- - .... y I M.DOOO.LXIII. POE M S BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Complete AVITH AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR NEW YORK W. J. WIHDLETON, PUBLISHER M.DCOGLXIII. m3 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, BY W. J. WIDDLETON, [n the Cleik’s Office of the District Court for the Sontherh District of New York. t/ujlS ' PREFACE TO THE POEMS. These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improve¬ ments to which they have been subjected while going at random “ the rounds of the press.” I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making at any time any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion ; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not— they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the pal¬ try compensations, or the more paltry commendations of mankind. E. A. P. ( 3 ) CONTENTS I AGE* Preface to the Poems,.5 Contents. 7 Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe, . . .11 The Raven,.43 Lenore, .53 Hymn, . . ' . * . . * 56 A Valentine,.57 The Coliseum,.59 To Helen,.62 To-,.66 Ulalume,.68 The Bells,.73 An Enigma,.79 Annabel Lee,. 80 ( 6 ) 6 CONTENTS. To My Mother,.83 The Haunted Palace, . . . ' . 84 The Conqueror Worm,.87 To P - s S. 0 -d., .... 89 To One in Paradise,.90 The Yalley of Uneast, .... 92 The City in the Sea,.94 The Sleeper,.97 Silence,.101 A Dream within a Dream, . . . 102 Dreamland,.104. To Zante,.107 Eulalie,.108 Eldorado,.110 Israfel,.112 For Annie,.116 To -,.122 Bridal Ballad, . .... 123 To F-,.125 Scenes from “ Politian,” . . . . 127 Sonnet—T o Science,.183 Al Aaraaf,.184 To the Biver . 205 Tamerlane,.206 CONTENTS. To..219 A Dream,.220 Romance,. .222 Fairy-Land,. 224 The Lake—T o-,.227 Song .229 To M. L. S..231 Notes to Al Aaraaf,.232 The Poetic Principle,.245 MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. It would be well for all poets, perhaps, if noth¬ ing more were known of their lives than what they infuse into their poetry. Too close a knowledge of the weaknesses and errors of the inspired children of Parnassus cannot but impair, in some degree, the delicate aroma of their songs. The inner life of the poet—the secrets of his inspiration, the mysterious pro¬ cesses by which his pearls of thought are pro- (ii) 12 MEMOIR OE duced—can never be made known; and the accidents of his daily life have but little more interest than those which fall to common men. Under all circumstances the poet is a mys¬ tery, and the utterances of his fancy are but the drapery of the veiled statue, which still leaves the figure itself unknown. A dissection of the song-bird gives us no insight into the secret of his melodious notes. Some of the great modern poets have had their whole lives exposed with minute accuracy; but in what are we the wiser for the knowledge we have obtained of them ? We only know they lived and suffered like other men; and their inspira¬ tions are still a cause of wonder and delight. The subtle secret of their power is still hidden from our search; and though we know more EDGAR ALLAN POE. 13 of tlie daily habits of the men, we know no more of the hidden power of the poet. But there is still a yearning to know how the men lived, whose genius has charmed and instruct¬ ed us; and a vague feeling exists that, in probing the lives of poets, we may learn some¬ thing of the art by which they produced their works. But it is like the useless labor of Rey¬ nolds, who scraped a painting by Titian, to learn the secret of his coloring. Of all the poets whose lives have been a puzzle and a mystery to the world, there is no one more difficult to be understood than Edgar Allan Poe. It is impossible to carry in the mind a double idea of a man, and to believe him to be both a saint and a fiend; yet such is the embarrassment felt by those 14 MEMOIR OF who have first read the poems of this strange being, and then read any of the biographies of him which pretend to anything like an accurate account of his life. Like his own Raven, he is to his readers, “ bird or fiend”— they know not which. But a close study of his works will reveal the fact, which may serve in some degree to remove this embarrassment, that there is nowhere discoverable in them a consciousness of moral responsibility. They are full of the subtleties of passion, of grief, despair and longing, but they contain nothing that indicates a sense of moral rectitude. They are the productions of one whose reli¬ gion was a worship of the Beautiful, and who knew no beauty but that which was purely sensuous. There were but two kinds of beauty EDGAR ALLAN POE. 15 for him, and they were Form and Color. He revelled in an ideal world of perfect shows, and was made wretched by any imperfections of art. The Lenore whose loss he deplores was a being fair to the eye—a beautiful creature, like Undine, without a soul. With this key to the character of the poet, there is no difficulty in fully comprehending the strange inconsistencies, the basenesses and nobleness which his wayward life exhibited. Some of the biographers of Poe have been harshly judged for the view given of his cha¬ racter; and it has naturally been supposed that private pique has led to the exaggeration of his personal defects. But such imputations are unjust. A truthful delineation of his career would give a darker hue to his charac- 16 MEMOIR OF ter than it has received from any of his bio¬ graphers. In fact, he has been more fortunate than most poets in his historians. Lowell and Willis have sketched him with gentleness, and a reverent feeling for his genius; and Gris¬ wold, his literary executor, in his fuller bio¬ graphy, has generously suppressed much that he might have given. This is neither the proper time nor place to write a full history of this unhappy genius. Those who scan his marvellous poems closely may find therein the man, for it is impossible for the true poet to veil himself from his readers. What he writes he is. The waywardness of Poe was an inheritance. Though descended from a family of great respectability, his immediate parents were dis- EDGAR ALLAN POE. 17 solute in tlieir morals, and members of a pro¬ fession which always begets irregularity of habits. The paternal grandfather of the poet was a distinguished officer in the Maryland line during the war of the Revolution; and his great-grandfather, John Poe, married a daughter of Admiral McBride, of the British Navy. His father, the fourth son of the Rev¬ olutionary officer, was a native of Maryland, and studied for the bar, but becoming enam¬ ored of a beautiful actress, named Elizabeth Arnold, he abandoned the law, and adopted the stage as a profession. They lived together six or seven years, wandering from theatre to theatre, when they both died within a very short time of each other, in Richmond, Virginia, leaving three children in utter destitution. 2 18 MEMOIR OF Edgar, the second child, who was born in Bal¬ timore, in January, 1811, was a remarkably In ight and beautiful boy; and he attracted the attention of a wealthy merchant in Rich¬ mond who had known his parents, and who had no children of his own. Mr. Allan adopted the little orphan, and he was afterwards called Edgar Allan. The precocious child was petted by his adopted parents, who took pride in his forwardness and beauty; he was sent to the best schools, and was regarded as the heir to their property. In 1816, Mr. and Mrs. Allan made a journey to Europe, and Edgar accom¬ panied them. He was placed at the school of the Rev. Dr. Bransby, at Stoke Newington, near London, where he remained some four or five years; but all we know of him during this EDGAR ALLAN POE. 10 period of his life, is what he has himself told us in the tale entitled “William Wilson,” wherein he describes with great minuteness his recollections of his school-days in England, and gives a characteristic picture of the school- house and its surroundings. On his return to the United States, in the year 1822, he was placed for a few months at an academy at Richmond, and then was trans¬ ferred to the University of Virginia, at Char¬ lottesville. The students at Charlottesville were noted at that time for their reckless and dissolute manner of life, and young Poe was the most dissolute and reckless among them. Though extremely slight in person, and almost effeminate in his manner, he is represented to have been foremost in all 20 MEMOIR OP athletic sports and games; and there is good testimony to his having performed the almost impossible feat of swimming, for a wager, from Richmond to Warwick, a distance of seven miles, against a current of two or three knots an hour. Notwithstanding his dissolute habits and extravagance at the university, he excelled in his studies, was always at the head of his class, and would doubtless have graduated with honor, had he not been expelled on account of his profligacy and wild excesses. His allowance of money had been liberal at the University, but he quitted it in debt; and when his indulgent friend refused to accept his drafts, to meet his gambling losses, Poe wrote him an abusive letter, and quitted the country with the design of offering his services EDGAR ALLAN POE. 21 to the Greeks, who were then fighting for their emancipation from the Turks. But lie never reached Greece, and ail that is known of his career in Europe is, that he found him¬ self in St. Petersburgh, in extreme destitution, where the American minister, Mr. Middleton, was called upon to save him from arrest, on account of an indiscretion. Through the kind offices of this gentleman the young adventurer was sent home to America; and, on his arrival at Richmond, Mr. Allan received him with kindness, forgave him his past misconduct, and procured him a cadetship in the United States Military Academy at West Point. Unfortu¬ nately for him, just before he left Richmond for his new appointment, Mrs. Allan, the wife of his benefactor, died. She had always 22 MEMOIR OF treated him with motherly affection, and ho had paid more deference to her than to any one else. At West Point he applied himself with great energy and success for awhile to his new course of studies; but the rigid discipline of that institution ill sorted with the irrepressi¬ ble recklessness of his nature, and after ten months he was ignominiously expelled. After leaving “ the Point,” he returned to Richmond, and was again kindly received and welcomed to his home by Mr. Allan. But there was a change in the house where the wayward boy had been a pet. There was a new and a younger mistress. Mr. Allan had taken a second wife—a lady much younger than himself, and who was disposed to treat the expelled cadet as a son. But he soon con- EDGAJR ALLAN POE. 2'S trived to quarrel with her, and was compelled to abandon the house of his adopted father, never to return. The cause of the quarrel which led to this final disruption between Poe and his generous patron has been variously stated ; the family of Mr. Allan give a version of it which throws a dark shade on the cha¬ racter of the poet. But let it have been as it may, it must have been of a very grave nature, for, on the death of Mr. Allan, shortly after, in 1834, the name of his adopted son, who, it was supposed, would inherit nearly all his wealth, was not mentioned in his will. On leaving the house of his benefactor for the last time, Poe was left without a friend, and thrown upon his own resources. He had published a volume of poems in Baltimore, 24 MEMOIR OF just after his expulsion from West Point, under the title of “A1 Aaraaf,” and “ Tamer¬ lane,” to which a few smaller poems were added. These were the production of his early youth—probably between his fifteenth and sixteenth years, though the exact date of their composition cannot be ascertained. The commendations bestowed upon these preco¬ cious poems encouraged him to devote himself to literature as a profession. But his first attempts to earn a living by writing must have been discouraging, for soon after publish¬ ing his first volume, he was driven by his necessities to enlist as a private- soldier in the army. Here he was recognized by officers who had known him at West Point, and who interested themselves to obtain his discharge, EDGAR ALLAN POE. 25 ana, if possible, a commission. But their kind intentions were frustrated by his desertion. The next attempt he made in literature proved more successful. lie had fruitlessly tried to find a publisher for a volume of stories; but, on a premium of one hundred dollars for a tale in prose, and a similar reward for a poem, being offered by the publisher of a literary periodical in Baltimore., Poe was awarded both prizes, though he was only allowed to retain the prize for the tale, as it was thought not prudent to give both prizes to the same writer. The tale chosen was the “ Manuscript found in a Bot¬ tle,” a composition which contains many of his most marked peculiarities of style and inven¬ tion. The award was made in October, 1833 , and, fortunately for the young author, there 28 MEMOIR OF was one gentleman on the committee wlic made the decision, who had it in his power to render him essential service. This was John P. Kennedy, the novelist, au¬ thor of “ Ilorse-shoe Robinson,” and eminent as a lawyer and a statesman. To this gentleman Poe came, on hearing of his success, poorly clad, pale, and emaciated. He told his story and his ambition, and at once gained the confidence am l affection of the more prosperous author. He was in utter want, and had not yet received the amount to which he was entitled for his story. Mr. Kennedy took him by the hand, furnished him with means to render him imme¬ diately comfortable, and enabled him to make a respectable appearance, and in a short time afterwards procured for him a situation, as EDGAR ALLAN POE. 27 editor of the “ Literary Messenger,” a monthly magazine, published in Richmond. In his new place he continued for awhile to work with great industry, and wrote a great number of reviews and tales; but he fell into his old habits, and, after a debauch, quarrelled with the proprieior of the “Messenger,” and was dismissed. It was one of the strange peculiarities of Poe, to make humble and penitent appeals for forgiveness and reconciliation to those he had offended by his abuse and insolence; and he was no sooner conscious of his error in quar¬ relling with the publisher of the “ Messenger,” than he endeavored to regain the position he had lost. He was successful; and though he often fell into his old habits, yet he retained 28 MEMOIR OE Iris connection with the work until January, 1837, when he abandoned the “ Messenger,” and left Richmond for New York. During his last residence in Richmond, while working for a salary of ten dollars a week, he married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a young, amiable and gentle girl, without fortune or friends, and as ill-calculated as himself to buffet the waves of an adverse fortune. In New York he wrote for the literary periodicals, but soon removed to Philadelphia, where he was em¬ ployed as editor of “Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine.” Pie continued but a year in his post; and, after several quarrels with the pro¬ prietor of the magazine, left him, to establish a magazine of his own. To have a magazine of his own, which he could manage as he EDGAIl ALLAN POE. 29 pleased, was always the great ambition of his life. He had invented a title, selected a motto, written the introduction, and made the entire plans for the great work, which was to he called “ The Stylus; ” it was the chimera which he nursed, the castle in the air which he longed for, the rainbow of his cloudy hopes. But he did not succeed in establishing it then, and was soon installed as editor of “ Graham’s Magazine.” As a matter of course he quar¬ relled with Graham, and then went to New York, where he engaged as a sub-editor on the “ Mirror,” a daily paper, of which N. P. Willis was the editor. But he did not re¬ main long at this employment, which was wholly unsuited to him, and he left the “ Mir¬ ror” without quarrelling with the proprie- 30 MEMOIR OF tor. During his engagements on these dif¬ ferent periodicals, he had written some of his finest prose tales; had published an anony¬ mous work in the style of Robinson Crusoe, entitled, the “ Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym,” and a collection of his tales in a volume which he called, the “ Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” and gained another prize by his story of the “ Gold Bug.” He was begin¬ ning to be known as a fierce and terrible critic, rather than as a poet or writer of tales, when the publication of his poem of the “ Raven,” in the “American Review,” a New York monthly magazine, first attracted the attention of the literary world to his singular and pow¬ erful genius. Up to the appearance of this wild fantasy, he had not been generally recog- EDGAR ALLAN' POE. 31 nized as a poet, and had known nothing of society. But he became at once a lion, and his writings were eagerly sought after by publishers. The prospect lay bright before him; he abandoned for awhile the vices which so fearfully beset him; he was living quietly in a pleasant and rural neighborhood in West¬ chester, near the city, with his delicate wife and her mother, and a brilliant future appeared to be in store for him. But he could never keep clear from magazine editing, and he joined Mr. C. F. Briggs in editing the “ Broadway Journal,” a literary weekly peri¬ odical ; but the inevitable quarrel ensued, and this project was abandoned at the end of a year. It was while editing the “Broadway Journal,” that he engaged in a furious onslaught 82 MEMOIR OF upon Longfellow, whom he accused of plagia¬ rizing from his poems, and, at the same time, involved himself in numberless disputes and quarrels with other authors. But he also gained the affection and admiration of many- estimable literary- people, some of whom he alienated by appearing before them when in a state of intoxication. He delivered a lecture on poetry, but attracted no hearers, and he was so chagrined by his disappointment that he fell again into his old habits, and disgusted his new friends by his gross misconduct; he in¬ volved himself in another quarrel with some of the literati of Boston, and, to show his con¬ tempt for them, went there and delivered a poem in public which he pretended to have written in his tenth year. On his return to EDGAR ALLAN POE. 33 New York, he was again reduced to great straits, and in 1848 he advertised a series of lectures, in order to raise sufficient means to put into execution his long-cherished plan of a magazine; but he delivered only one lecture ou the Cosmogony of the Universe, which was afterwards published under the title of “ Eu¬ reka, a prose poem.” His wife had died the year previous, and during her illness he was reduced to such extremities, that public appeals, which were generously responded to, were made on his behalf by the papers of New York. Not long after the death of his wife, he formed an intimacy with an accomplished lite¬ rary lady of Rhode Island, a widow, and was engaged to be married to her. It was to her 3 34 MEMOIR OP that he addressed the poem, “ Annabel Lee.” The day was appointed for their marriage; but he had, in the meantime, formed other plans; and, to disentangle himself from this engagement, he visited the house of his affi¬ anced bride, where he conducted himself with such indecent violence, that the aid of the police had to be called in to expel him. This, of course, put an end to the engagement. In a short time after, he went to Richmond, and there gained the confidence and affections of a lady of good family and considerable fortune. The day was appointed for their marriage, and he left Virginia to return to New York to fulfil some literary arrangements previous to the consummation of this new engagement. He had written to his friends that he had, at EDGAR ALLAN POE. 35 last, a prospect of happiness. The Lost Lenore was found. He arrived in Baltimore, on his way to the North, and gave his bag¬ gage into the charge of a porter, intending to leave in an hour for Philadelphia. Stepping into an hotel to obtain some refreshments, he met some of his former companions, who in¬ vited him to drink with them. In a few moments all was over with him. He spent the night in revelry, wandered out into the street in a state of insanity, and was found in the morning literally dying from exposure and a single night’s excesses. He was taken to a hospital, and on the 7th of October, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight, he closed his troubled life. Three days before, he had left his newly- affianced bride, to prepare for their nuptials. 36 MEMOIR OF He lies in a burying-ground in Baltimore, his native city, without a stone to mark the place of his last rest. In person, Edgar Allan Poe was slight, and hardly of the medium height; his motions were quick and nervous; his air was abstract¬ ed, and his countenance generally serious and pale. He never laughed, and rarely smiled; but in conversation he was vivacious, earnest and respectful; and though he appeared gen¬ erally under restraint, as though guarding against a half-subdued passion, yet his man¬ ners were engaging, and he never failed to win the confidence and kind feelings of those with whom he conversed for the first time; and there were a few, who knew him long and intimately, who could never believe that he EDGAR ALLAN DOE. 31 was ever otherwise than the pleasant* intelli¬ gent, respectful and earnest companion he appeared to them. Though he was at times so reckless and profligate in his conduct, and so indifferent to external proprieties, he was generally scrupulously exact in everything he did. He dressed with extreme neatness and perfectly good taste, avoiding all ornaments and everything of a bizarre appearance. He was painfully alive to all imperfections of art; and a false rhyme, an ambiguous sentence, or even a typographical error, threw him into an ecstacy of passion. It was this sensitiveness to all artistic imperfections, rather than any malignity of feeling, which made his criticism so severe, and procured him a host of enemies among persons towards whom he never enter- MEMOIR OF tained any personal ill-will. lie criticised his own productions with the same severity that he exercised towards the writings of others; and all his poems, though he sometimes repre¬ sented them as offsprings of a sudden inspira¬ tion, were the work of elaborate study. His handwriting was always neat and singularly uniform, and his manuscripts were invariably on long slips of paper, about four inches wide, which he never folded, but always made into a roll. Nothing that he ever did had the appear¬ ance of haste or slovenliness, and he preserved with religious care every scrap he had ever written, and every letter he ever received, so that he left behind him the amplest materials for the composition of his literary life. At his own request these remnants of his existence EDGAR ALLAN POE. 39 were intrusted to Doctor Griswold, a gentle¬ man with whom lie had quarrelled, and had lampooned in his lectures. Doctor Griswold in a generous spirit accepted the charge, and produced, from the papers intrusted to him, the best biography of the strange being that has been published, which was appended to the collection of his works, in four volumes, published in New York. POEMS. THE R A V BN. Once upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint aud 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 1 muttered, “ Tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing mon Ah, distinctly I remember It was in the bleak December, Aud each separate dying ember Wrought its gliost upon the floor. ( 43 ) 14 THE RA VEX. 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 s 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 ; THE RAVEN. 45 But the fact is I was napping, And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, Tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”— Here I opened wide the door:- Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals Ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, And the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken Was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo Murmured back the word, •'« Lenore 1 ”— 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. 46 THE RAVEN. “ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is Something at my window lattice: Let me see, then what thereat is, And this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment And this mystery explore ;-*• ’Tis the wind and nothing more.” Open here I flung the shutter, When, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven Of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; Not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, Perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling My sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum Of the countenance it wore, THE RAVEN. 47 “ Though tliy 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 loi’dly name is On the Night’s Plutonian shore 1” 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 blest with seeing Bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured Bust above his chamber door, With such name as “ Nevermore.” But the Raven, sitting lonely On that placid bust, spoke only That one \\ ord, as if his soul in That one word he did outpour. 48 THE HAVEN. 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 cashiered seat in Front of bird and bust and door; HIE RAVEN - . 49 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 gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining With the lamplight gloating o’er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls Tinkled on the tufted floor. 4 50 the raven. “ 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— THE RAVEN. 51 Tell this soul with sorrow laden Tf, 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 Itaven, “ 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 .Tust above my chamber door ; 52 THE RAVEN. 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 LENORE. Ah, broken is the golden bowl! The spirit flown forever ! Let the bell toll!—ra saintly soul Floats on the Stygian river ; And, Guy De Yere, 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 ! ( 63 ) LENORE. 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 1 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. LENORE. 55 But waft the angel on her flight With a Paean of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, Amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float Up fiom the damned 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.” 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'! (56) A VALENTINE. For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as 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 That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure— The words—the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your 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. Unwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too. ( 57 ) 58 A VALENTINE. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pintd—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 connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.] THE COLISEUM. Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days t Of weary pilgrimage aud 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 1 Vastness! and Age ’ and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! aud dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— 0 spells more sure than e’er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! 0 charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars 1 ( 69 ) (50 THE COLISEUM. Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy hat! 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 blackcm 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 ? Hot all ”■—the Echoes answer me—“ not all I Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. THE COLISEUM. 61 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.” TO HELEN. I saw thee once—once only—years ago : I must not say how many—but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the 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 That smiled and died in this parterre enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. ( 62 ) TO HELEN. 63 Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturned—alas, in sorrow ! Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God ! How my heart beats in coupling those two words !)— Save only thee and me. 1 paused—I looked— And in an instant all things disappeared. (All, bear in mind this garden was enchanted }) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: Tbe mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and tbe repining trees, Were seen no more : the very roses’ odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. Al!—all expired save thee—save less than thou : Save only the divine light in thine eyes— •Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 64 TO HELEN. I saw but them—they were the world to me. I saw but them—saw only them for hours— Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride ! How daring an ambition ! yet how deep— How fathomless a capacity for love! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go—they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers—yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. TO HELEN. 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 Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained •* the power of words ”—denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables— Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the 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 seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has “ the sweetest voiee of all God’s creatures,”) Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. (66) The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee. I cannot write—I cannot speak or think— Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams. Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, Amid unpurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates —thee only. ULALUME. The skies they were ashen and sober ; The leaves they were crisped and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year ; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir— It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriae rivers that roll— ( 08 ) UXALUME. C9 As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole— That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— Our memories were treacherous and here— For wc knew not the month was October, Aud we marked not the night of the year— (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber— (Though once we had journeyed down here)—■ Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to morn— As the star-dials hinted of morn— At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, '0 PLAT.CHirE. Out of which a miraculous orescent Arose with a duplicate horn — Astarte’s bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said—“ She is warmer than Dian : She rolls through an ether of sighs— She revels in a region of sighs : She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies— Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on .us with her bright eyes— Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes.” But 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!—ftr we must.” ULAIAJMK. 71 [n 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! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright, We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.” Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom ; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb ; 72 ULALUME. 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—* 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, thi3 dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” THE BELLS. I. Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells 1 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. ( 73 ) 74 THE BELLS. 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 1 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! On, 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! THE BELLS. 75 Til. Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! Wliat a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells 1 Iu the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tuue, 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! IIow they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! 76 THE BELLS. Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels 1 In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. THE BELLS. r? 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, Kolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, lime, In a sort of Ruuic 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— TIIE BELLS. 78 Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells ; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Ifunic 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. AN ENIGMA. “ Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce, “ Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet— Trash of all trash !—how can a lady don it ? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff— Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.” And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles—ephemeral and so transparent— But this is, now,—you may depend upon it— Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within’t. (79) ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a ye&r 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. 1 was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love which was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee ; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. ( 80 ) ANNABEL LEE. 81 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 kinsman came, And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven. Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. Hut our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many fax 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 : <; 82 ANNABEL LEE. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And so, all the night-tide, 1 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. TO MY MOTHER. Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another. Can find, among their burning terms of iove, None so devotional as that of “ Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother- -my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother 1 knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. (S3; THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— liadiaut palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought’s dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair ! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. THE HAUNTED PALACE. 85 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 (Porphvrogene!) In state his glory well-befitting, The ruler of the realm was-seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch’s high estate. (Ah, let us mourn !—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. 86 THE HAUNTED PALACE. And travellers, 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. Lo! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, An d 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 Wo ! (87) 88 THE CONQUEROR WORM. That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude It writhes !—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “ Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm. TO F S S. 0-D. Thou wouldst be loved ?—then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love—a simple duty. TO ONE IN PARADISE. Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine— A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, “ On! on!”—but o’er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast! (90) TO ONE IN PARADISE. 91 For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o’er ! “No more—no more—no more—” (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams— In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. THE-VALLEY OF UNREST. Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell : They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each 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! (92) THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 93 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. THE CITY IN THE SEA. Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The. melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town ; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently--- r-4) THE CITY IN THE SEA. 95 Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idols diamond eye— Not the gaily-jeweled dead Tempt the waters from their bed ; For no ripples curl, alas ! Along that wilderness of glass— 96 THE CITY IN THE SEA. No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air ! The wave—there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence. THE SLEEPER. At. 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 grave ; The lily lolls upon the wave ; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; 7 ( 97 } 98 THE SLEEPER. Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 1 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 lie; 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 ! THE SLEEPER. 99 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 3 Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep ! Soft may the worms about her creep ! Far iu the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft has 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 throw#, 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. SILENCE. There arc some qualities—some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence —sea and shore— Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o’ergrown ; some solemn graces, Sdme 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 ! (101) A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow— You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream ; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone 1 All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream, V I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand— ( 102 ) A DREAM WITHIJC A DREAM. 103 How few ! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep—while I weep! 0 God! can I can not grasp Them with a tighter clasp ? 0 God ! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream ? DREAMLAND By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space —out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over ; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore ; ( 104 ) DREAMLAND. 105 Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters — lone and dead— Their still waters—still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lene wafers, lone and dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— By the 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 traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past- Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. 106 DREAMLAND. For the heart whose woes are legion ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region— For the spirit that walks in shadow ’Tis—oh, ’tis £tn Eldorado ! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not—dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed ; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. TO ZANTE. Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! How many memories of what radiant hours At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! How many scenes of what departed bliss! How many thoughts of what entombed hopes 1 How many visions of a maiden that is No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes 1 No more! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more— Thy memory no more! Accursed ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 0 hyacinthine isle! 0 purple Zaute ! “ Isola doro! Flor di Levante ! ” (107) EUL ALIE. I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie Became my blushing bride— Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie Became my smiling bride. Ah, less—less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s Most unregarded curl— Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s Most humble and careless curl. ( 108 ) EULALIE. 109 Now Doubt—now Pain Come 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. ELDORADO. Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old— This knight so bold— And o’er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. ( 110 ) ELDORADO. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow— “ Shadow,” said he. “ Where can it be— This laud of Eldorado ? ” “ Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,” The shade replied,— If you seek for Eldorado! ” 1 ISRAFEL.* 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. * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures. —Koran. ( 112 ) 1SRAEEL. 113 Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamored moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With'the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven. An d they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli’s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings— The trembling living wire * Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty— Where Love’s a grown up God— Where the Houri glances are imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. 8 114 ISKAFEL. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest S Merrily live, and long l The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love. With the fervor of thy lute— Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours ; . Our flowere are merely—flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, ISRAFEL. 115 He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. FOIl ANNIE. Thank Heaven ! the crisis— The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last— And the fever called “ Living ” Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length— But no matter!—I feel I am better at length. (; *>•) FOR ANNIE. 117 And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:—ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing 1 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 ANNIE. For the napthaline river Of Passion accurst:— I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst:— Of a water that flows With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground— From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed ; For man never slept In a different bed— And, to sleep, you jnust slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, FOR ANNIK. 119 Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses— Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses : For now, 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- - Drowned in a bath • Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, 120 FOR ANNIE. And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm— To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead— And I rest so contentedly, I^ow, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead— That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead :— FOR ANNIE. 121 But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Star3 in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie— It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie— With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. 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. (122) 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. ( 128 ) 124 BRIDAL BALLAD. But he spoke to re-assure me, And he kissed my pallid brow While a reverie came o’er me, And to the church-yard bore me. And I sighed to him before me, Thinking him dead D’Elormie, “ Oh, I am happy now! ” And thus the words were spoken, And 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,— I-est the dead who is forsaken 1STay not be happy .now. TO F-. Beloved ! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path— (Drear path, alas ! where grows Not even one lonely rose)— My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose. And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea— Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms—but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o’er that one bright island smile. (125) SCENES FROM “POLITIAN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. (127) SCENES FROM “ POLITIAN; AX UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. R05IE.—-A Ball in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglionk. ALESSANDRA. Thou art sad, Ca8tiglione. CASTIGLIONE. Sad !*—not I. Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest map in Rome ! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy! ( 129 ) 130 SCENES FROM “POIITIAN. 5 ALESSANDRA. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness !—what ails thee, cousin of mine ? Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? CASTIGLIONE. Did I sigh ? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,. A silly—a most silly fashion I have When I am very happy. Did I sigh ? [sighing.) ALESSANDRA. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these Will ruin thee ! thou ai’t already altered-* SQENES FROM “ POLITIAN.” 131 Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away The constitution as late hours and wine. castiglione (musing). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow— Wears it away like evil hours and w 7 ine. I will amend. ALES3ANDKA. Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born— Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir And Alessandra’s husband. CASTIGLIONE. I will drop them. 132 SCESTES FROM “ POLITIAN.’ ALESSANDRA. Tliou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends Upon appearances. CASTIGLIONE. I’ll see to it. ALESSANDRA. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir, To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest In dignity. CASTIGLIONE. Much, much, oh much I want In proper dignity. SCENES FKOM “ POLITIAN.’ 133 alessandra (haughtily). Thou mockest me, sir! casti'gmone ( abstractedly ). Sweet, gentle Lalage! alessandra. Heard I aright ? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage ! Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder ) what art thou dreaming ?—he’s not well! What ails thee, sir ? castiglione ( staiiing ). Cousin ! fair cousin !—madam ! I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well— 134 SCENES FROM “POLITIAN.” Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. This air is most oppressive !—Madam—the Duke ! Enter Di Broglio. di broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee! — hey? — what’s the matter ? (