The Bells and Other Poems

ULALUME

The skies they were ashen and sober;The leaves they were crisped and sere —The leaves they were withering and sere;It was night in the lonesome OctoberOf my most immemorial year;It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,In the misty mid region of Weir —It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.Here once, through an alley Titanic,Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.These were days when my heart was volcanicAs the scoriac rivers that roll —As the lavas that restlessly rollTheir sulphurous currents down YaanekIn the ultimate climes of the pole —That groan as they roll down Mount YaanekIn the realms of the boreal pole.Our talk had been serious and sober,But our thoughts they were palsied and sere —Our memories were treacherous and sere —For 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 senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn —As the star-dials hinted of morn —At the end of our path a liquescentAnd nebulous lustre was born,Out of which a miraculous crescentArose with a duplicate horn —Astarte's bediamonded crescentDistinct with its duplicate horn.And I said – "She is warmer than Dian:She rolls through an ether of sighs —She revels in a region of sighs:She has seen that the tears are not dry onThese cheeks, where the worm never dies,And has come past the stars of the Lion,To point us the path to the skies —To the Lethean peace of the skies —Come up, in despite of the Lion,To shine on us with her bright eyes —Come up through the lair of the Lion,With love in her luminous eyes."But Psyche, uplifting her finger,Said – "Sadly this star I mistrust —Her pallor I strangely mistrust: —Oh, hasten! – oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly! – let us fly! – for we must."In terror she spoke, letting sink herWings until they trailed in the dust —In agony sobbed, letting sink herPlumes till they trailed in the dust —Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.I replied – "This is nothing but dreaming:Let us on by this tremulous light!Let us bathe in this crystalline light!Its Sybilic splendour is beamingWith 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 gleamingThat cannot but guide us aright,Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,And tempted her out of her gloom —And conquered her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the door of a tomb —By the door of a legended tomb;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 soberAs the leaves that were crisped and sere —As the leaves that were withering and sere;And I cried – "It was surely OctoberOn this very night of last yearThat I journeyed – I journeyed down here —That I brought a dread burden down here —On this night of all nights in the year,Ah, what demon has tempted me here?Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —This misty mid region of Weir —Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

ROMANCE

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,With drowsy head and folded wing,Among the green leaves as they shakeFar down within some shadowy lake,To me a painted paroquetHath been – a most familiar bird —Taught me my alphabet to say —To lisp my very earliest wordWhile in the wild wood I did lie,A child – with a most knowing eye.Of late, eternal Condor yearsSo shake the very Heaven on highWith tumult as they thunder by,I have no time for idle caresThrough gazing on the unquiet sky.And when an hour with calmer wingsIts down upon my spirit flings —That little time with lyre and rhymeTo while away – forbidden things!My heart would feel to be a crimeUnless it trembled with the strings.

SONNET – TO 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 wanderingTo 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 Hamadryad from the woodTo seek a shelter in some happier star?Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,The Elfin from the green grass, and from meThe summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

ELDORADO

Gaily bedight,A gallant knight.In sunshine and in shadow,Had journeyed long,Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.But he grew old —This knight so bold —And o'er his heart a shadowFell as he foundNo spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.And, as his strengthFailed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow —"Shadow," said he,"Where can it be —This land of Eldorado?""Over the MountainsOf the Moon,Down the Valley of the Shadow,Ride, boldly ride,"The shade replied —"If you seek for Eldorado!"

TO M —

O! I care not that my earthly lotHath little of Earth in it,That years of love have been forgotIn the fever of a minute:I heed not that the desolateAre happier, sweet, than I,But that you meddle with my fateWho am a passer by.It is not that my founts of blissAre gushing – strange! with tears —Or that the thrill of a single kissHath palsied many years —'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springsWhich have wither'd as they roseLie dead on my heart-stringsWith the weight of an age of snows.Not that the grass – O! may it thrive!On my grave is growing or grown —But that, while I am dead yet aliveI cannot be, lady, alone.

THE CONQUEROR WORM

Lo! 'tis a gala nightWithin the lonesome latter years!An angel throng, bewinged, bedightIn veils, and drowned in tears,Sit in a theatre, to seeA play of hopes and fears,While the orchestra breathes fitfullyThe music of the spheres.Mimes, in the form of God on high,Mutter and mumble low,And hither and thither fly —Mere puppets they, who come and goAt bidding of vast formless thingsThat shift the scenery to and fro,Flapping from out their Condor wingsInvisible Woe!That motley drama – oh, be sureIt shall not be forgot!With its Phantom chased for evermore,By a crowd that seize it not,Through a circle that ever returneth inTo the self-same spot,And much of Madness, and more of Sin,And Horror the soul of the plot.But see, amid the mimic routA crawling shape intrude!A blood-red thing that writhes from outThe scenic solitude!It writhes! – it writhes! – with mortal pangsThe mimes become its food,And seraphs sob at vermin fangsIn 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 stormWhile the angels, all pallid and wan,Uprising, unveiling, affirmThat the play is the tragedy, "Man,"And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

SONNET – TO ZANTE

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!How many memories of what radiant hoursAt sight of thee and thine at once awake!How many scenes of what departed bliss!How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!How many visions of a maiden that isNo more – no more upon thy verdant slopes!No more! alas, that magical sad soundTransforming all! Thy charms shall please no more—Thy memory no more! Accursèd groundHenceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

TO M. L. S. —

[Mrs. Marie Louise Shew.]Of all who hail thy presence as the morning —Of all to whom thine absence is the night —The blotting utterly from out high heavenThe sacred sun – of all who, weeping, bless theeHourly for hope – for life – ah! above all,For the resurrection of deep-buried faithIn Truth – in Virtue – in Humanity —Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bedLying down to die, have suddenly arisenAt thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilledIn the seraphic glancing of thine eyes —Of all who owe thee most – whose gratitudeNearest resembles worship – oh, rememberThe truest – the most fervently devoted,And think that these weak lines are written by him —By him who, as he pens them, thrills to thinkHis spirit is communing with an angel's.

TO THE RIVER —

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flowOf crystal, wandering water,Thou art an emblem of the glowOf beauty – the unhidden heart —The playful maziness of artIn old Alberto's daughter;But when within thy wave she looks —Which glistens then, and trembles —Why, then, the prettiest of brooksHer worshipper resembles;For in my heart, as in thy stream,Her image deeply lies —His heart which trembles at the beamOf her soul-searching eyes.

A DREAM

In visions of the dark nightI have dreamed of joy departed —But a waking dream of life and lightHath left me broken-hearted.Ah! what is not a dream by dayTo him whose eyes are castOn things around him with a rayTurned back upon the past?That holy dream – that holy dream,While all the world were chiding,Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,A lonely spirit guiding.What though that light, thro' storm and night,So trembled from afar —What could there be more purely brightIn Truth's day-star?

AL AARAAF

PART IO! nothing earthly save the ray(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,As in those gardens where the daySprings from the gems of Circassy —O! nothing earthly save the thrillOf melody in woodland rill —Or (music of the passion-hearted)Joy's voice so peacefully departedThat like the murmur in the shell.Its echo dwelleth and will dwell —Oh, nothing of the dross of ours —Yet all the beauty – all the flowersThat list our Love, and deck our bowers —Adorn yon world afar, afar —The wandering star.'Twas a sweet time for Nesace – for thereHer world lay lolling on the golden air,Near four bright suns – a temporary rest —An oasis in desert of the blest.Away – away – 'mid seas of rays that rollEmpyrean splendour o'er th' unchained soul —The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)Can struggle to its destin'd eminence, —To distant spheres, from time to time, she rodeAnd late to ours, the favour'd one of God —But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,She throws aside the sceptre – leaves the helm,And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,(Falling in wreaths thro' many 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 curled —Fit emblems of the model of her world —Seen but in beauty – not impeding sightOf other beauty glittering thro' the light —A wreath that twined each starry form around,And all the opal'd air in colour bound.All hurriedly she knelt upon a bedOf flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the headOn the fair Capo Deucato, and sprangSo eagerly around about to hangUpon the flying footsteps of – deep pride —Of her who lov'd a mortal – and so died.The Sephalica, budding with young bees,Upreared its purple stem around her knees: —And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd —Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'dAll other loveliness: – its honied dew(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven.And fell on gardens of the unforgivenIn Trebizond – and on a sunny flowerSo like its own above that, to this hour,It still remaineth, torturing the beeWith madness, and unwonted reverie:In Heaven, and all its environs, the leafAnd blossom of the fairy plant in griefDisconsolate linger – grief that hangs her head,Repenting follies that full long have fled,Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the lightShe fears to perfume, perfuming the night:And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,While pettish tears adown her petals run:And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wingIts way to Heaven, from garden of a king:And Valisnerian lotus, thither flownFrom struggling with the waters of the Rhone:And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!Isola d'oro! – Fior di Levante!And the Nelumbo bud that floats for everWith Indian Cupid down the holy river —Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is givenTo bear the Goddess' song, in odours, up to Heaven"Spirit! thou dwellest where,In the deep sky,The terrible and fair,In beauty vie!Beyond the line of blue —The boundary of the starWhich turneth at the viewOf thy barrier and thy bar —Of the barrier overgoneBy the comets who were castFrom their pride and from their throneTo be drudges till the last —To be carriers of fire(The red fire of their heart)With speed that may not tireAnd with pain that shall not part —Who livest —that we know —In Eternity – we feel —But the shadow of whose browWhat spirit shall reveal?Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,Thy messenger hath knownHave dream'd for thy InfinityA model of their own —Thy will is done, O God!The star hath ridden highThro' many a tempest, but she rodeBeneath thy burning eye;And here, in thought, to thee —In thought that can aloneAscend thy empire and so beA partner of thy throne —By wingèd Fantasy,My embassy is given,Till secrecy shall knowledge beIn the environs of Heaven."She ceas'd – and buried then her burning cheekAbash'd, amid the lilies there, too seekA shelter from the fervour of His eye;For the stars trembled at the Deity.She stirr'd not – breath'd not – for a voice was thereHow solemnly pervading the calm air!A sound of silence on the startled earWhich 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 ev'n ideal thingsFlap shadowy sounds from visionary wings —But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on highThe eternal voice of God is passing by,And the red winds are withering in the sky: —"What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles runLinked to a little system, and one sun —Where all my life is folly and the crowdStill 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 tho' in world which hold a single sunThe sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,Yet thine is my resplendency, so givenTo bear my secrets thro' the upper HeavenLeave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,With all thy train, athwart the moony sky —Apart – like fire-flies in the Sicilian night,And wing to other worlds another light!Divulge the secrets of thy embassyTo the proud orbs that twinkle – and so beTo ev'ry heart a barrier and a banLest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,The single-moonèd eve! – on Earth we plightOur faith to one love – and one moon adore —The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.As sprang that yellow star from downy hoursUp rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plainHer way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.PART IIHigh on a mountain of enamell'd head —Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bedOf giant pasturage lying at his ease,Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and seesWith many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven —Of Rosy head that, towering far awayInto the sunlight ether, caught the rayOf sunken suns at eve – at noon of night,While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger lightUprear'd upon such height arose a pileOf gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,Flashing from Parian marble that twin smileFar down upon the wave that sparkled there,And nursled the young mountain in its lair.Of molten stars their pavement, such as fallThro' the ebon air, besilvering the pallOf their own dissolution, while they die —Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,Sat gently on these columns as a crown —A window of one circular diamond, there,Look'd out above into the purple air,And rays from God shot down that meteor chainAnd hallow'd all the beauty twice again,Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seenThe dimness of this world: that greyish greenThat Nature love's the best for Beauty's graveLurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave —And every sculptur'd cherub thereaboutThat from his marble dwelling peerèd out,Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche —Achaian statues in a world so rich?Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis —From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyssOf beautiful Gomorrah! O, the waveIs now upon thee – but too late to save!Sound loves to revel in a summer night:Witness the murmur of the grey twilightThat stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,Of many a wild star-gazer long ago —That stealeth ever on the ear of himWho, musing, gazeth on the distant dim,And sees the darkness coming as a cloud —Is not its form – its voice – most palpable and loud?But what is this? – it cometh, and it bringsA music with it – 'tis the rush of wings —A pause – and then a sweeping, falling strainAnd Nesace is in her halls again.From the wild energy of wanton hasteHer cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;And zone that clung around her gentle waistHad 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 kiss'd her golden hairAnd long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.Young flowers were whispering in melodyTo happy flowers that night – and tree to tree;Fountains were gushing music as they fellIn many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;Yet silence came upon material things —Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings —And sound alone that from the spirit sprangBore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:"'Neath the blue-bell or streamer —Or tufted wild sprayThat keeps, from the dreamer,The moonbeam away —Bright beings! that ponder,With half closing eyes,On the stars which your wonderHath drawn from the skies,Till they glance thro' the shade, andCome down to your browLike – eyes of the maidenWho calls on you now —Arise! from your dreamingIn violet bowers,To duty beseemingThese star-litten hours —And shake from your tressesEncumber'd with dewThe breath of those kissesThat cumber them too —(O! how, without you, Love!Could angels be blest?)Those kisses of true LoveThat lull'd ye to rest!Up! – shake from your wingEach hindering thing:The dew of the night —It would weigh down your flight;And true love caresses —O, leave them apart!They are light on the tresses,But lead on the heart.Ligeia! Ligeia!My beautiful one!Whose harshest ideaWill to melody run,O! is it thy willOn the breezes to toss?Or, capriciously still,Like the lone Albatross,Incumbent on night(As she on the air)To keep watch with delightOn the harmony there?Ligeia! whereverThy image may be,No magic shall severThy music from thee.Thou hast bound many eyesIn a dreamy sleep —But the strains still ariseWhich thy vigilance keep —The sound of the rain,Which leaps down to the flower —And dances againIn the rhythm of the shower —The murmur that springsFrom the growing of grassAre the music of things —But are modell'd, alas! —Away, then, my dearest,Oh! hie thee awayTo the springs that lie clearestBeneath the moon-ray —To lone lake that smiles,In its dream of deep rest,At the many star-islesThat enjewel its breast —Where wild flowers, creeping,Have mingled their shade,On its margin is sleepingFull many a maid —Some have left the cool glade, andHave slept with the bee —Arouse them, my maiden,On moorland and lea —Go! breathe on their slumber,All softly in ear,Thy musical numberThey slumbered to hear —For what can awakenAn angel so soon,Whose sleep hath been takenBeneath the cold moon,As the spell which no slumberOf witchery may test,The rhythmical numberWhich lull'd him to rest?"Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro'Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight —Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen lightThat fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,O Death! from eye of God upon that star:Sweet was that error – sweeter still that death —Sweet was that error – even with us the breathOf Science dims the mirror of our joy —To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy —For what (to them) availeth it to knowThat Truth is Falsehood – or that Bliss is Woe?Sweet was their death – with them to die was rifeWith the last ecstasy of satiate life —Beyond that death no immortality —But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be" —And there! – oh! may my weary spirit dwell —Apart 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?But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace impartsTo those who hear not for their beating hearts.A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover —O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?Unguided Love hath fallen – 'mid "tears of perfect moan."He was a goodly spirit – he who fell:A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well —A gazer on the lights that shine above —A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair —And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holyTo his love-haunted heart and melancholy.The night had found (to him a night of woe)Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo —Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath itHere sat he with his love – his dark eye bentWith eagle gaze along the firmament:Now turn'd it upon her – but ever thenIt trembled to the orb of Earth again."Ianthe, dearest, see – how dim that ray!How lovely 'tis to look so far away!She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eveI left her gorgeous halls – nor mourn'd to leave.That eve – that eve – I should remember well —The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spellOn th' arabesque carving of a gilded hallWherein I sate, and on the draperied wall —And on my eyelids – O the heavy light!How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ranWith Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:But O that light! – I slumber'd – Death, the while,Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isleSo softly that no single silken hairAwoke that slept – or knew that he was there."The last spot of Earth's orb I trod uponWas a proud temple called the Parthenon;More beauty clung around her column'd wallThan ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,And when old Time my wing did disenthralThence sprang I – as the eagle from his tower,And years I left behind me in an hour.What time upon her airy bounds I hung,One half the garden of her globe was flungUnrolling as a chart unto my view —Tenantless cities of the desert too!Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,And half I wish'd to be again of men.""My Angelo! and why of them to be?A brighter dwelling place is here for thee —And greener fields than in yon world above,And woman's loveliness – and passionate love.""But, list, Ianthe! when the air so softFail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,Perhaps my brain grew dizzy – but the worldI left so late was into chaos hurl'd —Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soarAnd fell – not swiftly as I rose before,But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!Nor long the measure of my falling hours,For nearest of all stars was thine to ours —Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.""We came – and to thy Earth – but not to usBe 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-nodShe grants to us, as granted by her God —But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'dNever his fairy wing o'er fairier world!Dim was its little disk, and angel eyesAlone could see the phantom in the skies,When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to beHeadlong thitherward o'er the starry sea —But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,We paused before the heritage of men,And thy star trembled – as doth Beauty then!"Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled awayThe night that waned and waned and brought no day.They fell: for Heaven to them no hope impartsWho hear not for the beating of their hearts.