
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in yon star.
V.
Thou art not, therefore, wrong
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassion’d song:
To thee the laurels belong
Best bard, — because the wisest.
VI.
The extacies [[ecstasies]] above
With thy burning measures suit —
Thy grief — if any — thy love
With the fervor of thy lute —
Well may the stars be mute!
VII.
Yes, Heaven is thine: but this
Is a world of sweets and sours:
Our flowers are merely — flowers,
And the shadow of thy bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
VIII.
If I did dwell where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He would not sing one half as well —
One half as passionately,
And a stormier note than this would swell
From my lyre within the sky.
THE DOOMED CITY
Lo! Death hath rear’d himself a throne
In a strange city, all alone,
Far down within the dim west —
And the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines, and palaces, and towers
Are — not like any thing of ours —
O! no — O! no — ours never loom
To heaven with that ungodly gloom!
Time-eaten towers that tremble not!
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
A heaven that God doth not contemn
With stars is like a diadem —
We liken our ladies’ eyes to them —
But there! that everlasting pall!
It would be mockery to call
Such dreariness a heaven at all.
Yet tho’ no holy rays come down
On the long night-time of that town,
Light from the lurid, deep sea
Streams up the turrets silently —
Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptur’d ivy and stone flowers —
Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —
Up many a melancholy shrine
Whose entablatures intertwine
The mask the — the viol — and the vine.
There open temples — open graves
Are on a level with the waves —
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol’s diamond eye.
Not the gaily-jewell’d dead
Tempt the waters from their bed:
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass —
No swellings hint that winds may be
Upon a far-off happier sea:
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from the high towers of the town
Death looks gigantically down.
But lo! a stir is in the air!
The wave! there is a ripple there!
As if the towers had thrown aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide —
As if the turret-tops had given
A vacuum in the filmy heaven:
The waves have now a redder glow —
The very hours are breathing low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell rising from a thousand thrones
Shall do it reverence,
And Death to some more happy clime
Shall give his undivided time.
FAIRY LAND (1831)
Sit down beside me, Isabel,
Here, dearest, where the moonbeam fell
Just now so fairy-like and well.
Now thou art dress’d for paradise!
I am star-stricken with thine eyes!
My soul is lolling on thy sighs!
Thy hair is lifted by the moon
Like flowers by the low breath of June!
Sit down, sit down — how came we here?
Or is it all but a dream, my dear?
You know that most enormous flower —
That rose — that what d’ye call it — that hung
Up like a dog-star in this bower —
To-day (the wind blew, and) it swung
So impudently in my face,
So like a thing alive you know,
I tore it from its pride of place
And shook it into pieces — so
Be all ingratitude requited.
The winds ran off with it delighted,
And, thro’ the opening left, as soon
As she threw off her cloak, yon moon
Has sent a ray down with a tune.
And this ray is a fairy ray —
Did you not say so, Isabel?
How fantastically it fell
With a spiral twist and a swell,
And over the wet grass rippled away
With a tinkling like a bell!
In my own country all the way
We can discover a moon ray
Which thro’ some tatter’d curtain pries
Into the darkness of a room,
Is by (the very source of gloom)
The motes, and dust, and flies,
On which it trembles and lies
Like joy upon sorrow!
O, when will come the morrow?
Isabel! do you not fear
The night and the wonders here?
Dim vales! and shadowy floods!
And cloudy-looking woods
Whose forms we can’t discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons — see! wax and wane
Again — again — again —
Every moment of the night —
Forever changing places!
How they put out the starlight
With the breath from their pale faces!
Lo! one is coming down
With its centre on the crown
Of a mountain’s eminence!
Down — still down — and down —
Now deep shall be — O deep!
The passion of our sleep!
For that wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Drowsily over halls —
Over ruin’d walls —
Over waterfalls,
(Silent waterfalls!)
O’re the strange woods — o’er the sea —
Alas! over the sea!
IRENE
‘T is now (so sings the soaring moon)
Midnight in the sweet month of June,
When winged visions love to lie
Lazily upon beauty’s eye,
Or worse — upon her brow to dance
In panoply of old romance,
Till thoughts and locks are left, alas!
A ne’er-to-be untangled mass.
An influence dewy, drowsy, dim,
Is dripping from that golden rim;
Grey towers are mouldering into rest,
Wrapping the fog around their breast:
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake:
The rosemary sleeps upon the grave —
The lily lolls upon the wave —
And [[a]] million bright pines to and fro,
Are rocking lullabies as they go,
To the lone oak that reels with bliss,
Nodding above the dim abyss.
All beauty sleeps: and lo! where lies
With casement open to the skies,
Irene, with her destinies!
Thus hums the moon within her ear,
“O lady sweet! how camest thou here?
“Strange are thine eyelids — strange thy dress!
“And strange thy glorious length of tress!
“Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
“A wonder to our desert trees!
“Some gentle wind hath thought it right
“To open thy window to the night,
“And wanton airs from the tree-top,
“Laughingly thro’ the lattice drop,
“And wave this crimson canopy,
“Like a banner o’er thy dreaming eye!
“Lady, awake! lady awake!
“For the holy Jesus’ sake!
“For strangely — fearfully in this hall
“My tinted shadows rise and fall!”
The lady sleeps: the dead all sleep —
At least as long as Love doth weep:
Entranc’d, the spirit loves to lie
As long as — tears on Memory’s eye:
But when a week or two go by,
And the light laughter chokes the sigh,
Indignant from the tomb doth take
Its way to some remember’d lake,
Where oft — in life — with friends — it went
To bathe in the pure element,
And there, from the untrodden grass,
Wreathing for its transparent brow
Those flowers that say (ah hear them now!)
To the night-winds as they pass,
“Ai! ai! alas! — alas!”
Pores for a moment, ere it go,
On the clear waters there that flow,
Then sinks within (weigh’d down by wo)
Th’ uncertain, shadowy heaven below.
* * * * * *
The lady sleeps: oh! may her sleep
As it is lasting so be deep —
No icy worms about her creep:
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with as calm an eye,
That chamber chang’d for one more holy —
That bed for one more melancholy.
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold,
Against whose sounding door she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone —
Some tomb, which oft hath flung its black
And vampyre-winged pannels back,
Flutt’ring triumphant o’er the palls
Of her old family funerals.
A PÆAN (1831)
I.
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 —
V.
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.
X.
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.
THE VALLEY NIS
Far away — far away —
Far away — as far at least
Lies that valley as the day
Down within the golden east —
All things lovely — are not they
Far away — far away?
It is called the valley Nis.
And a Syriac tale there is
Thereabout which Time hath said
Shall not be interpreted.
Something about Satan’s dart —
Something about angel wings —
Much about a broken heart —
All about unhappy things:
But “the valley Nis” at best
Means “the valley of unrest.”
Once it smil’d a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell,
Having gone unto the wars —
And the sly, mysterious stars,
With a visage full of meaning,
O’er the unguarded flowers were leaning:
Or the sun ray dripp’d all red
Thro’ the tulips overhead,
Then grew paler as it fell
On the quiet Asphodel.
Now the unhappy shall confess
Nothing there is motionless:
Helen, like thy human eye
There th’ uneasy violets lie —
There the reedy grass doth wave
Over the old forgotten grave —
One by one from the tree top
There the eternal dews do drop —
There the vague and dreamy trees
Do roll like seas in northern breeze
Around the stormy Hebrides —
There the gorgeous clouds do fly,
Rustling everlastingly,
Through the terror-stricken sky,
Rolling like a waterfall
O’er th’ horizon’s fiery wall —
There the moon doth shine by night
With a most unsteady light —
There the sun doth reel by day
“Over the hills and far away.”
AL AARAAF. SCIENCE! meet daughter of old Time thou art
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes!
Why prey’st 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 jewell’d skies
Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragg’d Diana from her car,
And driv’n the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
The gentle Naiad from her fountain flood?
The elfin from the green grass? and from me
The summer dream beneath the shrubbery?
AL ARAAF (1831)
What has night to do with sleep?
COMUS
PART FIRST.
Mysterious star!
Thou wert my dream
All a long summer night —
Be now my theme!
By this clear stream,
Of thee will I write;
Meantime from afar
Bathe me in light!
Thy world has not the dross of ours,
Yet all the beauty — all the flowers
That list our love, or deck our bowers
In dreamy gardens, where do lie
Dreamy maidens all the day,
While the silver winds of Circassy
On violet couches faint away.
Little — oh! little dwells in thee
Like unto what on earth we see:
Beauty’s eye is here the bluest
In the falsest and untruest —
On the sweetest air doth float
The most sad and solemn note —
If with thee be broken hearts,
Joy so peacefully departs,
That its echo still doth dwell,
Like the murmur in the shell.
Thou! thy truest type of grief
Is the gentle falling leaf —
Thou! thy framing is so holy
Sorrow is not melancholy.
‘Twas a sweet time for Nesace — for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns — a temporary rest —
A garden spot in desert of the blest.
Away — away — ‘mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ 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 favor’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 through 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 —
Seen but in beauty — not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering through the light —
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal’d air in colour bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear 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 —
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees —
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed —
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,
Repenting follies that 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,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king —
And Valisnerian lotusthither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone —
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d’oro! — Fior di Levante! —
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river —
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the goddess’ song, in odours, up to heaven —
“Spirit! that dwellest where
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue —
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar —
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last —
To be carriers of fire
(The 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?
Though the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dreamed for thy infinity
A model of their own —
Thy will is done, O! God!
The star hath ridden high
Through many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye:
And here, in thought, to thee —
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire, and so be
A partner of thy throne —
By wing’d Fantasy,
My embassy is given
Till secresy [[secrecy]] shall knowledge be
In the environs of heaven.”
She ceas’d — 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 sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
“Silence” — which is the merest word of all —
Here Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings —
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
“What though 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 though in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets through the upper heaven:
Leave tenantless thy chrystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky —
Apart — like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light;
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle — and so be
To 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
Our faith to one love — and one moon adore —
The birth place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o’er sheeny mountain, and dim plain
Her way — but left not yet her Therasæan[[]] reign.
PART SECOND.
High on a mountain of enamell’d head —
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”
What time the moon is quadrated in heaven —
Of rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve, at noon of night,
While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light —
Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’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
Through 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 chain
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 greyish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave
Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave —
And ev’ry sculptur’d cherub thereabout
That, from his marble dwelling peered out
Seem’d earthly in the shallow of his niche —
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis
From Balbec, and thy [[the]] stilly, clear abyss
Too beautiful Gomorrah! O[[!]] the wave
Is now upon thee — but too late to save! —
Sound loves to revel near a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago —
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud —
Is not its form — its voice — most palpable and loud?
But what is this? — it cometh — and it brings
A music with it — ‘tis the rush of wings —
A pause — and then a sweeping, falling strain,
And Nesace is in her halls again:
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheek was flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart:
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus’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 flowers were whispering in melody,
To happy flowers that night — and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things —
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings —
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang.
“Neath blue-bell or streamer —
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away* —
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like — — eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now —
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours —
And shake from your tresses
Encumber’d with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too —
(O! how, without you, Love!
could angels be blest)?
Those kisses of true love
That lull’d ye to rest:
Up! — shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night —
It would weigh down your flight;
And true love caresses —
O! leave them apart,
They are light on the tresses,
But hang on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! whatever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee:
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep —
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep —
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower —
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things —
But are modell’d alas! —
Away, then my dearest,
O! hie thee away,
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon ray —
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast —
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid —
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee —
Arouse them my maiden,
On moorland and lea —
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumber’d 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 rythmical number
Which lull’d him to rest?”
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight —
Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar
O! Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error — sweeter still that death —
Sweet was that error — ev’n with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy —
To them ‘t were the Simoom, and would destroy —
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood — or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death — with them to die was rife
With the last ecstacy of satiate life —
Beyond that death no immortality —
But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be” —
And there — oh! may my weary spirit dwell — [hell!
Apart from heaven’s eternity — and yet how far from
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden angel and her seraph lover —
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen — ‘mid “tears of perfect moan:”
He was a goodly spirit — he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well —
A gazer on the lights that shine above —
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? For each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on beauty’s hair —
And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy
To his love haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of wo)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo —
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love — his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn’d it upon her — but ever then
It trembled to one constant star again.
“Iante, 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 mourn’d to leave:
That eve — that eve — I should remember well —
The sun ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell
On th’ ‘Arabesq’ carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the drapried wall —
And on my eye lids — O! the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh’d them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love, they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O! that light! — I slumber’d — death, the while,
Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single, silken hair
Awoke that slept — or knew that it was there.
The last spot of earth’s orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon —
More beauty clung around her column’d wall
Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I — as the eagle from his tower
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung
One half the the [[sic ]] garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view —
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wished to be again of men.
‘ [[“]]My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling place is here for thee —
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And women’s loveliness — and passionate love.
“But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail’d, as my pennon’d spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy — but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl’d —
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And roll’d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceas’d to soar,
And fell — not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For neared of all stars was thine to ours —
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Dædalion on the timid earth!
“We came — and to thy earth — but not to us
Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God —
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d
Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea —
But when its glory 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 whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
TAMERLANE (1831)
I.
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme:
I will not madly think that power
Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell’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 (O God! I can)
Its fount is holier — more divine —
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
II.
Hear thou the secret of a spirit
Bow’d from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! (I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again)
O craving heart for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime
Rings in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness, — a knell.
Despair, the fabled vampire-bat,
Hath long upon my bosom sat,
And I would rave, but that he flings
A calm from his unearthly wings.
III.
I have not always been as now:
The fever’d diadem on my brow,
I claim’d and won usurpingly —
Hath not the same heirdom given
Rome to the Cæsar — this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
IV.
On mountain soil I first drew life —
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And I believe the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Hath nestled in my very hair.
V.
So late from Heaven — that dew — it fell
(Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
Appear’d to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy,
And the deep trumpet thunder’s roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child, was swelling
(O how my spirit would rejoice
And leap within me at the cry!)
The battle cry of victory.
VI.
The rain came down upon my head,
Unshelter’d, and the heavy wind
Was giant-like — so thou, my mind!
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me — and the rush,
The torrent of the chilly air,
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires, with the captive’s prayer,
The hum of suitors, and the tone
Of flattery, round a sovereign’s throne.
VII.
My passions from that hapless hour
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)
Ev’n then who knew that as infinite
My soul — so was the weakness in it.
VIII.
For in those days it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less.
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake with black rock bound,
And the sultan-like pines that tower’d around!
But when the night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot as upon all,
And the black wind murmur’d by,
In a dirge of melody;
My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of that lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright —
But a tremulous delight —
A feeling not the jewell’d mine
Could ever bribe me to define,
Nor love, Ada! tho’ it were thine.
How could I from that water bring
Solace to my imagining?
My solitary soul — how make
An Eden of that dim lake?
IX.
But then a gentler, calmer spell,
like moonlight on my spirit fell,
And O! I have no words to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
I will not now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments upon my mind
Are shadows on the unstable wind.
I well remember having dwelt,
Pages of early lore upon,
With loitering eye till I have felt
The letters with their meaning melt
To fantasies with — none.
X.
Was she not 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 ev’ry 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?
XI.
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 smil’d,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven — but in her eyes.
XII.
Young Love’s first lesson is — the heart:
For mid that sunshine and those smiles,
When from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I’d lean upon her gentle breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears,
There was no need to speak the rest,
No need to quiet any fears
Of hers — who ask’d no reason why,
But turn’d on me her quiet eye.
XIII.
I had no being but in thee:
The world and all it did contain,
In the earth — the air — the sea,
Of pleasure or of pain —
The good, the bad, the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by night,
And dimmer nothings which were real,
(Shadows and a more shadowy light)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And so, confusedly, became
Thine image and a name — a name!
Two separate yet most intimate things.
XIV.
We walk’d together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look’d down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest on the hills —
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.
XV.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically, in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moments’ converse — in her eyes
I read — perhaps too carelessly —
A mingled feeling with my own —
The flush upon her cheek to me,
Seem’d fitted for a queenly throne,
Too well that I should let it be,
Light in the wilderness alone.
XVI.
I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then
And donn’d a visionary crown —
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me,
But that among the rabble men,
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 its fire.
* * * * *
XVII.
Say, holy father, breathes there yet
A rebel or a Bajazet?
How now! why tremble, man of gloom,
As if my words were the Simoom!
Why do the people bow the knee,
To the young Tamerlane — to me!
XVIII.
O human love! thou spirit given
On earth of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fallest into the soul like rain
Upon the Syroc-wither’d plain,
And failing in thy power to bless,
But leavest the heart a wilderness!
Idea which bindest life around,
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth —
Farewell! for I have won the earth.
XIX.
When hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly,
And homeward turn’d his soften’d eye.
XX.
* * * * * *
‘Twas sunset: when the sun will part,
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the evening mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits harken) as one
Who in a dream of night would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
XXI.
What tho’ the moon — the white moon —
Shed all the beauty 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.
* * * * * *
XXII.
I reach’d my home — what home? above,
My home — my hope — my early love,
Lonely, like me, the desert rose,
Bow’d down with its own glory grows.
XXIII.
Father, I firmly do believe —
I know — for death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see,
Are flashing thro’ eternity:
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path —
Else how when in the holy grove,
I wander’d of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings,
From the most undefiled things;
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trelliced rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun — no tiniest fly
The lightning of his eagle eye —
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laugh’d and leapt
In the tangles of Loves [Love’s] very hair?
XXIV.
If my peace hath flown away
In a night — or in a day —
In a vision — or in none —
Is it, therefore, the less gone?
I was standing ‘mid the roar
Of a wind-beaten shore,
And I held within my hand
Some particles of sand —
How bright! and yet to creep
Thro’ my fingers to the deep!
My early hopes? no — they
Went gloriously away,
Like lightning from the sky —
Why in the battle did not I?
THE RAVEN AND OTHER POEMS
This volume of poems was first published in November, 1845, about four months after
Poe’s Tales. The collection was initially issued separately with pink paper wraps. The Raven had appeared previously on January 29 in the Evening Mirror and became a popular sensation. It made Poe a household name almost instantly, although
he was only paid $9 for its publication. Therefore, the poet released this collection
to capitalise on the poem’s popularity.
The Raven is arguably Poe’s most famous work and is often noted for its musicality, stylised
language and the supernatural atmosphere it evokes. It tells of a talking raven’s
mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man’s slow descent into madness.
The lover, often identified as being a student, is lamenting the loss of his love,
Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas, the raven seems to further instigate his distress
with its constant repetition of the word “Nevermore”. The poem makes use of a number
of folk and classical references.
Poe claimed to have written the poem very logically and methodically, intending to
create a work that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explained
in his 1846 follow-up essay “The Philosophy of Composition”. The poem was inspired
in part by Grip, a talking raven, in Charles Dickens’ novel Barnaby Rudge. Poe also uses the complex rhythm and meter of Elizabeth Barrett’s poem Lady Geraldine’s Courtship, making use of internal rhyme as well as alliteration throughout. The Raven is now considered to be one of the most famous poems ever written.
The first edition
CONTENTS
THE RAVEN
THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1845)
BRIDAL BALLAD
THE SLEEPER
THE COLISEUM (1845)
LENORE
CATHOLIC HYMN
ISRAFEL (1845)
DREAM-LAND (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”
A contemporary illustration of the poem
“Not the least obeisance made he,” by Gustave Doré
TO THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX —
TO THE AUTHOR OF
“THE DRAMA OF EXILE” —
TO MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT,
OF ENGLAND,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME,
WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION
AND WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM.
E. A. P.
PREFACE.
THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption
from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random
“the rounds of the press.” If what I have written is to circulate at all, I am naturally
anxious that it should circulate as I wrote it. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless,
it is incumbent upon me to say, that I think nothing in this volume of much value
to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented
me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances,
would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but
a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not — they cannot
at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations,
of mankind.
E. A. P
THE RAVEN
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ‘Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; — —
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; —
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never — nevermore.”
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight [[lamp-light]] gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight [[lamp-light]] gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting —
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!
Gustave Doré’s illustration of the final lines of ‘The Raven’
THE VALLEY OF UNREST (1845)
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visiter shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless —
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye —
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: — from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: — from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
BRIDAL BALLAD
THE ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell —
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o’re me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D’Elormie,
“Oh, I am happy now!”
And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token
That proves me happy now!
Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how,
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken, —
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
THE SLEEPER
AT midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps! — and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right —
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop —
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully — so fearfully —
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold —
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals —
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone —
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
THE COLISEUM (1845)
TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length — at length — after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength —
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wanlight [[wan light]] of the hornéd 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 stones — are they all —
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all” — the Echoes answer me — “not all!
“Prophetic sounds and loud, arise 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 — we pallid stones.
“Not all our power is gone — not all our fame —
“Not all the magic of our high renown —
“Not all the wonder that encircles us —
“Not all the mysteries that in us lie —
“Not all the memories that hang upon
“And cling around about us as a garment,
“Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
LENORE
AH, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! — a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be sung! —
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young —
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
“And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — that she died!
“How shall the ritual, then, be read? — the requiem how be sung
“By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the slanderous tongue
“That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride —
For her, the fair and 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 Pæan of old days!
“Let no bell toll! — lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
“Should catch the note, as it doth float — up from the damnéd Earth.
“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven —
“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven —
“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”
CATHOLIC HYMN
AT morn — at noon — at twilight dim —
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo — in good and ill —
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
ISRAFEL (1845)
IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings —
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
1 comment