H

IL LI N O I S
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN

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IB R ARY
OF THE

UNIVERSITY
Of ILLINOIS

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62-ki

POEMS
SY

EDGAR

ALLAN

POE

WITH AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR

NEW YORK

W. J. WIDDLETON, PUBLISHER
M.DCCC.LXVI1I.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863,
BY W. J. WIDDLETON
In the Clelk's Office of the District Court for the Southerh District
of New York.

ALVOIfD,

PINTEl..

PREFACE TO THE POEMS.

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." 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 p -vented 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.
(3)

CONTENTS.

PAGE.
THE PO EMS,

PREFACE TO

.

.

CONTENTS,

THE RAVEN,

HYMN,
A

To

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

56

.

.

.
.

59

66
.

S
.
.

AN ENIGMA,

.

.

57

. 62

.

.

.

LEE,

43

....

,

THE BELLS,

7

. 53

.
.

.

11

.

.

..

5

.

.

..

To

ANNNABEL

.

.

.

.
.

.

..

HELEN,

ULALUME,

.
.

.

.

.

.

COLISEUM,

.
.

POE,

.

VALENTINE,

THE

.

.

.

LENORE,

.

ALLAN

MEMOIR OF EDGAR

.

.

.

.

.

68

.

.

73

.

.

80

.79 .

CONTENTS.
To MY MOTHER,;

THE

CONQUEROR

To F-s

.

.

THE HAUNTED PALACE,

.

S

.
.

S. O--D.,

VALLEY

S

.

.

.

OF UNREST,

S

.

.

DREAM WITHIN A DREA]M,

.

.

.

EULALIE,

.

.
.

.

.
.

.

.

.

.112

.

.

116

.

FOR ANNIE,

To-,

122 ..

.

BRIDAL BALLAD,

To F

.

.

.

SONNET--TO

.

123

. 125 .
S.

127

.

SCIENCE,

.

.

S
AL AARAAF ..

.

.183
.

184

.

RIVER

TAMERLANE,

.

.

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN,"

To THE

. 108
110

.

.
.

107

.

.

.

ELDORADO,
ISRAFEL,

102

. 104 .
.

ZANTE,

97

. 101

DREAMLAND,

To

89

94
.

.

SILENCE,

84

. 90
92

S.

THE SLEEPER,

88

87

.
.

THE CITY IN THE SEA,

A

.
,

S.

WORIM,

To ONE IN PARADISE,
THE

.
.

-

.

,

.

..

S

.

.

.

205
206

CONTENTS.
'O -

,

.

ROMANCE,

.
.
.

THE LAKE-TO SONG,

.
.

FAIRY-LAND,

.

219 .

.

.

A DREAM,

S
.
.

S

.

.

.
.

220
. 222

224

.

227

, .

.

.

ToM. L. S--,

.

231

.

NOTES TO AL AARAAF,

.

232

THE

.

. 245

POETIC

PRINCIPLE,

..

229
..

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-esses

by which his pearls of thought are pro(11)

i

MEMOIR OF

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 mystery, 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 inspirations 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 the 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 instructed us; and a vague feeling exists that, in
probing the lives of poets, we may learn something 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 religion was a worship of the Beautiful, and who
know no beauty but that which was purely
sensuous. There were but two kinds of beauty

EDGAR

ALLAN

15

POE.

He

for him, and they were Form and Color.

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 character; and it has naturally been supposed
that private pique has led to the exaggeration
of his personal defects.
are unjust.

But such imputations

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 luis biographers.

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
This is neither the

he might have given.

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 their morals, and members of a profession 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 enamored 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 Baltimore, in January, 1811, was a remarkably
bright and beautiful boy; and he attracted
the attention of a wealthy merchant in Richmond 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 accompanied 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.

19

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 schoolhouse 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 transferred to the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville.

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

OF

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 he

never reached Greece, and all that is known
of his career in Europe is, that he found himself 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
fcr his new appointment, Mrs. Allan, the wife
of his benefactor, died.

She had always

MEMOIR OF

treated him with motherly affection, and he
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 irrepressible 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.
new and a younger mistress.

There was a
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.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

23

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 character 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

just after his expulsion

OF

from West

Point,

under the title of "Al Aaraaf," and "Tamerlane," 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 precocious 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 publislhing 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.

and, if possible, a commission.

But their kind

intentions were frustrated by his desertion.
The next attempt he made in literature proved
more successful.

HIe 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 Bottle," a composition which contains many of his
most marked peculiarities of style and invention.

The award was made in October, 1833,

and, fortunately for the young author, there

6MEMOIR OF

N6

was one gentleman on the committee who
made the decision, who had it in his power to
render him essential service.
This was John P. Kennedy, the novelist, auHorse-shoe Robinson," and eminent as
thor of " I

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 and
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 immediately 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 quarrelling with the publisher of the " Messenger,"
than be endeavored to regain the position he
had lost.

Hle was successfl ; and though he

often fell into his old habits, yet he retained

28

MEMOIR OF

his 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 employed as editor of "Burton's
Magazine."

Gentleman's

He continued but a year in his

post; and, after several quarrels with the proprietor 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

EDGAR 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
be 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
tho "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
tor.

MEMOIR OF

During his engagements on these dif-

ferent periodicals, hlie had written some of his
finest prose tales; had published an anonymous 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 powerful genius.

Up to the appearance of this

wild fantasy, he had not been generally reco -

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

81

uized 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 Westchester, 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 :
year.

It was while editing the " Broadway

Journal," that he engaged in a furious onslaught

32

MEMOIR OF

upon Longfellow, whom he accused of plagiarizing 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 involved himself in another quarrel with some
of the literati of Boston, and, to show his contempt 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

1ew 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
on the Cosmogony of the Universe, which was
afterwards published under the title of "Eureka, 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 literary lady of Rhode Island, a widow, and was
engaged to be married to her.

It was to her

34

MEMOIR OF

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 affianced bride, where he conducted himself with
such indecent violence, that the aid of the
police had to be called in to expel him.
of course, put an end to the engagement.

This,
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.

iHe

had written to his friends that he had, at

EDGAR

last, a prospect
Lenore was found.

35

ALLAN POE.

of happiness.

HIe

The Lost

arrived in Baltimore,

on his way to the North, and gave his baggage 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 invited him to drink with them.

In a few

moments all was over with him.

HIe

spent

the night in revelry, wandered oiut into the
street in a state of insanity, and was ifubind in
the morning literally dying from exposure and
a single night's excesses.

HIe

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

ie 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 abstracted, and his countenance generally serious and
pale.

HIe never laughed, and rarely smiled;

but in conversation he was vivacious, earnest
and respectful; and though he appeared generally under restraint, as though guarding
against a half-subdued passion, yet his manners 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 POE.

37

was ever otherwise than the pleasant, intelligent, respectful

and earnest

appeared to them.

companion he

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-

38

MEMOIR

OF

tained any personal ill-will.

He criticised his

own productions with the same severity that
he exercised towards the writings of others;
and all his poems, though he sometimes represented them as offsprings of a sudden inspiration, 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 appearance 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.

89

were intrusted to Doctor Griswold, a gentleman with whom he 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,
New York, by Widdleton.
published min

POE 1M So

THE

RAVEN.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten loreWhile 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 doorOnly this and nothing more."

Alh, distinctly I remember
It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember
Wrought its ghost upon the floor.

44

THE RAVEN.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;Vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrowSorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name LenoreNameless 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 doorSome 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;

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! "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 exploreLet 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 doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber doorPerched, 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.

"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 meaningLittle relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing
That no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing
Bird above his chamber doorBird 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 word, as if his soul in
That one word he did outpour.

47

48

THE RAVEN.

Nothing farther then he uttered;
Not a feather then he flutteredTill I scarcely more than muttered,
" Other friends have flown beforeOn 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,
S..

S

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;

THE RAVEN.

Then upon the velvet sinking,
I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking
What this ominous bird of yoreWhat 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 I
Then methought the air grew denser,
Perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls
Tinkled on the tufted floor.

50

THE RAVEN.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent theeBy 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 enchantedOn this home by Horror hauntedTell me truly, I imploreIs there-is there balm in Gilead ?Tell me-tell me, I implore ! "
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet !" said I, "thing of evilProphet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above usBy that God we both adore-

THE RAVEN.

Tell this soul with sorrow laden
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden
Whom the angels name LenoreClasp 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;

51

52

THE IAVEN.

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.

An, broken is the golden bowl!
The spirit flown forever !
Let the bell toll !-asaintly 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 readThe funeral song be sung !An anthem for the queenliest dead
That ever died so youngA 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 !

?-.

54

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!
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before,"
With Hope that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child
That should have been thy brideFor her, the fair and debonair,
That now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair,
But not within her eyesThe life still there upon her hairThe death upon her eyes.
"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light.
No dirge will I upraise,

LENORE.

But waft the angel on her flight
With a Pean of old days!

!-lest

Let no bell toll
her sweet soul,
Amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float
Up from the damned Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below,
The indignant ghost is rivenFrom Hell unto a high estate
Far up within the HeavenFrom grief and groan to a golden throne
Beside the King of Heaven."

55

HYMN.
AT morn-at noon-at twilight dimMaria ! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo-in good and illMother 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 !

A

VALENTINE.

Fox her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Lceda,
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 measureThe words-the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor I
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets-as the name is a poet's, too.

58

A

VALENTINE.

Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto-Mendez Ferdinando-Still form a synonym for Truth.-Cease trying !
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best
you can do.
[To translate the address, read the first !etter 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.
name will thus appear.]

The

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
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 I
Vastness! and Age T and Memories of Eld !
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strengthO spells more sure than e'er Judean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars I

60o

THE COLISEUM.

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 wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones

!

But stay ! these walls-these ivy-clad arcadesThese mouldering plinths-these sad and blackened

shaftsThese vague entablatures-this crumbling friezeThese shattered cornices-this wreck-this ruinThese 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.

THE COLISEUM.

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 fameNot all the magic of our high renownNot all the wonder that encircles usNot all the mysteries that in us lieNot all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory'

61

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 tiptoeFell on the upturned faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic deathFell on the upturned faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

TO naraN.

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 midnightWas 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. I paused-I lookedAnd in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out :
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more : the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All-all expired save thee-save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyesSave but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

64

TO HFLEN.

I saw but them-they were the world to me.
I saw but them-saw only them for hoursSaw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwrittcn
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 enkindleMy 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
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

65

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 dissyllablesItalian 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 thoug
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter.

And I! my spells are broken.

TO

--.

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 thinkAlas, 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 sereThe 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 WeirIt 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 SoulOf cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll-

ULALUME.

As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the poleThat 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 sereOur memories were treacherous and sereFor we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year(Ah, night of all nights in the year !)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber(Though once we had journeyed down here)Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was sendscent,
And star-dials pointed to mornAs the star-dials hinted of mornAt the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,

69

70

ULALUME.

Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate hornAstarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said-" She is warmer than Dian :
She rolls through an ether of sighsShe 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 skiesTo the Lethean peace of the skiesCome up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyesCome up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said-" Sadly this star I mistrustHer pallor I strangely mistrust :Oh, hasten!-oh, let us not linger !
Oh, fly !-let us fly !-fo

-

we must."

ULALUM.E.

71

In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill 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 gloomAnd conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tombBy the door of a legended tomb ;

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 sereAs the leaves that were withering and sereAnd I cried-" It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed-I journeyed down hereThat I brought a dread burden down hereOn this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of AuberThis misty mid region of WeirWell I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

THE BELLS.

I.
HEAR the sledges with the bellsSilver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
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, bellsFrom the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

74

THE BELLS.

II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes.
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
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, bellsTo the rhyming and the chiming of the bells1

THE

BELLS.

(5

III.
Hear the loud alarum bellsBrazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells 1
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!

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 bellsOf the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bellsIn the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bellsIron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels I
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.

And the people-ah, the peopleThey 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 womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pmean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pmean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pmean of the bells-Of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-

77

78

THE BELLS.

Of the bells, bells, bellsTo the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bellsTo the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bellsBells, bells, bellsTo 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 stuffOwl-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 transparentBut this is, now,-you may depend upon it--.
Stable, opaque, immortal-all by dint
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

ANNABEL

LEE.

IT was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE ;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

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 loveI and my ANNABEL LEE ;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

ANNABEL LEE.

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 meYes !-that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-Of many far wiser than weAnd neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE :

81

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, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

TO

MY MOTHER.

BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of" Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called youYou 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 I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

THE

HAUNTED

PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palaceRadiant palace-reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominionIt 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.
(84

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
(Porphyrogene !)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling 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
Vast 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,
And hither and thither flyMere 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!

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.

O-D.

Tnou wouldst be loved ?-then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!l
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 pineA 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 !
"On

A voice from out the Future cries,
! on !"-but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

TO ONE IN

PARADISE.

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.

91

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!

THE VALLEY

OF UNREST.

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 eyeOver 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.

93

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 cternal 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 hoely heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town ;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-

THE CITY IN

TRHE SEA.

Gleams up the pinnacles far and freeUp domes-up spires-up kingly hallsUp fanes-up Babylon-like wallsUp shadowy long-forgotteni bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowersUp many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwise
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 idol's diamond eyeNot the gaily-jeweled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that 'wilderness of glass--

95

96

THE CITY IN THE SEA.

No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier seaNo 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 tideAs if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glowThe hours are breathing faint and lowAnd 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;

98

THE SLEEPER.

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 rightThis window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice dropThe bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully-so fearfullyAbove 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 !

TIHE

SLEEPER.

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 unfoldSome vault that oft has flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-

9

100

THE SLEEPER.

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stoneSome 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 are some qualities-some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
There is a two-bfold Silence-sea and shoreBody and soul.

One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless : his name's " No More."
He is the corporate Silence : dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot !)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf;
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God !

A

DREAM

WITHIN

A DREAM.

TAKE this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avowYou 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?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.

How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep-while I weep!
O God! can I can not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God ! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream ?

103

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 ThuleFrom 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;

105

D.
DREAMLAND.

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 lone waters, 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 unholyIn each nook most melancholy,There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the PastShrouded 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 regionFor the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis-oh, 'tis an 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.

FAR 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 I
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes

I

How many visions of a maiden that is
No more-no more upon thy verdant slopes I
No more! alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no moreThy memory no more!

Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
0 hyacinthine isle! 0 purple Zante!
"Isola doro! Flor di Levante!"

EULALIE.

I DWELT alone

In a world of moan,
And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie
Became my blushing brideTill 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 curlCan compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's
Most humble and careless curl.

EULAL1E.

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 eyeWhile ever to her young Eubl
lie
Upturns her violet eye.

109

ELDORADO.

GAILY bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew oldThis knight so bold-And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

ELDORADO.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow"Shadow," said he.
"Where can it beThis land of Eldorado ?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the ralley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied,If you seek for Eldorado I "

111

ISR AFE L.*

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.-KouRAN.

ISIRAFEL.

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

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.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a dutyWhere Love's a grown up GodWhere the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

113

114

ISRAFEL.

Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long !

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suitThy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy luteWell may the stars be mute !

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers 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 1,

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.

FOR

ANNIE.

THANK Heaven ! the crisisThe danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at lastAnd 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 lengthBut no matter !-I

feel

I am better at length.

FOR ANNIE,

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder
Might fancy me deadMight 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 !
The sickness-the nauseaThe pitiless painHave ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brainWith the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
'I'orture of thirst

117

118

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 groundFrom 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 bedAnd, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes.

FOR ANNIE.

Forgetting, or never
Regretting its rosesIts old agitations
Of myrtles and roses :

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansiesA rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansiesWith rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of AnnieDrowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,

119

120

FOR ANNIE.

And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breastDeeply 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 harmTo 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 deadAnd I rest so contentedly,
Now, 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.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with AnnieIt glows with the light
Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

18l

TO

--

I HEED not that my earthly lot
Hath-little of Earth in itThat 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.

BRIDAL

BALLAD.

TnE 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 swellFor the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

'ell

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 I

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.

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--Someocean throbbing far and free
With storms-but where meanwhile
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.

SCENES FROM
AN

"POLITIAN;"

UTNPUBLISHED

DRAMA

SCENES FROM

"POLITIAN"

AN UNPUBLISHED

DRAMA.

I.
ALESSANDRA CASTIGLIONF
and

ROME.-A Hall in a Palace.

ALESSANDRA.

Thou art sad, Castiglione.

CASTIGLIONE.

Sad !-not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome !
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandtna.
Will make thee mine.

Oh, I am very happy!

130

"
SCENES FROM1V PO1 ITIAN."

ALESSANDRA.

MIethinks 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 art already altered-

SCENES

FROM

CPOLITIAN."

131
1

Thy looks are haggard-nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.

CASTIGLIONE

(musing).

Nothing, fair cousin, nothing-not even deep sorrowWears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.

ALESSANDRA.

Do it ! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too-fellows low bornIll suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.

CASTIGLIONE.

I will drop them.

1352

SCENES

FROM

' POLITIAN.

"

ALESSANDRA.

Thou 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

FROM " POLITIAN."

133

(haughtily).

ALESSANDRA

Thou mockest me, sir.

CASTIGLIONE

(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

(starting).

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 BR OGLIO.

DI BROGLIO.

My son, I've news for thee ! - hey ? -

what's the

matter ? (observing Alessandra.)
I' the pouts?

Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her,
You dog ! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I've news for you both.

Politian is expected

Hourly in Rome-Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding.
To the imperial city.

'Tis his first visit

ALESSANDRA.

What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester ?

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

1
135

DI BROGLIO.

The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Preeminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.

ALESSANDRA.

I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy-is he not ?
And little given to thinking.

DI BROGLIO.

Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.

136

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

ALESSANDRA.

'Tis very strange I
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company.

They speak of him

As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

CASTIGLIONE.

Ridiculous I Now I have seen Politian
And know him well-nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer and a man shut out
From common passions.

DI BROGLIO.

Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a melancholy man ?

(Exeunt.

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

131

I-I .

ROME.--A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking
into a garden.

in
LALAGE, deep mourning, reading at a table

on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the back.
ground JAc NTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a
chair.

LALAGE.

Jacinta, is it thou?

JACINTA (pertly).

Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.

LALAGE.

I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down !-letnot my presence trouble youSit down

!-for I

am humble, most humble.

138

SCENES

FIROM

JACINTA

C POLITIAT"

(aside).

'Tis time.

(JACINTA seats herself in a side-long manner

upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the
back, and regarding her mistress with a
contemptuous look. LALAGE continues to
read.)

LALAGE.

"It in another climate, so he said,
"Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil !"
(pauses-turnsover some leaves, and resumes.)
"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower"But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
" Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind."
O, beautiful !-most beautiful !--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven !
0 happy land ! (pauses.) She died !-the maiden died !

SCENES

139
1

FROM " POLITIAN."

0 still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta !
(JACINTA returnTs no answer, and LALAGE

presently resumes.)
Again !-a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play"She died full young "-one Bossola answers him"I think not so-her infelicity
"Seemed to have years too many "-Ah, luckless lady !
Jacinta ! (still no answer.)
Here's a far sterner story,
But like-oh, very like in its despairOf that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts-losing at length her own.
She died.

Thus endeth the history-and her maids

Lean over her and weep-two gentle maids
With gentle names-Eiros and Charmion !
Rainbow and Dove !

Jacinta!

JAClNTA (pettishly).

Madam. what

is it?

140

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

LALAGE.

Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists.

JACINTA.

Pshaw I

(Exit.

LALAGE.

If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there

I

Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found-" dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
(re-enter JACINTA, and throws a volume on
the table.)
There, ma'am, 's the book.
troublesome.

Indeed she is very
(Aside.

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

LALAGE

141

(astonished).

What didst thou say, Jacinta ? Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee ?-I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trustworthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.)

JACINTA

(aside).
I can't believe

She has any more jewels-no-no-she gave me all.

LALAGE.

What didst thou say, Jainta ?

Now I bethink me

Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo ?-and when is it to be?
Can I do aught ?-is there no farther aid
Thou needest, Jacinta

?

142

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

JACINTA.

Is there no farther aid!
That's meant for me (aside).

I'm sure, Madam, you

need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

LALAGE.

Jewels I Jacinta,-now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.

JACINTA.

Oh! perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;

SCENES

FROM

143
4

" POLITIAN."

And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.
(Exit.
(LALAGE bursts into tears and leans her

head upon the table-aftera short pause
raises it.)

LALAGE.

Poor Lalage !-and is it come to this ?
Thy servant maid!-but courage !--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(Taking up the mirror.)
la ! here at least's a friend-too much a friend
In earlier days-a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true now tell me (for thou canst)
tale-a pretty tale-and heed thou not

A.

!

Though it be rife with woe.

It answers me.

It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And Beauty long deceased-remembers me
Of Joy departed-Hope, the Seraph Hlope,

144

SCENES

FROM

" POLITIAN."

Inurned and entombed !-now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true !-thou liest
not!
Thou hast no end to gain-no heart to breakCastiglione lied who said he lovedThou true !-he false !--false !- -false !
(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved.)

MONK.

Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter ! in Heaven. Think of eternal things !
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray !

LALAGE (arising hurriedly).

I cannot pray !-My soul is at war with God !
The frightful sounds of merriment below
Disturb my senses-go ! 1 cannot pray-

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

1
145

Tht sweet airs from the garden worry me !
Thy presence grieves me-go !-thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread-thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!

MONK.

Think of thy precious soul!

LALAGE.

Think of my early days !-think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door !
Think of my little sisters !-think of them !
And think of me !-think of my trusting love
And confidence-his vows-my ruin-think-think
Of my unspeakable misery !- begone!
Yet stay! yet stay

!-what

was it thou saidst of

prayer
And penitence?

And vows

Didst thou not speak of faith

before the throne ?
10

146

SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."

MONLK.

I did.

LALAGE.

'Tis well.
There is a vow were fitting should be madeA sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow I

MONK.

Daughter, this zeal is well !

LALAGE.

Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing !

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

1
147

A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow?
(He hands her his own.)
Not that--Oh ! no !-no!-no!
(Shudderzng.)
Not that ! Not that !-I tell thee, holy man.
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,I have a crucifix ! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed-the vow-the symbol of the deedAnd the deed's register should tally, father!
(Draws a cross-handled dagger and raises
it on high.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!

MONK.

Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy-thy lips are livid-

148

SCENES

FROm " POLITIAN."

Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late !-oh, be not-be not rash!
Swear not the oath-oh, swear it not !

LALAGE.

'Tis sworn !

ScENES

PFROM

" POLITIAN."

1
149

Ilf.

An apartmentin a Palace. PouA1N and BALDAZZAR,

BALDAZZAR.

Arouse thee now, Politian !
Thou must not-nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself !
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest 1

rOLITIANo

Not so, Baldazzar!
Surely I live.

150

SCENES FROMl " POLITIAN."

BALDAZZAR.

Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.

POLITIAN.

Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir ! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which from my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!

BALDAZZAR.

To the field, then-to the fieldTo the senate or the field.

. SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

5
151

POLITIAN.

Alas! alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp hath followed me even there !
There is-- what voice was that?

BALDAZZAR.

I heard it not,
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.

POLITIAN.

Then I but dreamed.

BALDAZZAR.

Give not thy soul to dreams : the camp-the court
Befit thee-Fame awaits thee-Glory calls--

152

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.

POLITIAN.

It is a phantom voice 1
Didst thou not hear it then ?

BALDAZZAR.

I heard it not.

POLITIAN.

Thou heardst it not !-

Baldazzar, speak no more

To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth ! Bear with me yet awhile
We have been boys together--schoolfellows--

i

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

1
153

And now are friends-yet shall not be so long-For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a PowerA Power august, benignant and supremeShall then absolve thee of all farther duties
Unto thy friend.

BALDAZZAR.

Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I will not understand.

POLITIAN.

Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I cannot die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--

154

SCENES

FROM " POLITIAN."

Rich melodies are floating in the windsA rarer loveliness bedecks the earthAnd with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.-Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar ?

BALDAZZAR.

Indeed I hear not.

POLITIAN.

Not hear it !-listen,now !-listen !--the faintest sounO
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice !-and sorrow in the tone !
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!I
Again !-again !--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts ! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard-yet it were well
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days i

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

BALDAZZAR.

I myself hear it now.
Be still 1-the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from yonder lattice-which you may see
Very plainly through the window-it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency-and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.

POLITIAN.

Be still !-it

comes again!

VOICE

(very faintly).

"And is thy heart so strorng
As for to leave me thus

155
1

156G

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and wo among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay-say nay 1'

BALDAZZAR.

The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England-never so plaintivelyHist ! hist! it comes again!

VOICE (more loudly).
"Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and wo among ?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?

Say nay-say nay !"

SCENES FROM

POLITIAN."

BALDAZZAR.

'Tis hushed and all is still!

POLITIAN.

All is not still!

BALDAZZAR.

Let us go down.

POLITIAN.

Go down, Baldazzar, go!

BALDAZZAR,

The hour is growing late-the Duke awaits us,.Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee. Earl Pnlitian ?

157

]58

SCENES

FROM

" POLITIAN."

VOICE (distinctly).

"Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and wo among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay-say nay !"

BALDAZZAR.

Let us descend !-'tis time.
These fancies to the wind.

Politian, give
Remember, pray,

Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke.

Arouse thee! and remember!

POLITIAN.

Remember ? I do.

Lead on ! I do remember.
(Going.)

Let us descend.

Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice-

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

159

"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue."

BALDAZZAR.

Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me-the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.

voic

(loudly).
Say nay ! say nay!

POLITIAN

(aside).

'Tis strange !-'tisvery strange-methought the voice
Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay !
(Approaching the window.
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this Fancy, by Heaven ! or be it Fate,

160

SCENES FROM

Still will I not descend.

" POLITIAN '

Baldazzar, make

Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.

BALDAZZAR.

Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to.

Good night, Politian.

POLITIAN.

Good night, my friend, good night

161
6

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

IV.

The gardens of a Palace-Moonlight. LALAGE and PouIm,.

LALAGE.

And dost thou speak of love
To me, Politian ?-dost thou speak of love
To Lalage ?-ah, wo-ah, wo is me !
This mockery is most cruel-most cruel indeed

!

POLITIAN.

Weep not ! oh, sob not thus!-thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh mourn not, LalageBe comforted ! I know-I know it all,
And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest
And beautiful Lalage !-turn here thine eyes !
11

162

SCENES FKROM " POLITIAN."

Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
Thou askest me that-and thus I answer theeThus on my bended knee I answer thee.

(Kneeling.)
Sweet Lalage, I love thee-love thee-love thee ;
Thro' good and ill-thro' weal and wo I love thee.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love ?
(Arzszng.)
Even for thy woes I love thee-even for thy woesThy beauty and thy woes.

LALAGE.

Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens

SCENES

FROM "PPOLITIAN."

1
163

Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide ?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory-My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?

POLITIAN.

Speak not to me of glory I
I hate-I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ?
Do I not love-art thou not beautifulHa ! glory !-now speak not
What need we more?
of it.
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-By all my wishes now-my fears hereafterBy all I scorn on earth and hope in heavenThere is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters itWhat matters it, my fairest, and my best,

164

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust-so we descend together.
Descend together-and then-and then, perchance -

LALAGE.

Why dost thou pause, Politian ?

POLITIAN.

And then, perchance,
Arise together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still-

LALAGE.

Why dost thou pause, Politian ?

POLITIAN,

And still together-together.

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

165
1

LALAGE.

Now, Earl of Leicester!
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.

POLITIAN.

Oh, Lalage!
(Throwing tumself upon his knee.)
And lovest thou me ?

LALAGE.

Hist ! hush ! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passedA spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiselessLike the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(Walks across and returns.)

166

SCENES

FROM

POLITIAN."

I was mistaken-'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind.

Politian!

POLITIAN,

My Lalage-my love! why art thou moved ?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly-and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.

LALAGE.

Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love.

Knowest thou the land

With which all tongues are busy-a land new foundMiraculously found by one of GenoaA thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,

SCENES FROM

c

POLITIAN."

1
167

And mountains, around whose towering summits the
winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow-which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?

POLITIAN.

O, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise-my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me ? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes-and thou shalt be
No more a mourner-but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever ; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all ;-oh, wilt thou-wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?

168

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN.

LALAGE.

A deed is to be doneCastiglione lives !

POLITIAN.

And he shall die !

(Ex .

LALAGE (after a pause).

And-he-shall-die

!

--

alas!

Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I ?-what was it he said ?-Politian !
Thou art not goneo--thou art not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone-yet dare not look.
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
With those words upon thy lips-O, speak to me !
And let me hear thy voice-one word-one word,
To say thou art not gone,-one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn-how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness.

Ha! ha! thou art not gone-

SCENES

FROM " POLITIAN."

1

9

0 speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go !
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
Villain, thou art not gone-thou mockest me!
-- He is gone, he
And thus I clutch thee-thus!is goneGone-gone.

Where am I?-

'tis well-'tis very

well!
So that the blade be keen-the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis veru' well-alas ! alas !

170

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN.

The suburbs.

POuaTi- vIoloe.

POLITIAN.

'his weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived !-Stay-stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile !-Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, 0 pity me !
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life-I who so late
Demanded but to die !-what sayeth the Count?

Enter BALDAZZAR.

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

1
171

BALDAZZAR.

That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself,
He doth decline your cartel.

POLITIAN.

What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers !-a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen!-what said the Count ?

BALDAZZAR.

That he, Castiglione, not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself
Cannot accept the challenge.

172

SCENES

FROM " POLITIAN."

POLITIAN.
It is most true-

All this is very truie.

When saw you, sir,

When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid,
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this-so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds ?-and he did say ?

BALDAZZAR.

No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.

.

All very true.

POLITIAN.

Now this is trueThou art my friend, Baldazzar,

And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say

SCENES FROM 4 POLITIAN."

17
173

Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain ?- thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count-it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.

BALDAZZAR.

My lord !-my friend !

POLITIAN (aside).

'Tis he !-he comes himself!

(aloud.) Thou reasonest

well.
I know what thou wouldst say-not send the message Well !--I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me-hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.

BALDAZZAR.

I go-to-morrow we meet
Do we not ? -at the Vatican.

174

SCENES

FROM

" POLITIAN."

POLITIAN.

At the Vatican.
(Exit BALDAZZAR

Enter

CASTIGLIONE.

CASTIGLIONE.

The Earl of Leicester here!

POLITIAN.

I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
I)ost thou not? that I am here.

CASTIGLIONE.

My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake-misunderstanding-

SCENES

FROM " POLITIAN."

1
175

Hath without doubt arisen : thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
B3aldazzar, Duke of Surrey.

I am aware

Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha !-am I right?
'Twas a mistake ?-undoubtedly-we all
Do err at times.

POLITIAN.

Draw, villain, and prate no more 1

CASTIGLIONE.

Ha !1-draw?-and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl!
(Draws

POLITIAN (drawing).

Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
in the name of Lalage !

176

SCENES FR,1OM

"

,

OLITIAN "

CASTIGLIONE (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the

extremity of the stage).
Of Lalage !
Hold off--thy sacred hand !-avaunt, I say !
Avaunt-I will not fight thee-indeed I dare not.

POLITIAN.

Thou wilt not fight with me, didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus ?-now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not ? Ha!

CASTIGLIONE.

I dare not--dare notHold off thy hand-with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight theeI cannot--dare not.

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

1
1717

POLITIAN.

Now by my halidom
I do believe thee !-coward, I do believe thee-

CASTIGLIONE.

Ha !-coward !-this may not be!
(Clutches his sword and staggers towards
but his purpose is changed
before reaching him, and he falls upon
POLITIAN,

his knee at the feet of the Earl.)
Alas! my lord,
It is-it is-most true.
I am the veriest coward.

In such a cause
0 pity me!

POLITIAN (greatly softened).

Alas !-I do-indeed I pity thee.
12

178

SCENES FROM

" POLITIAN."

CASTIGLIONEL.

And Lalage-

POLITIAN.

Scoundrel !-ariseand die !

CASTIGLIONE.

it needeth not be-thus-thus-O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home(Baringhis bosom.)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weaponStrike home.

I will not fight thee.

POLITIAN.

Now s'Death and Hell
Am I not--am I not sorely-grievously temnited

SCENES FROM " POLITIAN."

179

To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets-before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow theeLike an avenging spirit I'll follow thee-Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovestBefore all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,-I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear ? with cowardice-thou wilt not fight me?
(Exit.
Thou liest ! thou shalt !

CASTIGLIONE

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

POEMS

WRITTEN IN YOUTH.

reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of
PmRIVATE
plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems-have
induced me, after some hesitation, to re-publish these, the crude
compositions of my earliest boyhood.

They are printed verbaim--

without alteration from the original edition-the date of which is too
remote to be judiciously acknowledged.
E. A. P.

POEMS WRITTEN

SONNET.-TO

IN

YOUTIL

SCIENCE.

SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities ?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies.
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing ?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car ?
And driven the Iamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star ?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tre ?

AL

AARAAF.

PART

I.

0 ! NOTRmING
earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-0 ! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rillOr (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That, like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwellOh, nothing of the dross of oursYet all the beauty-all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowersAdorn yon world afar, afarThe wandering star.

AL AAIRAAF.

'Twas a sweet time for Nesace-for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns-a temporary restAn oasis in desert of the blest.
Away-away-'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soulThe soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destined eminenceTo distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favored one of GodBut, now, the ruler of an anchored realm,
She throws aside the sceptre-leaves the heh,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in you lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro'4any a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
it lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity-and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curledFit emblems of the model of her world-

185

186

AL AAEAAF.

Seen but in beauty-not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering through the lightA wreath that twined each starry form around.
And all the opal'd air in color bound.

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers : of lilies such as reared the head
b On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
deep prideUpon the flying footsteps ofCOf her who loved a mortal-and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees :
d And gemmy flower of Trebizond misnamedInmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was droppdd 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 :

AL AARAAF.

187

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 balm: air,
Like guilty beauty, chastened and more fair :
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night :
SAnd Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run :
' And that aspiring flower that sprang on EarthAnd 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 lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone
SAnd thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante

!

e!
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 odors, up to Heax

')

:

188

AL AAEAAF,

Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blueThe boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy barOf the barrier overgone
By the comets who were east
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the lastTo be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not partWho livest-that we knowIn Eternity-ewe feelBut 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 ownThy will is done, 0 God:

AL AARAAF.

189

The star hath ridden high
Through many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to theeIn thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire, and so be
A partner of thy throneBy winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."

She ceased-and buried then her burning cheek
Abashed, amid the lilies, there to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirred not-breathed 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.
All Nature speaks, and even ideal things
'lp shadowy sounds from visionary wings-

190

AL AARAAF.

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!

m

"1What though in worlds which sightless cycles
run,

Linked to a little system, and one sunWhere 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 crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony skySApart-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 "

.

AL AARAAF.

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve !-on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love--and one moon adoreThe 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
SHer way-but left not yet her Theiaswan reign.

all

192

AL AARAAFV

PARIT

II.

HIGHn on a mountain of enamelled headSuch as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a muttered "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 danced with the fair stranger lightUpreared upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthened air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down pon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair,
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall

a

Through the ebon air, besilvering the pail
Of their own dissolution, while they dieAdorning then the dwellings of the sky.

AL AAuAAF.

A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crownA window of one circular diamond, there,
Looked out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chai.
And hallowed all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world : that grayish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
Lurked in each cornice, round each architraveAnd every sculptured cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seemed earthly in the shadow of his nicheAchaian statues in a world so rich ?
bFriezes from Tadmor and Persepolis--

From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
SOf beautiful Gomorrah ! O, the wave
Is now upon thee-but too late to save!

Sound loves to revel in a summer night :
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
13

193

194
d

That, stole upon

AL AARAAF.

the ear, in Eyraco,

Of many a wild star-gazer long agoThat stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
And sees the darkness comining as a cloudIs 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 wingsA pause-and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paused and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath,
The fairy light that kissed her golden hair
And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there I

SYoung flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night-and tree to tree;

AL

AARAAF.

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 wingsAnd sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

" 'Neath the blue bell or streamerOr tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
moonbeam away-Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skiea,
Till they glance through the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like--eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you nowArise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty besceming

SThe

These star-litten hours-

196

AL AAEAAF.

And shake from your tresses
Encumbered with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too(0! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lulled ye to rest!
Up !-shake from your wing
Each hindering thing :
The dew of the nightIt would weigh down your flight
And true love caresses0 ! leave them apart !
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.

Ligeia ! Ligeia !
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O ! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,

AL AARAAF.

hLike the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

Ligeia ! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleepBut the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keepThe sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the showerThe murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of thingsBut are modelled, alas ! -Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away

197

198

AL AAEAA F.

To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-rayTo lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewei its breastWhere wild flowers, creeping,
HIave mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maidSome have left the cool glade, and
H ave slept with the beeArouse them my maiden,
On moorland and leaGo! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
The musical number
They slumbered to hearFor 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,

EL AAIiAAF.

.

19
199

The rhythmical number
Which lulled him to rest?"

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean through,
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flightSeraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, through thy bounds, afar
O Death! from eye of God upon that star :
Sweet was that error-sweeter still that deathSweet was that error-e'en with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joyTPo them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroyFor what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood-or that Bliss is Wo ?
Sweet was their death-with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate lifeBeyond that death no immortalityBut sleep that pondereth and is not "to be "And there--oh ! may my weary spirit dwellApart from Heaven's Eternity-and yet how far
from Hell !
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?

200

AL AARAAF.

But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover0 ! 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 moss-y-mantled wellA gazer on the lights that shine aboveA dreamer in the moonbeam by his love :
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hairAnd they, and every 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 AngeloBeetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love-his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament :
Now turned it upon her-but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

201

AL AARAAF.

"

Ianthe, dearest, see!

How lovely 'tis to

ow maim that ray !

look so far away!

She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls-nor mourned to leave.
That eve-that eve-I should remember wellThe sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sat, and on the draperied wallAnd on my eyelids--0 the heavy light!
How drowsily it weighed them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan :
But 0 that light !-Islumbered-Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept-or knew that he was there.

The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
m Was a proud temple called the ParthenonMore beauty clung around her column'd wall
SThan ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I-as the eagle from his tower,

.

202

AL AARAAF.

And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my viewTenantless 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 theeAnd greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness-and passionate love."

"But, list, lanthe ! when the air so soft
o

Failed, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,

Perhaps my brain grew dizzy-but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurledSprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And rolled, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell-not swiftly as I rose before,

AL AArEAAF.

But with a downward, tremulous motion through
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto !
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours-Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Dedalion 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 GodBut, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
HTeadiong thitherward o'er the starry seaBut when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
Beauty's then I"
And thy star trembled-as

(doth

203

204

AL AARAAF.

Thus, in discoi se, 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.

TO

HE

RIVER

FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow

Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty-the unhidden heartThe playful magazines of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looksWhich glistens then, and tremblesWhy, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply liesHis heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

TAMlERLANE.

KIND solace in a dying hour !
Such, father, is not (now) my theme--I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd inI have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope-that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope-Oh God! I canIts fount is holier-more divineI would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame,
O yearning heart!

I did inherit

Thy withering portion with the fame.

TAMERLANE.

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 again0 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.

I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpinglyHath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Cesar-this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life :
The mists of the Taglay have shed

207

208

TAMIERLANE.

Nightly their dews upon my head,
And I believe the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven-that dew-it fell
('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
Appeared 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,
Mly own voice, silly child !--was swelling
(0! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory !

The rain came down upon my head
Unshelter'd-and the heavy wind

TAM ERLANE.

Rendered me mad, and deaf, and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me : and the rushThe 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.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature-be it so :
But, father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then-in my boyhood--when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words-alas !-to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
14

209

210

TAMERLANE.

Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Areshadows on th' unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters-with their meaning-melt
To fantasies-with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!
Love-as in infancy, was mine'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense-then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright--Pureas her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within for light?

TAMERLANE.

We grew in age-and love-togetherRoaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weatherAnd when the friendly sunshine smiled,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven-but in her eyes.

the heart :
Young Love's first lesson isthat sunshine and those smiles,
For 'mid
When, from our litle cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tearsThere was no need to speak the restNo need to quiet any fears
Of her-who ask'd no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye !

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone-

211

212

TAMEIIRLANE.

i had no being-but in thee :
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth-the air-the seaIts joy-its little lot of pain
That was new pleasurethe 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.

I was ambitious--have you known
The passion, father?

You have not:

A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lotBut, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'

TAMERLANE.

The minute-the hour-the day-oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

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 hillsThe dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically-in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelesslyA mingled feeling with my ownThe flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I13

914
-x

TAM3ERLANE.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crown--Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over meBut that, among the rabble-men,
Lion ambition is chained downAnd crouches to a keeper's handNot so in deserts where the grandThe wild-the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand !Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling-her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throneAnd who her sovereign?

Timour-he

Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtilyA diadem'd outlaw!

TAMERLANE.

O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth of all we hope in Heaven !
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness !
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birthFarewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopinglyAnd homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset : when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one

215

216

TAMERLANE.

Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.

What though the moon-the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
Her smile is chilly-and her beam,

In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest oneFor all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flownLet life, then,, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty-which is all.

I reach'd my home-my home no moreFor all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was sofrt and low,

TAMERLANE.

A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier knownO, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below
A humbler heart--a deeper we.

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' EternityI do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human pathElse how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven

217

218

TAMERLANE.

No mote may shun-no tiniest flyThe light'ning of his eagle eyeHow was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till, growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair

TO

--.

THE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips-and all thy melody
Of lip begotten words-

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall-

Thy heart-thiy heart !-I

wake and sigh,

And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buyOf the baubles that it may.

A DREA

.

IN visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departedBut a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past ?

That holy dream-that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
lath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

A

DREAM.

291

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afarWhat could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star ?

ROMANCE.

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 birdTaught me my alphabet to sayTo lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child-with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

ROMANCE.

And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flingsThat little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away-forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

223

FAIRY-LAND.

DIm vales-and shadowy floods-

And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane-

Again--again-again-Every moment of the night-Forever changing placesAnd they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
About twelve by the moon-dial,
One more filmy than the rest
(A kind which, upon trial,
They have found to be the best)
Comes down-still down--and down,
With its centre on the crown

FAIRY-LAND.

Of a mountain's eminence,
While its wide circumference
In easy drapery falls
Over hamlets, over halls,
Wherever they may beO'er the strange woods-o'er the seaOver spirits on the wingOver every drowsy thingAnd buries them up quite
In a labyrinth of lightAnd then, how deep !-O0, deep !
Is the passion of their sleep.
In the morning they arise,
And their moony covering
Is soaring in the skies,
With the tempests as they toss,
Likealmost anythingOr a yellow Albatross.
They use that moon no more
For the same end as beforeVidelicet a tentWhich I think extravagant:
Its atomies, however,
Into a shower dissever,
15

225

226

FAIRY-LAND.

Of which those butterflies
Of Earth, who seek the skies,
And so come down again,
(Never contented things!)
Have brought a specimen
Upon their quivering wings.

THE

LAKE-TO

-.

IN spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melodyThen-ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight(227)

228

THE LAKE-TO

A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to defineNor Love-although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imaginingWhose solitary soul could make
kn Eden of that dim lake.

SONG.

I sAw thee on thy bridal dayWhen a burning blush came o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay,
The world all love before thee :

And in thine eye a kindling light
(Whatever it might be)
Was all on Earth my aching sight
Of Loveliness could see.

That blush, perhaps, was maiden shameAs such it well may passThough its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas I

230

SONG.
Who saw thee on that bridal day,
When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
Though happiness around thee lay;
The world all love before thee.

TO M.

L.

S-

.

OF

all who hail thy presence as the morningOf all to whom thine absence is the nightThe blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun-of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope-for life-ah! above all,
For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
In Truth-in Virtue-in

IlHumanity-

n Despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, " Let there be light!"
Of all who,

At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyesOf all who owe thee most--whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship-oh, remember

232

TO M. L. S--.

The truest-the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by himBy him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

NOTES

TO AL AARAAF.

PART I.
Note a page 184.

Al Aaraaf.

A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly
in the heavens-attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing
that of Jupiter-then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been
seen since.

b P. 186.

On the fair Capo Deucato.

On Santa Maura-olim Deucadia.

° P. 186.
Sappho.

Of her who loved a mortal--andso died,

234

NOTES TO AL AAJRAAF.

d P. 186.

And gem my flower, of Treb zond misnamed

This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.

The

bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.

SP. 187.

And Clytia pondering between many a sunt.

Clytia-the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better
known term, the turnsol-which turns continually towards the sun,
covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy
clouds, which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent
heat of the day.-B. i) Sr. PIERRE.

P. 187. And that aspiringflower that sprangon Earth.
There is cultivated in the king's garden, at Paris, a species of
serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower
exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, (luring the time of its expansion, which is very short.

It does not blow till towards the month

of July-you then perceive it gradually open its petals-expand
them-fade and die.-ST. PIERRE.

SP.

187.

And Valisnerian lotus thitherflown.

There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian
kind.

Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet-thus

preserving its head above water in the sweltiig

of the river.

NOTES TO AL AARAAF.

And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante.

P. 187.

The Hyacinth.

S'P. 187.

And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever;
With Indian Cupid down the holy river.

It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen fleating in
one of these down the river Ganges---and that he still loves the
cradle of his childhood.

J
P.187.

To bearthe Goddess' song in odors up to Heaven.

And golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of the
saints.--REV. ST.JoiIN.

P. 188.

A model of their own.

The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having
really a human form.- Vide CLARKE'S
SAtoss, vol. 1, page 26, fol.
edit.
The driftof Milton's argument leads him to employ language which
would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it
will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge
of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages
of the church.-Da. SuMv .a's No'rs ox MlaoY's CmuIsruTv Dcu.v'Ia

14

236

NOTES TO AL AARA.F.

This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could
never have been very general.

Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia,

was condemned for the opinion, as heretical.

He lived in the begin.

His disciples were called Anthropmor.

ning of the fourth century.
phites.-Vide Du PL.

Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:
"Dicite sacrorum presides nmmorum Dem, &c.
Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
Eternus, incorruptus, equmvus polo,
Unusque et universus exemplar Dei."
And afterwards" Non cui profundum Coecitas lumen dedit
Dircaeus augur vidit hunc alto sinu," &c.

'P. 189.

By winged Fantasy.

Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
Seinem Schosskinde
Der Phantasie.--GETHi.

P. 190.

m

What though in worlds which sightless cycles run.
Sightless-too small to be seen.-LaGE.

NOTES TO AL AAEAAF.
a

P. 190.

237

Apart-like fire-flies in Sicilian night.

I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies ;-they
will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerabl3 radii.

SP.191.

Her way-but left not yet her Therasceanreign.

Therasma, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in
a moment. arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners.

238

NOTES TO AL AARAAF.

PART II.

a P. 192.

Of molten stars their pavement, such as fil?
Through the ebon air.

Some star which from the ruined roof
Of shaked Olympus, by mischaice, did fall.-MALTox.

'P.
193.

Friezesfrom Tadmor and Persepolis.

Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, " Jo connois bien l'admiration qu'inspirent cos ruines-mais un palais erig6 au pied d'une
ehaine des rochers sterils-peut il Wre un chef d'oeuvre des arts I "

SP. 193.

Of beautifid Gomorrah! O, the wave.

Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its own shores, it
is called Bahar Loth, or Almotm ah.

There were undoubtedly more

than two cities ingulfed in the "Dead Sea."

In the Valley of Siddim

were five-Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah.

Stephen of

Byzantium mentions eight, an' Strabo thirteen (ingulfed)-but the
last is out of all reason.
It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maun

NOTES Tro AL

239

AEAAF.

drell, Troilo, D'Arvieux] that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, &c., are seen above the surface.

At any

season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the
transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence
of many settlements in the space now usurped by the 'Asphaltites."

P 194.

That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco.

Eyraco-Chaldea.

SP. 194.

Is not its form-its voice, most palpable
and loud?

I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the dark
ness as it stole over the horizon.

SP. 194.

Young flowers were whispering in melody.

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.-MERRY WIvEs OF WnDSOR

P. 195.

The moonbeam away.

In Scripture is this passage-" The sun shall not harm thee by
day, nor the moon by night."

It is perhaps not generally known

that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to
those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes.

210

NOTES TO AL AARAAP.

lP. 197.

Like the lone Albatross.

The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

The murmur that springs.

' P. 197.

I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unaole
to obtain, and quote from memory :-"

The verie essence and, as it

were, springe-heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunto
sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."

JP. 198.

Have slept with the bee.

The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.
The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an
appearance of affectation.

It is, however, imitated from Sir W.

Scott, or rather from Claude Halcro-in whose mouth I admired its
effect:
SOh! were there an island
Though ever so wild,
Where woman might smile, ard
No man be beguiled," &c.

k P. 199.

Apart from Heaven's Eternity-and yet how
far from Hell.

With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell,

NOTES TO AL AARAAF.

941

where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil
and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of
heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido suenoUIndia puro-allegre-libre
QuieraLibre de amor-de zeloDe odio-de esperanza-de rezelo.-Lujs PONCE DE LEON.
Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow
which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some
minds, resembles the delirium of opium.

The passionate excitement

of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication ars
its less holy pleasures-the price of which, to those souls who make
choice of " Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, i, final death
and annihilation.

'P. 200.

Unguided love hath fallen-'mid " tears of
perfect moan."
There be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon.-MnLTox.

" P. 201.

Was a proud temple, called the PartheT n.
c

It was entire in 1687-the most elevated spot in Athens.

16

242
P. 201.

NOTES TO AL AARAAF.

Than e'en thy glowing bosom beats withal.

Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.-ARLLowE.

° P. 202.

Failed as my pennon'd spirit leaped aloft.

Fnnon-for pinion.-MIrLTox.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

TIE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design
to be either thorough or profound. While discussing,
very much at random, the essentiality of what we call
Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which,
upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me
to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar
principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has
always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I
maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a
flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title
only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The
value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating ex-

246
citement.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

But all excitements are, through a psychal

necessity, transient.

That degree of excitement which

would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be
sustained throughout a composition of any great length.
After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
flags-fails-a revulsion ensues-and then the poem is,
in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty
in reconciling the critical dictum that the "Paradise
Lost" is to be devoutly admnired throughout, with the
absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during
perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical
dictum would demand.

This great work, in fact, is to

be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of that
vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
merely as a series of minor poems.

If, to preserve its

Unity-its totality of effect or impression-we read it
(as would be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is
but a constant alternation of excitement and depression.
After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry,
there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which
no critical pre-judgment can force us to admire; but
if; upon completing the work, we read it again; omitting the first book-that is to say, commencing with

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

247

the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that
admirable which we before condemned--that damnable
which we had previously so much admired. It follows
from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute
effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity:
and this is precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof,
at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a
series of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can
say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense
of Art. The modern epic is, of the suppositious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over.
If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in
reality-which I doubt-it is at least clear that no very
long poem will ever be popular again.
That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus,
the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we
thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd-yet we
are indebted for it to the quarterly Reviews. Surely
there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered
-there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume
is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to

N4

THE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude
which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the
sublime--but no man is impressed after this fashion by
the material grandeur of even "The Columbiad."
Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so
impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our
estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by
the pound--but what else are we to infer from their
continual prating about "sustained effort?" If, by
"sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effortif this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account.

It is to

be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will
pr.fer deciding upon a work of Art, rather by the impression it makes-by the effect it produces-than by
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount
of "sustained effort" which had been found necessary
in effecting the impression.

The fact is, that persever

ance is one thing and genius quite another-nor can all
tho Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. Byand-by, this proposition, with many which I have been
just urging, will be received as self-evident.

In the

THE POETIC PIRINCIPLE.

249

meantime. by being generally condemned as falsities,
they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be
improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere
A very short poem, while now and
then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
epigrammatism.

profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady
pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spiritstirring; but, in general, they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention; and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been
blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevitv
in depressing a poem-in keeping it out of the popular
view-is afforded by the following exquisite little Sere
nade:

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
hfas led me-who knows how ?To thy chamber-window, sweet I

250

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
The wandering airs they hfaint
On the dark, the silent streamThe cham pak odors til
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,
O, belovedl as thou art

O, lift me from the grass I
I die, I faint, I fail
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and whit-, alas
My heart heats loud and tfast:
Oh I press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last I

Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines---yet
no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their
warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all--but by none so thoroughly as by him
who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one
beloved, to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern
mnidsltmmer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis-the very best, in
my opinion, which he has ever written-has, no doubt,
through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

251

back from its proper position, not less in the critical
than in the popular view.

The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tideAnd slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charmed the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fairFor all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and trueFor her heart was cold td all but gold,
And the rich came not to wooBut honcored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fairA slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail'Twixt Want a d Scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

252

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
No inmercynow can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray ;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way IBut the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway I

In this composition we find it difficult to recognisec
the Willis who has written so many mere "verses of
society." The lines are not only richly ideal, but full
of energy; while they breathe an earnestness--an evident sincerity of sentiment-for which we look in vain
throughout all the other works of this author.
While the epic mania-while the idea that, to merit
in poetry, prolixity is indispensable-has, for some years
past, been gradually dying out of the public mind, by
mere dint of its own absurdity-we find it succeeded
by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but
one which, in the brief period it has already endured,
may be said to have accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic.
It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and
indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is
Truth.

Every poem, it is said, should inctulcate a

moral; and by this moral is the poetical merit of the

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

work to be adjudged.

253

We Americans especially have

patronized this happy idea; and we Bostonians, very
especially, have developed it in full. We have taken it
into our heads that to write a poem simply for the
poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our
design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting
in the true Poetic dignity and force:-but the simple
fact is, that, would we but permit ourselves to look
into our own souls, we should immediately there discover
that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist
any work more thoroughly dignified-more supremely
noble than this very poem-this poem per se-this
poem which is a poem and nothing more-this poem
written solely for the poem's sake.
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever
inspired the bosom of man, I would, nevertheless, limit,
in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would
limit to enforce them.
dissipation.

I would not enfeeble them by

The demands of Truth are severe.

She

has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is
so indispensable in Song, is precisely all that with which
she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her
a flaunting paradox, to wreathe her in gems and flowers.
In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than

254

TIE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise,
terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a
word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must
be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and
chasmal differences between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation.

He must be theory-mad

beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences,
shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect,
Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which, in the mind,
it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either
extreme; but from the Moral Sense is separated by so
faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to
place some of its operations among the virtues themselves.

Nevertheless, we find the offices of the trio

marked with a sufficient distinction.

Just as the In-

tellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us
of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of
Duty.

Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the ob-

ligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents

255

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

herself with displaying the charms :-waging war upon
Vice solely on the ground of her deformity--her disproportion--her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious-in a word, to Beauty.
An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man,
is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is
which administers to his delight in the manifold forms,
and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he
exists.

And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or

the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral
or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and
colors, and odors, and sentiments, a duplicate source of
delight.

But this mere repetition is not poetry.

He

who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm,
or with however vivid a truth of description, of the
sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments,
which greet him in common with all mankind-he, I
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title.

There is

still a something in the distance which he has been
unable to attain.

We have still a thirst unquenchable,
to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs.
This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is
at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence It is the desire of the moth for the

250
star.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before

us-but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above.

In-

spired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond
the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations
among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a
portion of that Loveliness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone.

And thus when by

Poetry-or when by Music, the most entrancing of the
Poetic moods-we find ourselves melted into tears-we
weep then-not as the Abbate Gravina supposesthrough excess of pleasure, but through a certain,
petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp
now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those
divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem,
or through the music, we attain to but brief and
indeterminate glimpses.
The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness-this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted
-has

given to the world all that which it (the world)

has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel
as poetic.
The Poetic

Sentiment, of course, may develope

itself in various modes-in Painting, in Sculpture, in
Architecture, in the Dance-very especially in Music-

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

257

and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme,
however, has regard only to its manifestation in words
And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhytJm.
Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its
various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so
vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected
-- is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply
silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to
maintain its absolute essentiality.

It is in Music, per-

haps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end
for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it
struggles-the creation of supernal Beauty.

It may

be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then,
attained in fact. W e are often made to feel, with a
shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken
notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels.
And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of
Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find
the widest field for the Poetic development.

The old

Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do
not possess-and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs,
was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as
poems.

258

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

To recapitulate, then :-I would define, in brief, the
Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty.
With the Intellect or with
the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless
incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with
Its sole arbiter is Taste.

Duty or with Truth.
A few words, however, in explanation.

That plea-

sure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating,
and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the
contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that
pleasurable elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which
we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so
easily distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction
of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement
of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore-using the
word as inclusive of the sublime--I make Beauty the
province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious
rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:-no one as yet
having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar
elevation in question is at least most readily attainable
in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that
the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, of

TIHE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

259

even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into
a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve,
incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of
the work :-but the true artist will always contrive to
tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty
which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the

poem.
I cannot better introduce the few poems which I
shall present for your consideration, than by the cita.
tion of the Proem to Mr. Longfellow's "Waif."
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an Eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist ;

A feeling of sadness and longhng,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

260

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor ;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart.
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who through long days of labor,
And night devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
An l lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
their tents, like the Arabs,
Shall bfold
And as silently steal away.

THE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

261

With no great range of imagination, these lines have
been justly admired for their delicacy of expression.
Some of the images are very effective.

Nothing can

be better than-

The bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quartrain is also very effective.
The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well
in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and
especially for the ease of the general manner. This
"ease," or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long
been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone
-as a point of really difficult attainment. But not
so :-a natural manner is difficult only to him who
should never meddle with it-to the unnatural. It is
but the result of writing with the understanding, or
with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should
always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt
-and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.

The author who, after the fashion of "The

262

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

North American Review," should be, upon all occasions, merely "quiet," must necessarily, upon many occasions, be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more
right to be considered "easy," or "natural," than a
Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the
wax-works.
Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so
much impressed me as the one which he entitles "June."
I quote only a portion of it:

There, through the long, long summer hours
The golden light should lie,
And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming-bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts, at noon,
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent ?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothbd lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
nor sound.
Might know no sadder sight

THE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

263

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me, .
Nor its wild music flow
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene ;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is-that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous-nothThe poem has always

ing could be more melodious.

affected me in a remarkable manner.

The intense mel-

ancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface
of all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we
find thrilling us to the soul-while there is the truest
poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left is
one of a pleasurable sadness.

And if, in the remaining

compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be
more or less of a similar tone always apparent, let me

264

THE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

remind you that (how or why we know not) this certain
taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the
higher manifestations of true beauty.

It is, never-

theless,
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even
in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as the "Health"
of Edward Coate Pinkney :
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better
elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air
'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forlh issue from the rose.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

265

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours ;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers ;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns.The idol of past years I

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain :
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragonHer health I and would on earth there stood
Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been
born too far south. Had he been a New Englander
it is probable that he would have been ranked as the
first of American lyrists, by that magnanimous cabal
which has so long controlled the destinies of American

266

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

Letters, in conducting the thing called "The North
American Review." The poem just cited is especially
beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we
must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident
earnestness with which they are uttered.
It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate
upon the merits of what I should read you. These will
necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his
"Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a
very admirable book :-whereupon the god asked him
for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only
On hearing this,
Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade
him pick out all the chaff for his reward.
busied himself about the errors.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the
critics-but I am by no means sure that the god was in
the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in
the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put
to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require
to be demonstrated as such :-and thus, to point out

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

267

too particularly the merits of a work of Art is to admit
that they are not merits altogether.
Among the "Melodies"

of Thomas Moore, is one

whose distinguished character as a poem proper seems
to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to
his lines beginning--" Come rest in this bosom." The
intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by
anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which
a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of
the divine passion of Love-a sentiment which, perhaps,
has found its echo in more, and in more passionate human hearts, than any other single sentiment ever em.
bodied in words:
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue
And shield thee, and save thee,-or perish there too I

268

THE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore
Imagination, while granting him Fancy-a distinction
originating with Coleridge-than whom no man more
fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The
fact is that the fancy of this poet so far predominates
over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all
other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea
But never was there a greater

that he is fanciful only.
mistake.

Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of

a true poet.

In the compass of the English language

I can call to mind no poem more profoundly-more
wierdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines
commencing-" I would I were by that dim lake "which are the composition of Thomas Moore.

I regret

that I am unable to remember them.
One of the noblest-and, speaking of Fancy, one of
the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was
Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always, for me,
an inexpressible charm :
0 saw ye not fair Ines ?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest :
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

TIHE POETIC

PRINCIPLE.

O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright:
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
I dare not even write I

Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near I
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With a band of noble gentlemen,
And banners wav'd before ;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore ;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
-If it had been no more l

Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.

269

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,-Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore I
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more I

"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one
of the truest poems ever written-one of the truestone of the most unexceptionable-one of the most
thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal-imaginative.
Lregret that its length renders it unsuitable for the
purposes of this Lecture. In place of it, permit me
to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs."

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate.
Gone to her death.
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing ;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-

Touch her not scornfully
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now, is pure womanly.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful ;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily ;
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother
Had she a sister ?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other ?
Alas I for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun !
Oh I it was pitiful I
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly,
Feelings had changed;

271

Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'dAnywhere, anywhere
Out of the world I
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,Over the brink of it,
Picture it,-think of it,
Dissolute man I
Lave in it, drink of it
Then, if you can ;
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair I

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,-kindly,Smooth and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly I
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour I

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than
The versification, although carrying the
fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the
its pathos.

thesis of the poem.
Among the minor poems of Lord Byron, is one
which has never received from the critics the praise
which it undoubtedly deserves :

Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find ;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted.
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
Then when nature around me is smiling.
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is delivered
To pain-it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me :
They may crush, but they shall not contemn.
They may torture, but shall not subdue me'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me
Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with oneIf my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun :
And if dlearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.

18

,74a

TlE POETIC PRINCIPLE.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perished.
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difficult,
the versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the
soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider himself
entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he
still retains the unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson-although in perfect sincerity
I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived-I
have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen.

I call him; and think him the noblest of poets-

not because the impressions he produces are, at all
times, the most profound-not because the poetical excitement which he induces is, at all times, the most
intense-but because it is, at all times, the most ethereal-in other words, the most elevating and the most
pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What
I am about to read is from his last long poem, "The
Princess :"

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

275

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge ;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
0 Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose
to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly
and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty,
the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an

276

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

elevating excitement of the Soul-quite independent of
that passion which is the intoxication of the Heartor of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the ReaFor, in regard to Passion, alas! its tendency is

son.

to degrade, rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on
the contrary-Love-the true, the divine Eros-the
Uranian, as distinguished from the Diomean Venusis unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical
themes.

And in regard to Truth-if, to be sure,
through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we
experience, at once, the true poetical effect-but this
effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the
least degree to the truth which merely served to render
the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct
conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in
the Poet himself the true poetical effect. Hie recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the
bright orbs that shine in Heaven-in the volutes of
the flower-in the clustering of low shrubberies-in the
waving of the grain-fields--in the slanting of tall, Eastern trees-in the blue distance of mountains-in the

THE

POETIC PRINCIPLE.

grouping of clouds-in the twinkling of half-hidden
brooks-in the gleaming of silver rivers-in the repose
of sequestered lakes-in the star-mirroring depths of
He perceives it in the songs of birds-in the harp of JEolus-in the sighing of the night-wind
-in the repining voice of the forest-in the surf that
lonely wells.

complains to the shore-in the fresh breath of the
woods-in the scent of the violet-in the voluptuous
perfume of the hyacinth-in the suggestive odor that
comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered
islntuds, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored.
He owns it in all noble thoughts-in all unworldly motives-in all holy impulses-in all chivalrous, generous,
and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of
woman-in the grace of her step-in the lustre of her
eye-in the melody of her voice-in her soft laughter
-in her sigh-in the harmony of the rustling of her
robes.

He deeply feels it in her winning endearments

her burning enthusiasms-in her gentle charitiesin her meek and devotional endurances-but above all
-ah, far above all-he kneels to it-he worships it in
-in

the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether
divine majesty-of her love.
Let me conclude-by the recitation of yet another

278

THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

brief poem-one very different in character from any
that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and
is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With oui
modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity
and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that
frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the
sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence
of the poem.

To do this fully, we must identify our.

selves, in fancy, with the soul of the old cavalier.

Then mounte I then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine ;
Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe.
No shrewish teares shaHi fill our eye
When the sword-hilt's in our hand,Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe
For the fayrest of the land ;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
Thus weepe and puling crye,
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die.

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hl genius in
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he made no house thatcould hold him. Professor John Wilson,whose 'Noctee'
comes to us again, hisdauglhter
and
have turned
al
into days for his fame,
thatlovout, forthe world to lookat: and we can tell
turns contents of hisheart
the
ing daughter,
from away hereon the verge of the Americanprairies, thatthere is
pulses notbeat'Old
did
nothing
among contents may not be proud of. Htis
those
she
in
true,
Hundred,' yet he was notreckless; he held high revel dear oldEbonyand
till
page
Blackwood's
the mirthgrew wild and furious the sober
man neverlived."fairly laughedin your face, buta more earnest, honest, generous
Saturday Gazette.
"We do notbelieve the mostpractised and ablecritic in Scotland could have
that
light than hisdaughter has
done more to putWilson's literary labors a favorable
in
Review.
done."-Saturday
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commendation. We do notknow thatwe have ever read a biography which has, on
better."-Spectator.
the whole, satisfied ias
with so much feeling pathos, that asa
and
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has
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it
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