The Works of Edgar Allan Poe – Volume 5

TAMERLANE

     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 in —         I 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 can —         Its fount is holier – more divine —     I 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,     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 again —     O! craving heart, for the lost flowers     And sunshine of my summer hours!     Th’ 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 usurpingly —     Hath not the same fierce heirdom given         Rome to the Caesar – 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         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,         My own voice, silly child! – was swelling             (O! 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         Was giantlike – so thou, my mind! —     It was but man, I thought, who shed         Laurels upon me: and the rush —     The torrent of the chilly air     Gurgled within my ear the crush         Of empires – with the captive’s prayer —     The hum of suiters – 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!     Nor would I now attempt to trace     The more than beauty of a face     Whose lineaments, upon my mind,     Are – shadows 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 ev’ry hope and thought         Were incense – then a goodly gift,             For they were childish – and upright —     Pure – as her young example taught:         Why did I leave it, and, adrift,             Trust to the fire within, for light?     We grew in age – and love – together,         Roaming the forest, and the wild;     My breast her shield in wintry weather —         And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d,     And she would mark the opening skies,     I saw no Heaven – but in her eyes.     Young Love’s first lesson is – the heart:         For ‘mid that sunshine, and those smiles,     When, from our little cares apart,         And laughing at her girlish wiles,     I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,         And pour my spirit out in tears —     There was no need to speak the rest —         No need to quiet any fears     Of her – who ask’d no reason why,     But turn’d 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 —     I had no being – but in thee:         The world, and all it did contain     In the earth – the air – the sea —         Its joy – its little lot of pain     That was new pleasure – the 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 murmur’d at such lowly lot —     But, just like any other dream,             Upon the vapour of the dew     My own had past, did not the beam             Of beauty which did while it thro’     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 hills —     The 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 carelessly —         A mingled feeling with my own —     The 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.     I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then,         And donn’d a visionary crown —             Yet it was not that Fantasy             Had thrown her mantle over me —     But that, among the rabble – men,             Lion ambition is chain’d down —     And crouches to a keeper’s hand —     Not so in deserts where the grand     The 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 throne —     And who her sovereign? Timour – he         Whom the astonished people saw     Striding o’er empires haughtily         A diadem’d outlaw —     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 birth —     Farewell! 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 droopingly —         And 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     Who, in a dream of night, would fly     But cannot from a danger nigh.     What tho’ the moon – the white moon     Shed all the splendour 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 one —     For all we live to know is known,     And all we seek to keep hath flown —     Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall     With the noon-day beauty – which is all.     I reach’d my home – my home no more —         For all had flown who made it so —     I pass’d from out its mossy door,         And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,     A voice came from the threshold stone     Of one whom I had earlier known —         O! I defy thee, Hell, to show         On beds of fire that burn below,         A humbler heart – a deeper wo —     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’ Eternity —     I do believe that Eblis hath     A snare in ev’ry human path —     Else 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 trelliced rays from Heaven     No mote may shun – no tiniest fly     The light’ning of his eagle eye —     How 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?

1829.

TO HELEN

     HELEN, thy beauty is to me         Like those Nicean barks of yore,     That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,         The weary way-worn wanderer bore         To his own native shore.     On desperate seas long wont to roam,         Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,     Thy Naiad airs have brought me home         To the glory that was Greece,     And the grandeur that was Rome.     Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche         How statue-like I me thee stand,     The agate lamp within thy hand!         Ah, Psyche, from the regions which         Are Holy-land!

1831.

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!     Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven     That rustle through the unquiet Heaven     Uneasily, from morn till even,     Over the violets there that lie     In myriad types of the human eye —     Over the lilies there that wave     And weep above a nameless grave!     They wave: – from out their fragrant tops     Eternal dews come down in drops.     They weep: – from off their delicate stems     Perennial tears descend in gems.

1831.

ISRAFEL37

     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.     Tottering above         In her highest noon         The enamoured 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 all the listening things)     That Israfeli’s fire     Is owing to that lyre         By which he sits and sings —     The trembling living wire     Of those unusual strings.     But the skies that angel trod,         Where deep thoughts are a duty —     Where Love’s a grown up God —         W/here the Houri glances are     Imbued with all the beauty         Which we worship in a star.     Therefore, thou art not wrong,         Israfeli, who despisest     An unimpassion’d song:     To thee the laurels belong         Best bard, because the wisest!     Merrily live, and long!     The extacies above         With thy burning measures suit —     Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,         With the fervor of thy lute —         Well may the stars be mute!     Yes, Heaven is thine; but this         Is a world of sweets and sours;         Our 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 I,     He might not sing so wildly well         A mortal melody,     While a bolder note than this might swell         From my lyre within the sky.1836.

TO —

1     The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see         The wantonest singing birds     Are lips – and all thy melody         Of lip-begotten words —2     Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d         Then desolately fall,     O! God! on my funereal mind         Like starlight on a pall —3     Thy heart —thy heart! – I wake and sigh,         And sleep to dream till day     Of truth that gold can never buy —         Of the trifles that it may.

1829.

TO —

     I HEED not that my earthly lot         Hath-little of Earth in it —     That years of love have been forgot     In the hatred of a minute: —     I mourn not that the desolate         Are happier, sweet, than I,     But that you sorrow for my fate     Who am a passer-by.

1829.

TO THE RIVER —

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

1829.

SONG

     I SAW thee on thy bridal day —         When 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 shame —         As such it well may pass —     Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame         In the breast of him, alas!     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.

1827.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

1     Thy soul shall find itself alone     ‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone —     Not one, of all the crowd, to pry     Into thine hour of secrecy:2     Be silent in that solitude         Which is not loneliness – for then     The spirits of the dead who stood         In life before thee are again     In death around thee – and their will     Shall then overshadow thee: be still.3     For the night – tho’ clear – shall frown —     And the stars shall look not down,     From their high thrones in the Heaven,     With light like Hope to mortals given —     But their red orbs, without beam,     To thy weariness shall seem     As a burning and a fever     Which would cling to thee for ever:4     Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish —     Now are visions ne’er to vanish —     From thy spirit shall they pass     No more – like dew-drop from the grass:5     The breeze – the breath of God – is still —     And the mist upon the hill     Shadowy – shadowy – yet unbroken,     Is a symbol and a token —     How it hangs upon the trees,     A mystery of mysteries! —

1827.

A DREAM

     In visions of the dark night         I have dreamed of joy departed —     But a waking dreams 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,     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 bright         In Truths day-star?

1827.

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 bird —     Taught me my alphabet to say —     To 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.     And when an hour with calmer wings     Its down upon thy spirit flings —     That 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.     1829.

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 places —     And 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     Of a mountain’s eminence,     While its wide circumference     In easy drapery falls     Over hamlets, over halls,     Wherever they may be —     O’er the strange woods – o’er the sea —     Over spirits on the wing —     Over every drowsy thing —     And buries them up quite     In a labyrinth of light —     And then, how deep! – O, 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,     Like – almost any thing —     Or a yellow Albatross.     They use that moon no more     For the same end as before —     Videlicet a tent —     Which I think extravagant:     Its atomies, however,     Into a shower dissever,     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.     1831.

THE LAKE – TO —

     IN spring of youth it was my lot     To haunt of the wide earth 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 tower’d around.     But when the Night had thrown her pall     Upon that spot, as upon all,     And the mystic wind went by     Murmuring in melody —     Then – ah then I would awake     To the terror of the lone lake.     Yet that terror was not fright,     But a tremulous delight —     A feeling not the jewelled mine     Could teach or bribe me to define —     Nor 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 imagining —     Whose solitary soul could make     An Eden of that dim lake.     1827.

EVENING STAR

     ‘TWAS noontide of summer,        And midtime of night,     And stars, in their orbits,        Shone pale, through the light     Of the brighter, cold moon.        ‘Mid planets her slaves,     Herself in the Heavens,        Her beam on the waves.        I gazed awhile        On her cold smile;     Too cold-too cold for me —        There passed, as a shroud,        A fleecy cloud,     And I turned away to thee,        Proud Evening Star,        In thy glory afar     And dearer thy beam shall be;        For joy to my heart        Is the proud part     Thou bearest in Heaven at night.,        And more I admire        Thy distant fire,     Than that colder, lowly light.     1827.

“THE HAPPIEST DAY.”

I     THE happiest day-the happiest hour     My seared and blighted heart hath known,     The highest hope of pride and power,     I feel hath flown.     Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween     But they have vanished long, alas!     The visions of my youth have been     But let them pass.III     And pride, what have I now with thee?     Another brow may ev’n inherit     The venom thou hast poured on me     Be still my spirit!IV     The happiest day-the happiest hour     Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen     The brightest glance of pride and power     I feet have been:V     But were that hope of pride and power     Now offered with the pain     Ev’n then I felt-that brightest hour     I would not live again:VI     For on its wing was dark alloy     And as it fluttered-fell     An essence-powerful to destroy     A soul that knew it well.     1827.

IMITATION

     A dark unfathom’d tide     Of interminable pride —     A mystery, and a dream,     Should my early life seem;     I say that dream was fraught     With a wild, and waking thought     Of beings that have been,     Which my spirit hath not seen,     Had I let them pass me by,     With a dreaming eye!     Let none of earth inherit     That vision on my spirit;     Those thoughts I would control     As a spell upon his soul:     For that bright hope at last     And that light time have past,     And my worldly rest hath gone     With a sigh as it pass’d on     I care not tho’ it perish     With a thought I then did cherish.     1827.

HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS

Translation from the GreekI     WREATHED in myrtle, my sword I’ll conceal     Like those champions devoted and brave,     When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,     And to Athens deliverance gave.II     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam     In the joy breathing isles of the blest;     Where the mighty of old have their home     Where Achilles and Diomed restIII     In fresh myrtle my blade I’ll entwine,     Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,     When he made at the tutelar shrine     A libation of Tyranny’s blood.IV     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!     Ye avengers of Liberty’s wrongs!     Endless ages shall cherish your fame,     Embalmed in their echoing songs!     1827.

DREAMS

     Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!     My spirit not awak’ning, till the beam     Of an Eternity should bring the morrow:     Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,     ‘Twere better than the dull reality     Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,     And hath been ever, on the chilly earth,     A chaos of deep passion from his birth!     But should it be – that dream eternally     Continuing – as dreams have been to me     In my young boyhood – should it thus be given,     ‘Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven!     For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright     In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light,     And left unheedingly my very heart     In climes of mine imagining – apart     From mine own home, with beings that have been     Of mine own thought – what more could I have seen?     ‘Twas once & only once & the wild hour     From my rememberance shall not pass – some power     Or spell had bound me – ‘twas the chilly wind     Came o’er me in the night & left behind     Its image on my spirit, or the moon     Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon     Too coldly – or the stars – howe’er it was     That dream was as that night wind – let it pass.     I have been happy – tho’ but in a dream     I have been happy – & I love the theme —     Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life —     As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife     Of semblance with reality which brings     To the delirious eye more lovely things     Of Paradise & Love – & all our own!     Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.         {From an earlier MS. Than in the book – ED.}