'Tis singular!

  Most singular! I could not think it possible

  So little time could so much alter one!

  To say the truth about an hour ago,

  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,

  All arm in arm, we met this very man

  The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,

  Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!

  Such an account he gave me of his journey!

  'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told

  Of his caprices and his merry freaks

  Along the road-such oddity-such humor—

  Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment

  Set off too in such full relief by the grave

  Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,

  Was gravity itself—

 

      Duke. Did I not tell you?

 

      Cas. You did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange,

  How much I was mistaken! I always thought

  The Earl a gloomy man.

 

      Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?

  It can not be the Earl?

 

      Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning

  Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

 

  (Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)

  My lord, a second welcome let me give you

  To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.

  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl

  Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]

      That, his friend

  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,

  So please you, for Your Grace.

 

      Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome

  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!

  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!

  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.

  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,

  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted

  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time

  Most seasonable. The wedding—

 

      Politian. Touching those letters, sir,

  Your son made mention of—your son, is he not?

  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.

  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—

  Baldazzar! ah!—my friend Baldazzar here

  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

 

      Duke. Retire!—So soon?

 

  Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!

  His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them!

  His lordship is unwell.     (Enter Benito.)

 

      Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)

 

      Duke. Retire! Unwell!

 

      Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me

  'Tis as you say—his lordship is unwell.

  The damp air of the evening-the fatigue

  Of a long journey—the—indeed I had better

  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.

  I will return anon.

 

      Duke. Return anon!

  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!

  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.

  You surely were mistaken in what you said

  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said

  Politian was a melancholy man?    (Exeunt.)

 




FANNY

First published in the Baltimore Saturday Visiter on May 18, 1833, this poem laments the death of a young love. It was originally signed only as "TAMERLANE."

 

 

 

THE dying swan by northern lakes
Sing's [Sings] its wild death song, sweet and clear,
And as the solemn music breaks
O'er hill and glen dissolves in air ;
Thus musical thy soft voice came,
Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

 

Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,
Which veils the solemn midnight sky,
Piercing cold evening's sable shroud,
Thus came the first glance of that eye ;
But like the adamantine rock,
My spirit met and braved the shock.

 

Let memory the boy recall
Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,
When far away his footsteps fall,
Think that he deem'd thy charms divine ;
A victim on love's alter [altar] slain,
By witching eyes which looked disdain.

 

Tamerlane


 

SERENADE

This poem is directed at the beauty of untouched nature, as well as an unnamed lover. It was first printed in the April 20, 1833, issue of the Baltimore Saturday Visiter with the name "E. A. Poe." The poem was never collected in any of Poe's anthologies during his lifetime and was re-discovered by John C. French in 1917.

 

 

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.


TO F——S S. O——D

 

OR

 

TO ELIZABETH

 

Originally called "To Elizabeth," dedicated to Poe's cousin Elizabeth Herring and written in an album of hers, this poem was then published in a revised version in the September 1835 issue of the Southern Literary Messenger as "Lines Written in an Album" and apparently addressed to Eliza White. The poem in this version began, "Eliza! let they generous heart / From its present pathway part not." White was the then 18-year old daughter of Thomas Willis White, Poe's employer while he worked at the Messenger. Poe may have considered pursuing a relationship with her before his marriage to his cousin Virginia.