The Works of Edgar Allan Poe – Volume 5

unobserved.)

      Monk. Refuge thou hast,  Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!      Lal. (arising hurriedly.)  I cannot pray! – My soul is at war  with God!  The frightful sounds of merriment below  Disturb my senses – go! I cannot pray —  The 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!      Lal.  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? Didst thou not speak of faith  And vows before the throne?      Monk.  I did.      Lal. Lal. ‘Tis well.  There is a vow were fitting should be made —  A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,  A solemn vow!      Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!      Lal.  Father, this zeal is anything but well!  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?  A crucifix whereon to register  This sacred vow?                             (he hands her his own)  Not that – Oh! no! – no! – no!                            (shuddering)  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 deed —  And 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 —  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!      Lal. ‘Tis sworn!III

An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.

       Baldazzar. – – Arouse thee now, Politian!  Thou must not – nay indeed, indeed, shalt not  Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,  And live, for now thou diest!       Politian.  Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.       Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me  To see thee thus.      Pol.  Baldazzar, it doth grieve me  To give thee cause for grief, my honoured 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 with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,  And be no more Politian, but some other.  Command me, sir!      Bal.  To the field, then – to the field —  To the senate or the field.      Pol. 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?      Bal.  I heard it not.  I heard not any voice except thine own,  And the echo of thine own.      Pol.  Then I but dreamed.      Bal.  Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp – the court,  Befit thee – Fame awaits thee – Glory calls —  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear  In hearkening to imaginary sounds  And phantom voices.      Pol.  It is a phantom voice!  Didst thou not hear it then?      Bal.  I heard it not.      Pol.  Thou heardst it not! – Baldazaar, 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 —  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 Power —  A Power august, benignant and supreme —  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties  Unto thy friend.      Bal.  Thou speakest a fearful riddle  I will not understand.      Pol.  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 —  Rich melodies are floating in the winds —  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth —  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon  Sitteth in Heaven. – Hist! hist! thou canst not say  Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?      Bal.  Indeed I hear not.      Pol.  Not hear it! – listen now! – listen! – the faintest sound  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!  A lady’s voice! – and sorrow in the tone!  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!  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!      Bal.  I myself hear it now.  Be still! – 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.      Pol.  Be still! – it comes again!      Voice        “And is thy heart so strong  (very faintly)   As for to leave me thus              Who hath loved thee so long              In wealth and woe among?              And is thy heart so strong              As for to leave me thus?                  Say nay – say nay!”      Bal.  The song is English, and I oft have heard it  In merry England – never so plaintively —  Hist! hist! it comes again!      Voice            “Is it so strong  (more loudly)    As for to leave me thus              Who hath loved thee so long              In wealth and woe among?              And is thy heart so strong              As for to leave me thus?                  Say nay – say nay!”      Bal.  ‘Tis hushed and all is still!      Pol.  All is not still!      Bal.  Let us go down.      Pol.  Go down, Baldazzar, go!      Bal.  The hour is growing late – the Duke awaits use —  Thy presence is expected in the hall  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?      Voice           “Who hath loved thee so long  (distinctly)        In wealth and woe among,                          And is thy heart so strong?                               Say nay – say nay!”      Bal.  Let us descend! – ‘tis time. Politian, give  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember      Pol.  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 —  “To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear  Once more that silent tongue.”      Bal.  Let me beg you, sir,  Descend with me – the Duke may be offended.  Let us go down, I pray you.      (Voice loudly) Say nay! – say nay!      Pol. (aside)  ‘Tis strange! – ‘tis very 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,  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make  Apology unto the Duke for me;  I go not down to-night.      Bal.  Your lordship’s pleasure  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.      Pol.  Good-night, my friend, good-night.IV

The gardens of a Palace – Moonlight Lalage and Politian.

      Lalge.  And dost thou speak of love  To me, Politian? – dost thou speak of love  To Lalage? – ah, woe – ah, woe 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, Lalage —  Be comforted! I know – I know it all,  And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest  And beautiful Lalage! – turn here thine eyes!  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 thee —  Thus 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?                 (arising.)  Even for thy woes I love thee – even for thy woes-  Thy beauty and thy woes.      Lal.  Alas, proud Earl,  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!  How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens  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?      Pol.  Speak not to me of glory!  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 beautiful-  What need we more? Ha! glory! – now speak not of it.  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-  By all my wishes now – my fears hereafter-  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-  There 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 it-  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,  That we go down unhonored and forgotten  Into the dust – so we descend together.  Descend together – and then – and then, perchance-      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?      Pol.  And then, perchance  Arise together, Lalage, and roam  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,  And still-      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?      Pol.  And still together – together.      Lal.  Now Earl of Leicester!  Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts  I feel thou lovest me truly.      Pol.  Oh, Lalage!

(throwing himself upon his knee.)

  And lovest thou me?      Lal.  Hist! hush! within the gloom  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(walks across and returns.)

  I was mistaken – ‘twas but a giant bough  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!      Pol.  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.      Lal.  Politian!  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land  With which all tongues are busy – a land new found —  Miraculously found by one of Genoa —  A thousand leagues within the golden west?  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,  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?      Pol.  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?      Lal.  A deed is to be done —  Castiglione lives!      Pol.  And he shall die!                                (exit)      Lal. (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 gone – thou are 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-  O 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!  And thus I clutch thee – thus! – He is gone, he is gone  Gone – gone. Where am I? – ‘tis well – ‘tis very well!  So that the blade be keen – the blow be sure,  ‘Tis well, ‘tis very well – alas! alas!V

The suburbs. Politian alone.

      Politian.  This 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, O 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.

      Baldazzar.  That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud  Between the Earl Politian and himself.  He doth decline your cartel.      Pol.  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?      Bal.  That he, Castiglione’ not being aware  Of any feud existing, or any cause  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,  Cannot accept the challenge.      Pol.  It is most true —  All this is very true. 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?      Bal.  No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:  The Count Castiglione will not fight,  Having no cause for quarrel.      Pol.  Now this is true-  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,  And I have not forgotten it – thou’lt do me  A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say  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.      Bal.  My lord! – my friend! -      Pol.  (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.      Bal.  I go – to-morrow we meet,  Do we not? – at the Vatican.      Pol.  At the Vatican.

(exit Bal.)

Enter Castigilone.

      Cas.  The Earl of Leicester here!      Pol.  I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,  Dost thou not? that I am here.      Cas.  My lord, some strange,  Some singular mistake – misunderstanding —  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  Baldazzar, 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.      Pol.  Draw, villain, and prate no more!      Cas.  Ha! – draw? – and villain? have at thee then at once,  Proud Earl!                                   (draws.)      Pol.  (drawing.)  Thus to the expiatory tomb,  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee  In the name of Lalage!      Cas.  (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.      Pol.  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!      Cas.  I dare not – dare not —  Hold off thy hand – with that beloved name  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee —  I cannot – dare not.      Pol.  Now by my halidom  I do believe thee! – coward, I do believe thee!      Cas.  Ha! – coward! – this may not be!

(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose

is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of

the Earl)

                             Alas! my lord,  It is – it is – most true. In such a cause  I am the veriest coward. O pity me!      Pol.  (greatly softened.)  Alas! – I do – indeed I pity thee.      Cas.  And Lalage-      Pol.  Scoundrel! – arise and die!      Cas.  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 —

(baring his bosom.)

  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-  Strike home. I will not fight thee.      Pol.  Now, s’ Death and Hell!  Am I not – am I not sorely – grievously tempted  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 thee  Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest-  Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain, – I’ll taunt thee,  Dost hear? with cowardice – thou wilt not fight me?  Thou liest! thou shalt!                                      (exit.)      Cas.  Now this indeed is just!  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.

– ED}

NOTE

29. Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the light of publicity in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for December, 1835, and January, 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian: an unpublished drama.” These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845 collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not considered just to the poet’s memory to publish it. The work is a hasty and unrevised production of its author’s earlier days of literary labor; and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of Castiglione her betrothed.

      Duke. Why do you laugh?      Castiglione. Indeed  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.  Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!  We were walking in the garden.      Duke, Perfectly.  I do remember it-what of it-what then?      Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.      Duke. Nothing at all!  It is most singular that you should laugh  ‘At nothing at all!      Cas. Most singular-singular!      Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind  As tell me, sir, at once what ‘tis you mean.  What are you talking of?      Cas. Was it not so?  We differed in opinion touching him.      Duke. Him! – Whom?      Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.      Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes! – is it he you mean?  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect  The words you used were that the Earl you knew  Was neither learned nor mirthful.      Cas. Ha! ha! – now did I?      Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time  You were wrong, it being not the character  Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,  Too positive again.      Cas. ‘Tis singular!  Most singular! I could not think it possible  So little time could so much alter one!  To say the truth about an hour ago,  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,  All arm in arm, we met this very man  The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,  Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!  Such an account he gave me of his journey!  ‘Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told  Of his caprices and his merry freaks  Along the road-such oddity-such humor —  Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment  Set off too in such full relief by the grave  Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,  Was gravity itself —      Duke. Did I not tell you?      Cas. You did-and yet ‘tis strange! but true as strange,  How much I was mistaken! I always thought  The Earl a gloomy man.      Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?  It can not be the Earl?      Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ‘Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning  Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

(Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)

  My lord, a second welcome let me give you  To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl  Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]      That, his friend  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,  So please you, for Your Grace.      Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time  Most seasonable. The wedding —      Politian. Touching those letters, sir,  Your son made mention of – your son, is he not?  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here —  Baldazzar! ah! – my friend Baldazzar here  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.      Duke. Retire! – So soon?  Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!  His lordship’s chambers-show his lordship to them!  His lordship is unwell.     (Enter Benito.)      Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)      Duke. Retire! Unwell!      Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me  ‘Tis as you say – his lordship is unwell.  The damp air of the evening-the fatigue  Of a long journey – the – indeed I had better  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.  I will return anon.      Duke. Return anon!  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.  You surely were mistaken in what you said  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed! – which of us said  Politian was a melancholy man?    (Exeunt.)

POEMS OF YOUTH

INTRODUCTION TO POEMS – 1831

LETTER TO MR. B –

“WEST POINT, 1831.

“DEAR B… Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined ‘Al Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.

“It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and mine of poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few B-’s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe, ‘Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?’ The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’ The opinion is the world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet – the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his opinion. This neighbor’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.