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POEMS 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 


(Sompltte 


WITH   AN   ORIGINAL    MEMOIR 


NEW  YORK 
W.  J.  WtDDLETON.  PUBLISHER 

M.DCCO.LXIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1868, 

BY   W.    J.  WIDDLETON 

In  tlie  Clerli's  Office  of  the  Uistrict  Court  for  the  Southerh  District 
of  New  York. 


ALVOKD,     PRINTEll. 


PREFACE    TO    THE    POEMS. 


TuESE  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly 
with  a  view  to  their  redemjjtion  from  the  many  improve- 
ments to  which  they  have  been  subjected  while  going 
at  random  "  the  rounds  of  the  press."  I  am  naturally 
anxious  that  what  I  have  written  should  circulate  as  I 
v/rote  it,  if  it  circulate  at  all.  In  defence  of  my  own 
taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to  say  that 
I  think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to  the 
public,  or  very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be 
controlled  have  prevented  me  from  making  at  any  time 
any  serious  eSbrt  in  what,  under  happier  circumstances, 
would  have  been  the  field  of  my  choice.  With  me 
poetry  has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion  ;  and  the 
passions  should  be  held  in  reverence  ;  they  must  not — 
they  cannot  at  will  be  excited,  with  an  eye  to  the  pal- 
try compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commendations 
of  mankind. 

E.  A.  P. 


(■■■) 


CONTENTS, 


FAOE. 

Preface  to  the  Poems, 5 

Contents, 7 

Memoir  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,         .        .        .11 

The  Raven, 43 

Lenore,       .       •. 53 

Hymn, 56 

A  Valentine, 57 

The  Coliseum, 59 

To  Helen, 62 

To , 66 

CTlalume, .        .68 

The  Bells, 73 

An  Enigma, 79 

Annabel  Lee,        ......  80 


CONTENTS. 


To  My  Mother, 

The  Haunted  Palace,    . 

The  Conqueror  "Worm, 

To  F s  S.  0 D., 

To  One  in  Paradise, 

The  Valley  of  Unrest, 

The  City  in  the  Sea, 

The  Sleeper, 

Silence,      .        .        .        . 

A  Dream  within  a  Dream, 

Dreamland, 

To  Zante, 

Eulalie,      .         .         .        . 

Eldorado, 

Israfel,      .        .        .        • 

For  Annie,    . 

To ,     .        .        .        . 

Bridal  Ballad, 

To  F , 

Scenes  from  "  Politian," 
Sonnet — To  Science, 
Al  Aaraaf,  . 

To  THE  ElVER  ,  . 

Tamerlane,  . 


83 

84 

.  87 

89 

90 

92 

,  94 

97 

101 

102 

104 

107 

108 

110 

112 

116 

122 

123 

125 

127 

183 

184 

205 

206 


CONTENTS.  7 

To 219 

A  Dream, 220 

Romance,    .        , 222 

Fairy-Land, 224 

The  Lake— To 227 

Song, 229 

To  M.  L.  S , 231 

Notes  to  Al  Aaraaf, 232 

The  Poetic  Principle, 245 


MEMOIR 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


7>< 


MEMOIR 


OP 


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 
tlie  inspired  children  of  Parnassus  cannot  but 
impair,  in  some  degree,  the  delicate  aroma  of 
their  songs.  The  inner  life  of  the  poet — the 
secrets  of  his  inspiration,  the  mysterious  pro- 
cesses by  which  his  pearls  of  thought  are  pro- 

(11) 


12  MEMOIR    Of 

duced — can  never  be  made  known  ;  and  the 
accidents  of  his  daily  life  have  bnt  little  more 
interest  than  those  Avhich  fall  to  common  men. 
Under  all  circumstances  the  poet  is  a  mys- 
tery, and  the  utterances  of  his  fancy  are  but 
the  drapery  of  the  veiled  statue,  which  still 
leaves  the  figure  itself  unknown.  A  dissection 
of  the  song-bird  gives  us  no  insight  into  the 
secret  of  his  melodious  notes.  Some  of  the 
great  modern  poets  have  had  their  whole  lives 
exposed  with  minute  accuracy;  but  in  what 
are  we  the  wiser  for  the  knowledge  we  have 
obtained  of  them  ?  We  only  know  they  lived 
and  suffered  like  other  men ;  and  their  inspira- 
tions are  still  a  cause  of  wonder  and  delight 
The  subtle  secret  of  their  power  is  still  hidden 
from  our  search  ;  and  though  we  know  more 


EDGAE    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  instruct- 
ed us;  and  a  vague  feeling  exists  that,  in 
probing  the  lives  of  poets,  we  may  learn  some- 
thing of  the  art  by  which  they  produced  their 
works.  But  it  is  like  the  useless  labor  of  Rey- 
nolds, who  scraped  a  painting  by  Titian,  to 
learn  the  secret  of  his  coloring. 

Of  all  the  poets  whose  lives  have  been  a 
puzzle  and  a  mystery  to  the  world,  there  is 
no  one  more  difficult  to  be  understood  than 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  It  is  impossible  to  carry 
in  the  mmd  a  double  idea  of  a  man,  and  to 
believe  him  to  be  both  a  saint  and  a  fiend; 
yet  such  is  the  embarrassinent  felt  by  those 


14  MEMOIR   OF 

who  have  first  read  the  poems  of  tliis  strange 
being,  and  then  read  any  of  tlie  biographies 
of  him  which  pretend  to  anytliing  like  an 
accurate  account  of  liis  Ufe.  Lilve  his  own 
liaven,  he  is  to  his  readers,  "  bird  or  liend" — 
they  know  not  Avhich.  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  resi^onsibUity.  They 
are  full  of  the  subtleties  of  passion,  of  grief, 
despair  and  longing,  but  they  contain  nothing 
that  indicates  a  sense  of  moral  rectitude. 
They  are  the  productions  of  one  whose  reli- 
gion was  a  worship  of  the  Beautiful,  and  who 
knew  no  beauty  but  that  which  was  purely 
sensuous.    There  were  but  two  kinds  of  beauty 


EDGAR    ALLAN   POE.  15 

for  hiiu,  and  they  were  Form  and  Color.  Tie 
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  beaiitiful 
creature,  like  Undine,  without  a  soul.  With 
this  key  to  the  character  of  the  poet,  there 
is  no  difficulty  in  fully  comprehending  the 
strange  inconsistencies,  the  basenesses  and 
nobleness  which  his  wayward  life  exhibited. 

Some  of  the  biographers  of  Poe  have  been 
harshly  judged  for  the  view  given  of  his  cha- 
racter; and  it  has  naturally  been  supposed 
that  private  pique  has  led  to  the  exaggeration 
of  his  personal  defects.  But  such  imputations 
are  unjust.  A  truthful  delineation  of  his 
career  would  give  a  darker  hue  to  his  charac- 


16  MEMOIR    OF 

ter  than  it  has  received  from  any  of  his  bio- 
graphers. In  fact,  he  has  been  more  fortunate 
than  most  poets  in  his  historians.  Lowell  and 
Willis  have  sketched  him  with  gentleness,  and 
a  reverent  feeling  for  his  genius ;  and  Gris- 
wold,  his  literary  executor,  in  his  fuller  bio- 
graphy, has  generously  suppressed  much  that 
he  might  have  given.  This  is  neither  the 
proper  time  nor  place  to  write  a  full  history  of 
this  unhappy  genius.  Those  who  scan  his 
marvellous  poems  closely  may  find  therein  the 
man,  for  it  is  impossible  for  the  true  poet  to 
veil  himself  from  his  readers.  What  he  writes 
he  is. 

The  waywardness  of  Poe  was  an  inheritance. 
Though  descended  from  a  family  of  great 
respectability,  his  immediate  parents  were  dis- 


£a)(JAR   ALLAN   POE.  17 

solute  in  their  morals,  and  members  of  a  pro- 
fession wliich  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-grandtather,  John  Poe,  married  a 
daucrhter  of  Admiral  McBride,  of  the  British 
Navy.  His  father,  the  fourth  son  of  the  Rev- 
olutionary officer,  was  a  native  of  Maryland, 
and  studied  for  the  bar,  but  becoming  enam- 
ored of  a  beautiful  actress,  named  Elizabeth 
Arnold,  he  abandoned  the  law,  and  adopted 
the  stage  as  a  profession.  They  lived  together 
six  or  seven  years,  wandermg  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. 


J  8  MEAIOIR    OF 

Edgar,  the  second  child,  who  was  born  in  Bal- 
timore, in  January,  1811,  was  a  remn.rkably 
bright  and  beautiful  boy ;  and  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  wealthy  merchant  in  Rich- 
mond who  had  known  his  jiarents,  and  who 
had  no  children  of  his  own.  Mr.  Allan  adopted 
the  little  orphan,  and  he  was  afterwards  cnlled 
Edgar  Allan.  The  precocious  child  was  petted 
by  his  adopted  parents,  who  took  priilo  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  ^ilrs.  Allan 
made  a  journey  to  Europe,  and  Edgar  accom- 
panied them.  lie  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    AI.T.AN    POP].  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  school- 
house  and  its  surroundings. 

On  his  return  to  the  United  States,  in  the 
year  1822,  he  was  placed  for  a  few  months  at 
an  academy  at  Richmond,  and  then  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  University  of  Virginia,  at  Char- 
lottesville. The  students  at  Charlottesville 
were  noted  at  that  time  for  then*  reckless 
and  dissolute  manner  of  life,  and  young  Poe 
was  the  most  dissolute  and  reckless  among 
them.  Though  extremely  slight  in  person, 
and  almost  eifeminate  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  him- 
self in  St.  Petersburgh,  in  extreme  destitution, 
Avhere  the  American  minister,  Mr.  Middleton. 
was  called  upon  to  save  him  from  arrest,  on 
account  of  an  indiscretion.  Through  the  kind 
oiRces  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 
foT  his  new  appointment,  Mrs.  Allan,  the  wife 
of   his    benefactor,   died.      She    had    always 


22  MEMOIR    OF 

treated  him  with  motherly  aftcctioii,  and  ho 
had  paid  more  deference  to  her  than  to  any 
one  else.  At  West  Point  he  applied  himself 
with  great  energy  and  success  for  awhile  to  his 
new  course  of  studies ;  but  the  rigid  discipline 
of  that  institution  ill  sorted  with  the  irrepressi- 
ble recklessness  of  his  nature,  and  after  ten 
months  he  was  ignominiously  expelled. 

After  leaving  "  the  Point,"  he  returned  to 
Richmond,  and  was  again  kindly  received  and 
welcomed  to  his  home  by  Mr.  Allan.  But 
there  was  a  change  in  the  house  where  the 
wayward  boy  had  been  a  pet.  There  was  a 
new  and  a  younger  mistress.  Mr.  Allan  had 
taken  a  second  wife — a  lady  much  younger 
than  himself,  and  who  was  disposed  to  triat 
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  femily  of  Mr.  Allan  give  a  version 
of  it  which  throws  a  dark  shade  on  the  cha- 
racter of  the  poet.  But  let  it  have  been  as  it 
may,  it  must  have  been  of  a  very  grave  nature, 
for,  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Allan,  shortly  after, 
in  1834,  the  name  of  his  adopted  son,  who,  it 
was  supposed,  would  inherit  nearly  all  his 
wealth,  was  not  mentioned  in  his  will. 

On  leaving  the  house  of  his  benefactor  for 
the  last  time,  Poe  was  left  without  a  friend, 
and  thrown  upon  his  own  resources.  He  had 
published  a   volume  of  poems  in   Baltimore, 


24  MEMOIR    OF 

just  after  his  expulsion  from  West  Point, 
under  the  title  of  "Al  Aaraaf,"  and  "  Tamer- 
lane," to  which  a  few  smaller  poems  were 
added.  These  were  the  production  of  his 
early  youth — probably  between  his  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  years,  though  the  exact  date  of 
their  composition  cannot  be  ascertained.  The 
commendations  bestowed  u^dou  these  preco- 
cious poems  encouraged  him  to  devote  himself 
to  literature  as  a  profession.  But  his  first 
attempts  to  earn  a  living  by  writing  must 
have  been  discouraging,  for  soon  after  publish- 
uig  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  knowni  him  at  West  Point,  and  who 
mtei'ested  themselves  to  obtain  his  discharge, 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE,  25 

aud,  if  possible,  a  commission.  But  theiv  kind 
intentions  were  frustrated  by  his  desertion. 
The  next  attempt  he  made  in  literature  proved 
more  successful.  He  had  fruitlessly  tried  to 
find  a  publisher  for  a  volume  of  stories ;  but,  on 
a  premium  of  one  hundred  dollars  for  a  tale  in 
prose,  and  a  similar  reward  for  a  poem,  being 
offered  by  the  publisher  of  a  literary  periodical 
in  Baltimore,  Poe  was  awarded  both  prizes, 
though  he  was  only  allowed  to  retain  the  prize 
for  the  tale,  as  it  was  thought  not  prudent  to 
give  both  prizes  to  the  same  writer.  The  tale 
chosen  was  the  "  Manuscript  found  in  a  Bot- 
tle," a  composition  which  contains  many  of  his 
most  marked  peculiarities  of  style  and  inven- 
tion. The  award  was  made  in  October,  1833, 
and,  fortunately  for  the   young  author,  there 


26  MEMOIR    OF 

was  cue  gentleman  on  the  committee  who 
made  the  decision,  who  had  it  in  liis  power  to 
render  him  essential  service. 

This  was  John  P.  Kennedy,  tlie  novelist,  au- 
thor of  "  Horse-shoe  Robinson,"  and  eminent  as 
a  lawyer  and  a  statesman.  To  this  gentleman 
Poe  came,  on  hearing  of  his  success,  poorly  clad, 
pale,  and  emaciated.  He  told  his  story  and  his 
ambition,  and  at  once  gained  the  confidence  and 
affection  of  the  more  prosperous  author.  lie 
was  in  utter  want,  and  had  not  yet  received 
the  amount  to  which  he  was  entitled  for  hia 
story.  Mr.  Kennedy  took  him  by  the  hand, 
furnished  him  with  means  to  render  him  imme- 
diately comfortable,  and  enabled  hiui  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  JMessenger,"  a  monthly 
magazine,  published  in  Richmond.  In  his 
new  place  he  continued  for  awhile  to  work 
Avith  great  industry,  and  wrote  a  great  number 
of  reviews  and  tales;  hut  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 
oli'ended  by  his  abuse  and  insolence  ;  ami  he 
was  no  sooner  conscious  of  his  error  in  quar- 
relling Avith  the  publisher  of  the  "  Messenger," 
than  be  endeavored  to  regain  the  position  he 
had  lost.  He  was  successful ;  and  though  he 
often  fell  into  his  old  habits,  yet  he  retained 


28  MEMOIE    OF 

bis  connection  witli  the  work  until  January, 
1837,  wlien  he  abandoned  tlie  "  Messenger," 
and  left  Richmond  for  N"e\v  York,  During 
his  last  residence  in  Richmond,  while  working 
for  a  salary  of  ten  dollars  a  week,  lie  married 
his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  a  young,  amiable 
and  gentle  girl,  without  fortune  or  friends, 
and  as  ill-calculated  as  himself  to  buttet  the 
waves  of  an  adverse  fortune.  In  New  York 
he  wrote  for  the  literary  j^eriodicals,  but  soon 
icmoved  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  was  em- 
|)loyed  as  editor  of  "Burton's  Gentleman's 
Magazine."  He  continued  but  a  year  in  his 
post ;  and,  after  several  quarrels  with  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  magazine,  left  liim,  to  establish 
a  magazine  of  his  own.  To  have  a  magazine 
of"  his   own,  which    ho   could    manage   ns   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  Avhich  he 
longed  for,  the  rainbow  of  his  cloudy  hopes. 
But  he  did  not  succeed  in  establishing  it  then, 
and  was  soon  installed  as  editor  of  "  Graham's 
Magazine."  As  a  matter  of  course  he  quar- 
relled with  Graham,  and  then  went  to  New 
York,  where  he  engaged  as  a  sub-editor  on 
the  "  Mirror,"  a  daily  paper,  of  which  IST.  P. 
Willis  was  the  editor.  But  he  did  not  re- 
main long  at  this  employment,  which  was 
wholly  unsuited  to  hun,  and  he  left  the  "Mir- 
ror "    without   quarrelling   with   the    proprie- 


80  MEMOIR    OF 

tor.  During  his  engagements  on  these  dif- 
ferent periodicals,  he  had  written  some  of  his 
finest  prose  tales ;  had  published  an  anony- 
mous work  in  the  style  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
entitled,  the  "  Adventures  of  Arthur  Gordon 
Pym,"  and  a  collection  of  his  tales  in  a  volume 
which  he  called,  the  "  Tales  of  the  Grotesque 
and  Arabesque,"  and  gained  another  prize  by 
his  story  of  the  "  Gold  Bug."  He  was  begin- 
ning to  be  known  as  a  fierce  and  terrible  critic, 
rather  than  as  a  poet  or  writer  of  tales,  when 
the  publication  of  his  poem  of  the  "Raven," 
in  the  "American  Review,"  a  New  York 
monthly  magazine,  first  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  literary  world  to  his  singular  and  pow- 
erful genius.  Up  to  the  appearance  of  thin 
wild  fantasy,  he  had  not  been  geuerally  recoj- 


EOGAR    ALI.AN    POE.  31 

fiized  -IS  a  poet,  and  had  known  nothing  of 
society.  But  he  became  at  once  a  lion,  and 
his  writings  were  eagerly  sought  after  by 
publishers.  The  prospect  lay  bright  before 
him ;  he  abandoned  for  awhile  the  vices  which 
so  fearfully  beset  him ;  he  was  living  quietly 
in  a  pleasant  and  rural  neighborhood  in  West- 
chester, near  the  city,  with  his  delicate  wife 
and  her  mother,  and  a  brilliant  future  appeared 
to  be  in  store  for  him.  But  he  could  never 
keep  clear  from  magazuae  editing,  and  he 
joined  Mr.  C.  h\  Briggs  in  editing  the 
"  Broadway  Journal,"  a  literary  weekly  peri 
odical ;  but  the  inevitable  quarrel  ensued,  anJ 
this  project  was  abandoned  at  the  end  of  } 
year.  It  was  while  editing  the  "  Broadway 
Journal,"  that  he  engaged  in  a  furious  onslaught 


32  MEMOIB   OP 

upon  Longfellow,  whom  he  accused  of  plagia- 
rizing from  his  poems,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
involved  himself  in  numberless  disputes  and 
quarrels  with  other  authors.  But  he  also 
gained  the  affection  and  admiration  of  many- 
estimable  literary  people,  some  of  whom  he 
alienated  by  appearing  before  them  when  in  a 

state  of  intoxication.  He  delivered  a  lecture  on 
poetry,  but  attracted  no  hearers,  and  he  was 
so  chagrined  by  his  disappointment  that  he  fell 
again'  into  his  old  habits,  and  disgusted  his 
new  friends  by  his  gross  misconduct ;  he  in- 
volved himself  in  another  quarrel  with  some 
of  the  literati  of  Boston,  and,  to  show  his  con- 
tempt for  them,  went  there  and  delivered  a 
poem  in  public  which  he  pretended  to  have 
written  in  his  tenth  year.     On  his  retui'n  to 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE.  33 

New  York,  he  Avas  again  reduced  to  great 
straits,  and  in  1848  lie  advertised  a  scries  of 
lectures,  in  order  to  raise  sufficient  means  to 
put  into  execution  liis  long-clierished  j^lan  of  a 
magazine ;  but  lie  delivered  only  one  lecture 
on  the  Cosmogony  of  the  Universe,  which  Avaa 
afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  "  Eu- 
reka, a  prose  poem."  His  wife  had  died  the 
year  j^revious,  and  during  her  illness  he 
was  reduced  to  such  extremities,  that  i^ublic 
appeals,  which  were  generously  responded  to, 
were  made  on  his  behalf  by  the  papers  of  New 
York. 

Not  long  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  he 
formed  an  intimacy  with  an  accomplished  lite- 
rary lady  of  Rhode  Island,  a  widow,  and  was 
engaged  to  be  married  to  her.     It  was  to  her 


34  MEMOIR    OP 

that  he  addressed  the  poem,  "  Annabel  Lee.' 
The  day  was  appointed  for  tlicir  marriage; 
but  he  had,  in  the  meantime,  formed  other 
plans;  and,  to  disentangle  himself  from  this 
engagement,  he  visited  the  house  of  his  affi- 
anced bride,  where  he  conducted  himself  with 
such  indecent  violence,  that  tlie  aid  of  the 
police  had  to  be  called  in  to  expel  him.  This, 
of  course,  put  an  end  to  the  engagement.  In 
a  short  tune  after,  he  went  to  Richmond,  and 
there  gained  the  confidence  and  affections  of  a 
lady  of  good  family  and  considerable  fortune. 
The  day  was  ajDpointed  for  their  marriage,  and 
he  left  Virginia  to  return  to  New  York  to  fulfil 
some  literary  arrangements  previous  to  the 
consummation  of  this  new  engagement.  He 
had   written   to   his   friends   that   he   had,  at 


EDGAR    ALLAM    POE.  35 

last,  a  prospect  of  happiness.  The  Lost 
Leuore  was  found.  He  arrived  in  Baltimore, 
on  his  way  to  the  North,  and  gave  his  bag- 
gage into  the  charge  of  a  porter,  intending  to 
leave  in  an  hour  for  Philadelj^hia.  Steppmg 
into  an  hotel  to  obtain  some  refreshments,  he 
met  some  of  his  former  companions,  who  in- 
vited him  to  drink  with  them.  In  a  liew 
moments  all  was  over  with  hira.  He  f;  ont 
the  night  in  revelry,  wandered  out  into  the 
street  in  a  state  of  insanity,  and  was  ibund  in 
the  morning  literally  dying  from  exposurt*  and 
a  single  night's  excesses.  He  was  taken  to  a 
hospital,  and  on  the  7th  of  October,  1849,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-eight,  he  closed  his  troubled  life. 
Three  days  before,  he  had  left  his  newly- 
affianced  bride,  to  prepare  for  their  nuptials. 


36  MEMOIR   OF 

He  lies  in  a  burying-groiind  in  Baltimore,  his 
native  city,  without  a  stone  to  mark  the  place 
of  his  last  rest. 

In  person,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  slight,  and 
hardly  of  the  medium  height;  his  motions 
were  quick  and  nervous ;  his  air  was  abstract- 
ed, and  his  countenance  generally  serious  and 
pale.  He  never  laughed,  and  rarely  smiled ; 
but  in  conversation  he  was  vivacious,  earnest 
and  respectful ;  and  though  he  appeared  gen- 
erally under  restraint,  as  though  guarding 
against  a  half-subdued  passion,  yet  his  man- 
ners were  engaging,  and  he  never  failed  to 
win  the  confidence  and  kind  feelings  of  those 
with  whom  he  conversed  for  the  first  time ; 
and  there  Avere  a  few,  who  knew  him  long  and 
intimately,  who  could  never  believe  that  he 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POE.  37 

was  ever  otherwise  than  the  pleasant,  intelli- 
gent, respectful  and  earnest  companion  he 
appeared  to  them.  Though  he  was  at  times 
so  reckless  and  profligate  in  his  conduct,  and 
so  indifierent  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  apj^earance.  He 
was  painfully  alive  to  all  imperfections  of  art ; 
and  a  false  I'hyme,  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  enemiea 
among  persons  towards  whom  he  never  entei'- 


38  MEMOIK   OF 

tained  any  personal  ill-will.  He  criticised  hia 
own  productions  with  the  same  severity  that 
he  exercised  towards  the  writings  of  othei's ; 
and  all  his  poems,  though  he  sometimes  repre- 
sented them  as  offsprings  of  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion, were  the  work  of  elaborate  study.  His 
handwriting  was  always  neat  and  singularly 
uniform,  and  his  manuscripts  were  invariably 
on  long  slips  of  paper,  about  four  inches  wide, 
which  he  never  folded,  but  always  made  into  a 
roll.  Nothing  that  he  ever  did  had  the  appear- 
ance of  haste  or  slovenliness,  and  he  preserved 
with  religious  care  every  scrap  he  had  ever 
written,  and  every  letter  he  ever  received,  so 
that  he  left  behind  him  the  amplest  materials 
for  the  composition  of  his  literar}-  life.  At  his 
own  request  these  remnants  of  his  existence 


EDGAR    ALLAN    POK.  39 

were  intrusted  to  Doctor  Griswold,  a  gentle- 
man 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, 
published  m  New  York,  by  Widdleton. 


POEMS. 


THE    EAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
While  I  pondered,  weak  and  weary. 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious 
Yolume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 
Rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
**  'Tis  some  visiter  I  muttered, 

"  Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this  and  nothing  more.' 

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


44  THE    RAYEN. 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  ; — 
Vainly  I  liad  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 
Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic 
Terrors  never  felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visiter  entreating 

Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visiter  entreating 
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    KAVEN.  45 

But  the  fact  is  I  was  napniug, 

And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 

-A.nd  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,  fearii;  . 
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  I "" — 
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. 


4f>  THE    RAVE.V. 

"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is 

Something  at  my  window  lattice : 

Let  me  see,  then  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — ■ 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment 

And  this  mystery  explore  ; — • 

'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter. 
When,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter. 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Eaven 
Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ; 
Not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
But  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas 

Just  above  my  chamber  door — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 
My  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 
Of  the  countenance  it  wore, 


THE    RAVEN. 


47 


"  Though  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  1" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore,  " 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — 
Little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing 
Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 
Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely 
On  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 

That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 


43  THE    RAVKX. 

Nothiug  farther  then  he  uttered  ; 
Not  a  feather  then  he  fluttered — 
Till  1  scarcely  more  than  muttered, 
"  Other  friends  havo  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me, 

As  my  Hopes  have  flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 
By  reply  so  i^ptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters 
Is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster 
Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that 
Melancholy  burden  bore 

Of  '  Never — ^nevermore.' " 

But  the  Eaven  still  beguiling 
AU  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in 
Front  of  bird  and  bust  and  dour ; 


THE    RAVEN.  49 

Then  upon  th«  velvet  sinking, 
I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 

What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 
Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore."' 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing, 
But  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  wliose  fiery  eyes  now 

Burned  into  my  bosom's  core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining. 
With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining 

That  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  footfalls 
Tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 


50  THE  BaVEN. 

"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee- 
By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe 

From  thy  memories  of  Leuore ! 

QuaflP,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe. 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Eaveu,  "Nevermore." 

'  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — 

Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! — 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether 
Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore. 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted. 
On  this  desert  land  enchanted— 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted— 
Tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — 
Tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevei'moru." 

"  Prophet  I "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil- 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  a^J — 
By  that  God  we  both  adore — 


THE   KAVEN.  51 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden 

Whom  the  angels  name  Lenoro — 
Clasp  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  oil"  my  door  I  " 

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  ; 


52  THE    RAVEN. 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming 
And  the  lamjilight  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! 


L  E  N  0  R  E . 

Ah,  broken  is  the  golden  bowl ! 

The  spirit  flowni  forever  ! 
Let  the  bell  toll ! — a  saintly  soul 

Floats  on  the  Stygian  river  ; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear  ?- 

Weep  now  or  never  more ! 
See !  on  you  drear  and  rigid  bier 

Low  lies  thy  love,  Lenore ! 
Come !  let  the  burial  rite  be  read — • 

The  funeral  song  be  sung ! — 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead 

That  ever  died  so  young — 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead 

In  that  s'le  died  so  young. 

'  Wretches  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth 
And  hated  her  for  her  pride, 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health, 
Te  blessed  her— that  she  die.!  ! 


54  I,ENORE. 

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  bride — 
For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair, 

That  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair. 

But  not  within  her  eyes — 
The  life  still  there  upon  her  hair — 

The  death  upon  her  eyes. 

"  Avaunt !  to-night  my  heart  is  light. 
No  dirge  will  I  upraise, 


I.KXORE.  55 

But  waft  the  augel  on  lior  flight 

With  a  Poeaa  of  old  days ! 
Let  no  bell  toll ! — lest  her  sweet  soul, 

Amid  its  hallowed  mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float 

Up  from  the  damued  Earth. 
I'o  friends  above,  from  fiends  below, 

The  indignant  ghost  is  riven — 
From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate 

Far  up  within  the  Heaven — 
From  grief  and  groan  to  a  golden  throne 

Beside  the  Kmg  of  Heaven." 


H  Y  ]\r  N  . 

At  moru — at  uoon — at  twiliglit  dim — 
Maria !  tliou  hast  heard  my  hymn ! 
In  joy  aud  wo — in  good  and  ill — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be. 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee  ; 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Pr&<?ent  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
Wilh  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine ! 


\     VALENTINE. 

For  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous  eyes, 

Brightly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Loeda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that  nestling  lies 

Upon  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines ! — they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine — a  talisman —  an  amulet 
Tliat  must  be  worn  at  heart.    Search  well  the  measure- 

Tlie  words — the  syllables !     Do  not  forsret 
The  trivialest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labor  ! 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  might  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 

If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Eu  written  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes  scintillating  soul,  there  lie  per^  hm 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  t)io  liearing 

Of  poets,  by  poets — -as  the  name  is  a  poet's,  too. 


58  A     VALEXTIXE. 

Its  letters,  altliough  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  aJdress,  read  the  ilrst  lett.i  ci'  the  first  lino  i;i 
connection  with  the  second  letter  of  the  second  line,  the  third  letter 
of  the  third  line,  the  fourth  of  the  ft  urth,  and  so  ou  lo  the  end.  T.io 
name  will  thus  appear,  j 


THE     COLISEUM. 


Type  of  the  antique  Rome !     Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power  I 
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  thadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom  and  glory ! 

Vastness !  and  Age '  and  Memories  of  Eld ! 
Silence !  and  Desolation !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feci  ye  in  your  strength — 
0  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemaue  ! 
0  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Clialdee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars  I 


00  THE    (ULISEUM. 

Here,  where  a  Ivto  fell,  a  column  falls  ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  miduight  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  arcades — 
These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and  bkckened 

shafts — 
'I'hese  vague  entablatures — this  crumbling  frieze— 
These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — this  ruin — 
These  stones — alas !  these  gray  stones — are  they  all  — 
All  of  the  famed,  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 


Not  all " — the  Echoes  answer  me — "  not  all ' 
Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 
Prom  us.  and  from  nil  Ruin,  unto  tlie  wise, 
As  raflouv  from  M  Mun'Mi  to  the  Sun. 


THE    COLISEUM.  61 

We  riile  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men — we  rule 
With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
We  are  not  imjjotent — we  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone — not  all  our  fame- 
Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown — 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us — 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie — 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory  ' 


TO     HELEN. 

I  SAW  thee  once — once  only — years  ago  t 

I  must  not  say  hoiv  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 

Eoses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 

Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe — 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 

That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light. 

Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death — 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 

That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre  enchanted 

By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 


TO    HEUKN.  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  I 


Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight — 

Was  it  not  Fate,  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow,) 

That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate, 

To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 

No  footstep  stirred  :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 

Save  only  thee  and  me.     (Oh,  Heaven  ! — oh,  God  I 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words  !)— 

Save  only  thee  and  me.    I  paused — I  looked — 

And  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  eyes — 

Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 


64  TO    HELEN. 

I  saw  but  tbera — they  were  the  world  to  me. 
I  saw  but  them— saw  only  them  for  hours- - 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 
Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres ! 
How  dark  a  wo  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope  ! 
How  silently  serene  a  sea  of  pride  I 
How  daring-  an  ambition  !  yet  how  deep-— 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 


But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sijrlit, 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud  ; 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 
They  would  not  go — they  never  yet  have  gone. 
Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 
They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 
They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the  years. 
They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  slave. 
Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle — 
My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  In  their  electric  fire, 
A.nd  sanctified  in  tlicir  cly.^iau  fire 


TO    HELEN.  (5") 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope,) 
And  are  far  up  in  Heaven — the  stars  1  kneel  to 
In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night ; 
While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillaut 
Venuses;  unextinguished  by  the  suu ! 


TO 


Not  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines,' 

In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 

Maintained  "  the  power  of  words  " — denied  that  ever 

A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 

Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue  : 

And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 

Two  words — two  foreign  soft  dissyllables — 

Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 

By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "  dew 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermou  hill," — 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart, 

Untb  ought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of  thought, 

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  T  !  my  spells  arc  broken. 


TO    .  07 

The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand. 

With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 

I  cannot  write — I  cannot  speak  or  think — 

Alas,  I  cannot  feel ;  for  'tis  not  feeling. 

This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 

Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 

Gazing,  entranced,  aduwn  the  gorgeous  vista, 

And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right. 

Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 

Amid  unpurpled  vapors,  far  away 

To  where  the  prospect  terminates — thee  only. 


ULALUME. 


The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober  ; 

The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere — 

The  leaves  they  were  witheriug  and  svvg  , 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 

In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 

Of  cypress,  1  roamed  with  my  Soul — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcauir 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll — 


ULALUME.  69 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 
Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 

In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 
That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 

In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 


Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere— 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  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- 

A.t  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 
And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 


70  ULA.LUMH. 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  orescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn — 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 


And  I  said — "  She  is  warmer  than  Bian  : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs  : 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion, 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes — 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said — "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust ; — 

Oh.  hasten ! — oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 

Oh,  flv  ! — let  us  flv  I — for  we  must." 


ULAJ>UJJ  E.  71 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied — "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming  : 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  Sybilic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night : — 

See ! — it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night ! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming. 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright. 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright. 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom  ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista. 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb — 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb  ; 


72  ULALUME. 

And  I  said — "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ?" 
She  replied — "  Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume  ! " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere — 

A  nd  I  cried — "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here — • 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghonl-hauntcd  woodland  of  Weir." 


THE    BELLS 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells — • 
Silver  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
Wliile  the  stars  that  overspr  inkle 
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, 
Bolls,  bells,  bells— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


74  THE   UKM.S. 


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  gloata 
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  th3  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  rhvminff  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  I 


THE   BKl-J^S.  '  "-* 


III. 


Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  I 
lu  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, 
jg-QW — 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  palpitathig  air ! 


76  THE    BELLS. 

Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Tet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  \vrangling, 
llow  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells- 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ! 

IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells- 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
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  people — 
They  that  dwell  r.p  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  stoi;e — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  humai!— 
They  are  Ghouls  : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Eolls 
A  psean  from  the  bells  I 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  peean  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells  : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells— 


77 


73  THE    BEL],!:?. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells— 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells- 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


AN     E  N  I  G  ]St  A  . 

'  Seldom  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce. 

"  Half  an  idea  in  the  profounriest  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  ? 
Y"et  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuif — 
Owl-downy  nonsense  that  the  faintest  puff 

Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it.' 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 
The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles — ephemeral  and  so  transparent — 

But  this  is,  now, — you  may  depend  upon  it — 
Stable,  opaque,  immortal— all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within  't. 


ANNABEL     LEW. 


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  livpd  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  \ove  and  be  loved  by  me. 


I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  : 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  which  was  more  than  love- 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 


ANNA15KL    LEE.  81 


And  Ibis  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  ))y  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chiiliug 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsman  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven. 
Went  envying  her  and  me — • 

Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 

That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
Chiiliug  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  fai  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
(X,.  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lek  : 
C 


82  ANNABKL     LEU. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 

And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 

And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  1  lie  down  by  the  side 

Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 
J  n  the  sepulchre  there  by  tlie  sea, 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 

Because  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 

The  angels,  whisperiug  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of  io\'e, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you — 

Tou  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 ;  l)ut  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  1  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 

Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 


THE     HAUNTED     PALACE. 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 

By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  bead. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 

Over  fabric  half  so  fair  ! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 


TUE     HAUNTED     PALACE.  85 

Wanderers  iu  that  hapjiy  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  thing?,  iu  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 

or  the  old  time  entombed. 


86  THK     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  lauffh — 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  pee 

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  fly — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro. 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Wo ! 


88  THE    CONQUEROR    WOR-M. 

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  returueth  in 

To  the  self-same  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude 
It  writhes  ! — it  writhes ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form. 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm. 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan. 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm 


TO     F S     S.    0 D. 

Thou  wouldst  be  loved  ?— then  let  thy  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 

Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 

And  love — a  simple  duty. 


TO     ONE    IN     PAKADISE. 


Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  crias, 
'  On  !  on !" — but  o'er  the  Past 

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


TO    ONE    IN    PARADISE.  91 

For,  alas  !  alas  !  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er  ! 
"  No  more — no  more — no  more — " 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 


And  all  my  days  are  trances, 
And  all  my  nightly  dreams 

Are  where  thy  dark  eyo  glances, 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 

In  what  ethereal  dances, 
By  what  eternal  streams. 


THE     VALLEY     OF     UNREST. 

Once  it  smiled  a  sileut  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  tlie  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   VA.LLEY    OF    UNREST.  93 

Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 

That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 

Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 

Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye — 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave ! 

They  wave  :— from  out  their  fragrant  topa 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 

They  weep  : — from  off  their  delicate  stem* 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


THE     CITY    IN     THE    SEA. 

Lo !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the  best 

Have  gone  to  tlioir  eternal  rest. 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not ! ) 

Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  hc'^  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    THK   SEA.  95 

Gleams  up  the  pinuacles  far  and  free — 
Up  domes — up  spires — up  liingly  halls — 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwiae 
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  giganticaUy  down. 


There  open  fanes  and  gaping  gi-aves 
Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves  ; 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye — 
Not  the  gaily-jeweled  dead 
Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed  ; 
For  no  ripples  curl,  alas  ! 
Along  that  M  ilderness  of  glas&  - 


96  THE   CITY    IS   THE   SJiA. 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 
Upon  some  far-off  liaiDi^ier  sea — 
No  heavings  hiut  that  winds  have  been 
On  seas  less  hideously  serene. 


But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air  ! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there  I 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide — 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow — 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low— 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
V  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    SLEEPEK. 

Looking  like  Letlie,  see !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take. 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps! — and  lo!  where  hes 
(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies  I 


Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop— 
Tlie  borliloKS  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  tbrougli  thy  chamber  in  and  out. 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully — so  fearfully — 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  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  ! 


THE     SJ-KEPEK.  99 

Strange  is  thy  pallor  !  strange  thy  dress ! 
Strange  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress. 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  ! 


'J'he  lady  sleeps  !     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  I 
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 

A.S  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  unfold — 

Some  vault  that  oft  has  flung  its  black 

And  winged  pannels  fluttering  back, 

Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls, 

Of  her  grand  family  funerals — 


100  THE     SLEEP£R. 

Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Agaiust  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  au  idle  stone — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  au  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  lite,  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-i'old  Silence — sea  and  shore — 
Body  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, 
'J 'hat  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man,)  commend  thyself  to  God  ! 


A    DREAM    AVITHIN    A    DREAM, 

Take  this  kiss  upon  tlie  brow ! 

A.nd,  in  parting  from  you  now, 

Thus  much  let  me  avow — 

You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 

That  my  days  have  been  a  dream  ; 

Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 

In  a  night,  or  iu  a  day, 

In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 

Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  7 

All  that  we  sec  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  saud — 


A    DREAM    'VVTrniN    A    DREAM.  101^ 

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


D  RE  A  MLaN  D. 

By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  atigels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime, 
Out  of  Space — out  of  Time. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over  ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  n'itlioiit  n  shore  ; 


DREAMLAND.  105 

Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dead^ 
Their  still  waters — still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  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  unholy — 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
lii  agony,  to  ii.c  Karth — aiid  lleavec. 


106  DREAMLAND. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 
'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region — 
For  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     Z  A  N  T  K . 

Path  islr,  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  ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more — no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes  ! 
No  more !  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming  all !  Thy  charms  shall  please  710  more- 
Thy  memory  no  more !    Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
0  hyacinthine  isle !    0  purple  Zante ! 

"  Isola  doro !    Flor  di  Levante  I " 


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  bride — 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie 
Became  my  smiling  bride. 

Ah,  less — less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl  I 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pear!. 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's 

Most  unregarded  curl — 
Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's 
Afost  liunible  and  careless  curl. 


EULiiXlE.  109 

Now  Doubt^now  Pain 

Come  never  again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 

And  all  day  long 

Shines  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 
While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  • 

Upturns  her  matron  eye — 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie 
Upturns  her  violet  eye. 


F,  L  T)  0  R  A  I)  U 


Gaily  bedight, 
A  gallant  knight, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 
Had  journeyed  long, 
Singing  a  song. 

In  search  of  i^ldorado. 


But  he  grew  old — 
This  knight  so  bold — 

And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 
Fell  as  he  found 
No  spot  of  ground 

That  looked  like  Eldorado. 


ELDORADO.  Ill 

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


"  Over  the  Mountains 
Of  the  Moon, 

Down  ths  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
Ride,  boldly  ride," 
The  shade  replied, — 

■  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  I " 


ISR  AFEL.» 


In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

"  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ;  " 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  ang<jl  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 

Ceasing  thcxf  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 


*  And  the  angel  Isnafol,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  Into,  and  who 
has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — Koran. 


ISRATKL.  1 13 


Tottering  above 

lu  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. 


A.nd  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 
By  which  he  sits  and  sings — • 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 


But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty— - 

Where  Love's  a  grown  up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 
8 


114  ISBAFEL, 

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  I 


The  ecstasies  above 

"With  thy  burning  measures  suit — 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  — 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute  I 


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  tlie  sunshine  of  ours 


If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 


ISEAFEL.  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. 


FOlt    ANNIE. 


Thank  Heaven  1  the  crisis — 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length — 
But  no  matter  ! — I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 


FOK    A>IJS1K.  117 

And  I  rest  so  composedly, 

Now,  iu  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Miglit  i'ancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me. 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 

The  sighing  and  sobbing, 
A.re  quieted  now. 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart : — ah,  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing  1 

The  sickness — the  nausear-*- 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh !  of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thii-st 


118  FOR   ANNIE. 

For  the  napthaliue  river 
Of  Passion  accurst : — 

I  have  drank  of  a  water 
That  quenches  all  thirst  :-- 

Of  a  water  that  flows 
With  a  lullaby  sound, 

From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 
Feet  under  ground — 

From  a  cavern  not  very  far 
Down  under  ground. 

And  ah  !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy 

And  narrow  my  bed  ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes. 


FOR   ANNIE.  119 

Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting  its  roses — 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses  : 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies — 
A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie- 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 
She  fondly  caressed, 


120  FOK    ANNIE. 

And  then  I  fell  gently 
To  sleep  on  her  breast — 

Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 


When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 


And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

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  Annie- 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


131 


TO 


I  HKED  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. 


BRIDAL    BALLAD 


The  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow  ; 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 

And  I  am  happy  now. 


And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell — 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  'ell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

A  nd  who  is  happy  now. 


124  KRIDAL    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  Tiim  dead  D'Elormie, 
"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now !  " 


And  thus  the  words  were  spoken. 
And  this  the  plighted  vow. 

And,  though  my  faith  be  broken, 

And,  though  my  heart  be  broken, 

Behold  the  golden  token 
That  proves  me  happy  now ! 


Would  God  I  could  awaken  I 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how  I 
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 — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms — but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 
Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


SCENES   FROM    "POLITIAN;" 


AN    UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA 


SCENES   FROM    "POLITIAN;" 


AN    UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA. 


I. 


ROME. — A  Hall  in  a  Palace-     Alessandra  and  Castiguonb. 


AltESSANDRA. 


Thou  art  sad,  Oastiglione. 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Sad !— not  I. 
Oh,  I'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Eome  ! 
A  few  days  more,  thou  knowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.     Oh,  I  am  very  happy ! 


130  SCENES    FROM    "POIITIAN." 


ALESSANDRA. 

Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing 
Thy  happiness  ! — what  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 


CASTIGLIONE. 

Did  I  sigh  ? 
I  was  not  conscious  of  it.    It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
Wlien  I  am  very  happy.     Did  I  sigh  ?        (sffching.) 


ALESSANDBA. 

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    "  POLITIAN."  131 

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


CASTIGLIONE    (ffltiSmg-). 

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


ALESSANDRA. 

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


CASTIGLIONE. 


I  will  drop  them 


132  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 


ALKSSANDBA. 

Thou  wilt — thou  must.    Attend  thou  also  more 
To  thy  dress  and  equipage — they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion — mucti  depends 
Upon  appearances. 


CASTIGLIONE. 

I'll  see  to  it. 

ALESSANDRA. 

Theo  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 

AI.ESSANDRA  (haughtily). 

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 
T  crave  thy  pardon — indeed  I  am  not  well — 


13-1  SCENES    VKOM    "POTJTTAN." 

Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive  ! — Madam — the  Duke  ! 


Miter  Di  Broglio. 


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.     'Tis  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 


ALESSANDRA. 

What!  Politian 
Of  Britain,  Earl  of  licicester  ? 


SCENES   FROM    "  POLITIAN."  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. 


ALESSANDBA. 

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. 
'''earned  as  few  are  learned. 


136  SCENES    FR05I    ''  POLITIAN." 


ALESSANDRA. 

'Tis  very  strange ! 
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  aiid  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream,  or  did  1  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man  ?  [Exeimt 


SCJSNES   FROat    "POLITIAN."  IS"/ 


II. 


UOJIE. — A  Lady's  apat'tment,  with  a  window  open  and  looking 
into  a  garden.  Lalacie,  i»,  dee}^  mourning ,  rending  at  a  table 
on  which  He  some  hooka  and  a  hand  mirror.  In  the  back- 
ground  Jaci>'ta  (a  servant  maid)  leans  carelessly  upon  a 
chair. 


Jacinta,  is  it  thou  ? 


JACiNTA  {pertlyy 

Yes,  Ma'am,  I'm  here. 


I  did  not  know,  Jacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 
Sit  down  ! — let  not  my  presence  trouble  you — 
Rit  down  ! — for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 


138  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

JACINTA    {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.) 


"  It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 

"  Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil !"  • 

{pauses — turns  over  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." 
0,  beautiful ! — most  beautiful ! — how  like 
To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  Heaven  ! 
0  happy  land  !  {pauses.)    She  died  ! — the  maiden  died ' 


SCEJS^ES    FROM    "POLITIAN."  139 

0  still  more  ha^jpy  maiden  who  couldst  die  ! 
Jacinta ! 

(Jacinta  returns  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  despair — 
Of  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 ! 


JACINTA  {pettishly). 

Madam,  what  is  it  ? 


140  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIA^"." 


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


JACINTA. 

Pshaw  I  {Exit. 


If  there  be  balm 
For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead  it  is  there  1 
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  tabic.) 

There,  ma'am,   's  the    book.      Indeed    she    is  very 
tjoublesorae.  (Aside. 


SCKNOiS    FXtOM    "  POLITIAJ^."  I4i 


LALAGE  {astonished). 

What  didst  thou  say,  Jaciuta  ?     Have  I  dooe  aught 
To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee  ? — I  am  soitj. 
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  jewelis — no — no — she  gave  me  all. 


LALAGE. 

Wbat  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?      Now  I  bethink  me 
Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  lyood  Uc:o  ? — and  when  is  it  to  be  ? 
Can  I  do  aught '! — is  there  no  farther  aid 
Thou  noedest,  Jacinta  ? 


142  SCENES    FROM    "•  POLITIAN  " 


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. 


Jewels  1  Jacinta, — now  indeed,  Jaciuta, 
1  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 


Oh  !  perhaps  not  1 
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    FKOM    ''■  POLITIAN."  143 

A.nd  at  the  best  I'm  certaiu,  Madam,  you  cannot 
Have  use  for  jewels  nmv.     But  I  might  have  sworn  it. 

{Exit. 

(Lalage  bursts  into  tears  and  leans  her 
head  upon  the  table — after  a  short  pause 
raises  it.) 


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.) 

Ha  !  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) 
A  tale — a  pretty  tale — and  heed  thou  not 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.    It  answers  me. 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 
And  Beauty  long  deceased — lemembers  me 
Of  Joy  departed — Hope,  the  Seraph  Hope, 


144  SCENES    FltOM    ''  FOLIXIAN." 

InurueJ  aud  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  break — 

Castiglioue  lied  who  said  he  loved 

Thou  true  ! — he  faise ! — false  !-  -false ! 

{While  she  speaks,  a  monk  enters  her  apaat' 
meat,  and  approaches  unobserved.) 


Refuge  thou  hast, 
Sweet  daughter  !  in  Heaven.    Think  of  eternal  things  I 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray  1 


LALAGE  [arising  hurriedly). 

I  cannot  pray  ! — ]\ty  soul  is  at  war  with  .God ! 
The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturb  my  senses — go  !  I  cannot  pray — 


SCENES    riJOM    "PULlTiAX."  145 

Thi  iweet  airs  from  the  garduo  worry  me  ! 

Thy  presence  grieves  me — go  ! — thy  j^riestly  raiment 

Fi\h  me  with  dread — thy  ebouy  crucifix 

With  horror  and  awe ! 


Think  of  thy  precious  soul ! 


Tliink  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 — ray  ruin — think — think 

Of  my  unspeakable  misery  ! begone  ! 

Yet  stay !   yet  stay  I — what   was   it   thou  saidst  of 

prayer 
And  penitence  ?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 
\nd  vows  before  the  tlirone  ? 
10 


14G  SCENi:S    FKOM    "  POLIllA-N\" 

MONK- 

I  did. 


'Tis  weU. 
'I'here  ts  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made — 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative,  and  urgent, 
A.  solemn  vow ! 


Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well 


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


SCENES    PROM    "  POLITIAN."  147 

A  crucifix  whereoii  to  register 
This  sacred  vow  ? 

[He  hands  her  his  owii.) 

Not  that— Ob !  no  !— no  !— no ! 

{Shuddering.) 

Not  that !  Not  that ! — 1  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  ! 


Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  nnholy — thy  lips  are  livid — 


148  SCENES    FEOM    "  POLITIAX." 

Thiue  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 ! 


LAI^AGE. 

'Tis  sworn  ! 


SCEJSTES    FROM    "■  POLITIAN."  149 


111 


An  apartment  in  a  Palace.    Poutian  and  Bald.vz7je. 


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 ! 


Not  so,  Baldazzar ! 
Surihi  I  live. 


150  SCENES    FEOM    *'  POLITIAX." 


BALDAZZAB. 

Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  tlms. 


Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honored  friend. 
Command  me,  sir  !  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  1 
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 ! 


BAl-DAZZAR. 

To  the  field,  then— to  the  field— 
To  tlie  senate  or  the  field. 


SCENES   FROM    "  POLITIAN."  151 


Alas !   alas ! 
There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there ! 
There  is  an  imp  haili  followeil  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. 

BMjDAZZAK. 

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


152  SCENES   FllOU    "POLITIAX." 

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


It  is  a  phantom  voice  1 
Didst  thou  not  hear  it  then  7 


BALDAZZAR. 

I  heard  it  not. 


'I'hou  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  1 

We  have  been  boys  together — schoolfellows — 


8CEJS'ES    FnOU    "rOLITIAX."  153 

Aiid  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  farther  duties 
Unto  thy  friend. 


BALDA2ZAR. 

Thou  speakest  a  ffearful  riddle 
I  w)ll  not  understand. 


Tet  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.     Mctliinks  tlie  air 
[h  balniior  now  tliau  it  av:i,r  wnnt  to  be — 


154  SCENES    FKOM    "  POLITIAN," 

Ricli  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  norc,  Baldazzar  ? 


BALDAZZAR. 


Indeed  I  hear  not. 


Not  hear  it ! — listen,  now  ! — listen  ! — the  faintest  soun^ 
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  da  vs  i 


SCENES    FKOM    "  POUTIAN."  155 


BALDAZZAR. 

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  Oastiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 


Be  still ! — it  comes  again  ! 


VOICE  [very  fainthj). 

"  And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  fiT  to  leave  me  thus 


166  SCENES    FROM    "  POI.ITIAN." 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
lu  wealth  and  wo  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay — say  nay ! 


BALDAZZAR. 

The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have  heard  it 
la  merry  England — never  so  plaintively — 
Hist !   hist !   it  comes  again  ! 


VOICE  {mo7-e  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 
A  s  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay — say  iiay  ! ' 


SCEJfES    FEOM    "  roLlTIAK."  157 


BAI.DAZZAR. 

Tis  hushed  aud  all  i.s  still ! 


Let  us  20  down. 


POIJTIAN. 

All  is  not  still ! 

BAIvDAZZAR, 


Go  down,  Baldazzar,  go  I 


BALDAZZAR, 


The  hour  is  growing  late — the  Duke  awaits  u.?,- 
Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 

Pk'Iow.     AV1i:i1  ails  Ihe'j.  Earl  T'olitinn  ' 


158  SCENES    FROM    "  POUTIAN," 


VOICE    {(listuictly). 

"  Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  wo  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  ? 

Say  nay — say  nay !" 


BjVLDAZZAR. 

Let  us  descend  ! — 'tis  time.     Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Remember,  pray, 
rour  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    "  POLITXAN."  159 

"  To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tono^ue." 


BALDAZZAR. 

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 ! 

POLITIAN  [aside). 

'Tis  strange  ! — 'tis  very  strange — methought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires,  and  bade  me  stay  ! 

{Approaching  tlie  window^ 

Sweet  voice !  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  Fancy,  by  Heaven  !  or  be  it  Fate, 


IGO  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAX  ' 

Still  will  I  uot  descend.     Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  tlio  Duke  for  me  ; 
I  e:o  uot  down  to-ni'^ht. 


BALDAZZAR. 

Your  lordship's  pleasure 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good  night,  Politian. 


Good  night,  my  friend,  good  night 


SOENES    FKOM    "  POLITIAN."  161 


IV. 


The  gaid&tis  of  a  Palace — Moonlight.     Lalage  a/nd  PouTLAif. 


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 


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  1 
11 


162  SCENES    FKOSI    "■  POLITIAN." 

Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  spaak  of  love, 
Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  wliat  I  Lave  seen. 
Thou  askest  me  that — and  thus  I  answer  thee — 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee  1  answer  thee. 

(^Kneeling.) 

Sweet  Lalage,  I  love  thee — love  thee — love  thee ; 
Thro'  good  and  ill — thro'  weal  and  wo  I  love  tliee. 
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  ? 

{Arzstng.) 

Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee — even  for  thy  woes — 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  woes. 


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


SCENES    FBOM    "  POLITIAN."  lOo 

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  ? 


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  fair&st,  and  my  best. 


164  SCENES    FKOJI    "  POLITIAX." 

That  we  go  down  uiiliouored  and  forgotten 

Into  the  dust — so  we  descend  together. 

Descend  together — and  then — and  then,  perchance 


Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 


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


Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 


POLITIAN. 

And  still  together — tos:ethei: 


SCENES    FROSr    ''  POLITIAN."  1G5 


NTow,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! 

Thou  lovest  me,  and  in  my  lieart  of  hearts 

I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 


Oil,  Lalage ! 
( Throwing  mmself  upon  his  knee.] 
And  lovest  thou  me  7 


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  ami  returns.) 


166  SCENES    FItOM        1^0LITIAJS\" 

I  was  mistaken — 'twas  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     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  s'loom. 


Politian ! 
Thou  spcakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou  the  laud 
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. 


SCENES    FKOM    "  TOLITIAX."  107 

And  mouiilaius,  arouud  wliose  toweriug  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  ? 


0,  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  ? 


108  SCJiNJiS    FJROM    "  POLITIAV." 

LAJ.AGE. 

A  deed  is  to  be  done- 
Castiglione  lives ! 


And  he  shall  die  I  {Exit. 


LALAGE  {after  a  pause). 

And — he — shall— die  ! alas  ! 

Castiglione  die  ?     Who  spoke  the  words  ? 
Where  am  I  ? — what  was  it  he  said  ? — Politiuu  ! 
Thou  aii  not  g-oiie — thou  art  not  gone,  Politiau ! 
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 — 0,  speak  to  me  1 
y^  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  I  thou  art  not  gone — 


SCENES    FKOM    "  POIJTIAN."  1  G9 

0  speak  to  me  !     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go  ! 

1  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  verii  well — alas  !   alas  I 


170  SCENES    FROM    "  I'OJ.iTlAX." 


The  suhurbs.     VoimAs  alon«. 


riiis  weakness  grows  upon  me.     1  am  faint, 

And  much  I  fear  me  ill — it  will  not  do 

To  die  ere  I  have  lived  ! — Stay — stay  thy  hand, 

0  Azrael,  yet  awhile  I — Prince  of  the  Powers 

Of  Darkness  and  the  Tomb,  0  pity  me  ! 

0  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  I — what  saveth  the  Count  ? 


Enter  Baldazzar. 


SCENES    FROM    "  rOLlTlAN,"  171 


BALDA2ZAB. 


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


Wliat  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  ! — wlmt  said  the  Count  ? 


BALDAZZAK. 

That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 

Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 

Of  quarrel  between  your  lordship  and  himself 

Caunot  accept  tlie  challenge. 


172  SCIINES    FIIOM    "  P0LIXIA^\" 


It  is  most  true — 
All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  sir, 
When  saw  you  uow,  Baklazzar,  in  ihe  frigid, 
Uugeuial  Britain  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this — so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds  ? — and  ha  did  say  ? 


BALD.VZZAR. 

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


FOLITIAN. 

Now  this  is  true — 
All  very  true.     Thou  art  ray  friend,  Baldazzar, 
And  1  have  not  forgotten  it — thoult  do  ino 
A  piece  of  service  ;  wilt  thou  go  back  and  say 


SCENES    FKOM    "  POLITIAN."  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  1 


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. 

BALDAZZAH. 

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


17-1  SCENES    FKOM    "  POLITIAN." 


At  the  Vatican. 

{Exit  Baldazzar 


Miter  Castiglione. 


CASTIGLIONE. 


The  Earl  of  Leicester  here  ! 


I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  aud  thou  seeet, 
Dost  thou  not  ?  that  I  am  here. 


CASTIGLIONE. 


My  lord,  some  strauge, 
Some  siugular  mistake — misunderstanding — 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  175 

Hath  without  doubt  arisen  :   thou  hast  bceu  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. 


POLITIAN. 

Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more  1 

CASTIGLIONE. 

Ha  ! — draw  ? — and  villain  ?   have  at  thee  then  at  once, 
Proud  Earl !  [Draws 


POLITIAN    [drawing) . 

Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thoe 
In  the  name  of  Lalajje  ! 


176  SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN." 


Castiglione  [leUing.,fall  his  sword  and  recoiling  to  the 
extremity  of  the  stage). 

Of  Lalage ! 
Hold  off — thy  sacred  band  I — avauut,  I  say  I 
Avaunt — I  will  not  fight  thee — indeed  I  dare  not. 


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


CASTIGLIONE. 

I  dare  not — dare  not — 
Hold  oS"  thy  hand — with  that  beloved  name 
So  freah  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee — 
T  cannot — daro  not. 


SCENES    FROM    "  POLITIAN."  J  77 


Now  by  my  halidoin 
I  do  believe  thee  ! — coward,  1  do  believe  thee — 


CASTIGLTONE. 

Ha  I — coward  ! — tliis  may  uot  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.     0  pity  me! 


POLITIAN  {greatly  softened). 
Alas ! — I  do — indeed  I  pity  thee. 


178  SCENES   FROM    "  POLITIAN." 

CASTIGLIONE. 

And  Lalage 

POLITIAN. 

Scoundrel .' — arise  and  die ! 

CASTIGLIONE. 

It  needeth  not  be — thus — thus — 0  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.    1  will  not  fia:ht  thee. 


Now  s'Death  and  Hell ! 
Am  I  not — am  I  not  sorely — grievously  tempted 


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  iusult  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  1  thou  slinlt  !  [Exit. 


CASTIGLIONE 

Now  this  indeed  is  just ! 
Most  righteous  and  most  just,  avenging  Heaven  1 


\ 


POEMS    WRITTEN"    IN    YOUTH. 


Private  reasons — some  of  which  have  reference  to  the  sin  of 
plagiarism,  and  others  to  the  date  of  Tenuyson's  first  poems — have 
induced  mo,  after  some  hesitation,  to  re-publish  tliese,  the  crude 
compcjsitions  of  ray  earliest  boyhood.  They  are  printed  verbaCim — 
without  alteration  from  the  original  edition — the  date  of  which  is  too 
remota  to  bo  judiciously  acknowledged. 

E.   A.    P. 


POEMS    WRITTEN   IN   TOUTH. 


SONNET.— TO     SCIENCE. 

Science  !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art ! 

Who  alter  est  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  wonldst  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  lier  car  ? 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  tlie  wood 
'J'o  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  fro'u  me 
The  Rummer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree? 


AT.    A  A  R  A  A  F  . 


0  !  NOTHING  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  iu  woodland  rill — 
Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 
Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed 
That,  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  flowers 
That  list  our  Love,  and  deck  our  bowers — 
'  Adorn  yon  world  afixr,  afar — 
Tlic  wander: uir  star. 


AL    AAKAAF,  185 

'Twas  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace — for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  ou  the  goldeu  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns — a  temporary  rest — 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away—  away — 'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendor  o'er  th'  unchained  soul — 
Tiie  soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destined  eminence — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time,  she  rode 
And  late  to  ours,  the  favored  one  of  God — 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchored  realm. 
She  throws  aside  the  sceptre — leaves  the  heli> . 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  lier  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,  ior  canopies,  about  her  curled — 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world— 


186  AL    AARAAF. 

Seeu  but  in  beauty — not  impeding  sight 
Of  otlier  beauty  glittering  through  the  light — ■ 
A  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  huad 
''  On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 

Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of deep  pride— 

'  Of  her  who  loved  a  mortal — and  so  died. 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Upreared  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees  : 
''  And  gemmy  flower  of  Trebizoud  misnamed — ■ 
Inmate  of  highest  stars,  where  erst  it  shamed 
All  other  loveliness  :  its  honied  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew) 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropped  from  Heaven, 
And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiveo 
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  : 


AX    AAKAAF.  .  187 

In  Heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 

And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  iu  grief 

Disconsolate  linger — grief  that  hangs  her  head, 

Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled. 

Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmv  air. 

Like  guilty  beauty,  chastened  and  more  lair  : 

Nyctauthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 

She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 

°  And  Clylia  pondering  between  many  a  sun. 

While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run  : 

'  And  that  aspiriug  flower  that  sprang  on  Earth — 

Aud  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 

Burstiug  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 

Its  way  to  Heaven  from  garden  of  a  king  : 

^  And  Valisuerian  lotus  thither  flown 

From  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  ever 

'  With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river — 

Fair  flowers,  aud  fairy !  to  whose  care  is  given 

'  To  bear  the  Goddess'  song,  in  odors,  up  to  Heaven  : 


ISa  AL    AAEAAF. 

'  Spirit !  that  dwcllest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair, 

In  beauty  vie ! 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  pride  and  from  their  throne 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part — 
Who  livest — thut  we  know — 

In  Eternity — we  fee! — 
But  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  own-   ■ 
Thy  will  is  done,  0  God ! 


AL    AAKAAF.  ii39 

The  star  hath  riddeo  liigh 
Through  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye  ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire,  and  so  be 

A  partner  of  thy  throne — 
'  By  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 

Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings — 


190  AL    AAKAAF. 

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 ! 


"■ "  What  though  in  worlds  which  sightless  cycles 
run, 
Linked  to  a  little  system,  and  one  sun — 
Where  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  sky — 
°  Apart — 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    AAKAAF.  191 

Up  rose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve  ! — on  Earth  we  plight 
Oar  faith  to  one  love — and  one  moon  adore — 
The  birth-place  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shi-ine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
'  Her  way — but  left  not  yet  her  Therasaeau  reign. 


192  AL    AAKAAF. 


P  A  E  T      II. 

High  on  a  mountaiu  of  enamelled  b(!ad— 

Such  as  the  di'owsy  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," 

VYhat  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  light — 

Upreared  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 

Of  gorgeous  columns  on  th'  uuburthened  air. 

Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 

Far  down  vpon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 

And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 

°  Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 

Through  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 

Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die — 

Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky.    . 


AX    AARAAT. 

A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  Heaven  let  down, 
Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown — 
A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  tliere, 
Looked  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  chain 
And  hallowed  all  the  Ijeauty  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  gi-een 
That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 
Lurked  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave — 
And  every  sculptured  cherub  thereabout 
That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out. 
Seemed  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  abyss 
"  Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  !  0,  the  wave 
Is  now  upon  thoe — but  too  late  to  save  ! 


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

ir, 


194  AL    AARAAF. 

*  That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco, 
Of  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago — 
That  stealcth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim. 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud — 

*  Is  not  its  ibrm — its  voice — most  palpable  and  loud  ? 


But  what  is  this  ? — it  cometh — and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it — 'tis  the  rush  of  wings — 
A  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 


'Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  ni!j:ht — and  tree  to  tree  ; 


AX    AARAAF.  195 

J^'ouutaius  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  wings — 
And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang : 


"  'Neath  the  blue  bell  or  streamer — 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps,  from  the  dreamer, 
"  The  moonbeam  away — 
Briglit  beings  I  that  ponder, 

With  half-closing  eyes. 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  through  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow 
Like eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now — 
Arise !  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours — 


196  AL    AAKAAF. 

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  night — 
It  would  weigh  down  your  flight 
And  true  love  caresses — 

0  !  leave  them  apart  I 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 

Ligeia !  Ligeia ! 

My  beautiful  one ! 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  ruo, 
0  I  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 


AI.    AAKAAK.  197 

"  Like  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  sleep- 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep — 
The  sound  of  the  rain 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower. 
And  dances  again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  showei'— 
'  The  murmur  that  springs 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things — 

But  are  modelled,  alaa  !-  - 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

Oh !  hie  thee  away 


198  AL    AABAAF. 

To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles. 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest. 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  enjewel  its  breast — 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid — 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 
'  Have  slept  with  the  bee — 
Arouse  them  my  maiden. 

On  moorland  and  lea — 
Go  !  breathe  on  their  slumber. 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumbered  to  hear — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon 
AVhose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test. 


EL    AARAAF.  199 

The  rhythmical  uuraber 
Which  hilled  him  to  rest  ?  " 

Spirits  in  wiug,  and  angels  to  the  view, 

A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  Empyrean  through, 

Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  fliglit — 

Seraphs  in  all  but  "  Knowledge,''  the  keen  liglit 

That  fell,  refracted,  through  thy  bounds,  afar 

0  Death !  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star  : 

Sweet  was  that  error — sweeter  still  that  death — 

Sweet  was  that  error — e'en  with  us  the  breath 

Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy — 

To  them  'twere  the  Simoom,  and  would  destroy — 

For  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  life — 

Beyond  that  death  no  immortality — 

But  sleep  that  pondereth  and  is  not  "  to  be  " — 

And  there — oh  !  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell — 

''  Apart   fi'om   Heaven's   Eternity — and   yet  how  far 

from  Hell ! 
What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbei-y  dim. 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn  ? 


200  AL    AAllAAF. 

But  two  :  they  fell :  for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 
To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 
A  maiden-angel  and  her  seraph-lover — 
0  !  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  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  Angelo — 

Beetling  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  aocain. 


AL    AARAAF.  201 

"  lauthe,  dearest,  see  I  uow  aim  thai  ray  ! 

How  lovely  'tis  to  look  so  lar  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  well — 

The  sun-ray  dropped,  in  Lemnos,  with  a  spell 

On  th'  Arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 

Wherein  I  sat,  and  on  the  draperied  wall — 

And  on  my  eyelids — 0  the  heavy  light  I 

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 ! — I  slumbered — 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  thei-e. 

The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
^  Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon — 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  column 'd  wall 
"  Than  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    AAUAAF. 

And  years  I  left  behind  nie  iu  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  1  hung 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  tlung 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view — 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert  too  ! 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wished  to  be  again  of  men." 


'*  My  Angelo  !  and  why  of  thom  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,  lanthe  !  when  the  air  so  soft 
°  Failed,  as  my  pennon'd  spirit  leapt  aloft. 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy — but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  hurled — 
Sprang  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    AAKAAF,  203 

But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion  through 
Light,  brazeu  rays,  this  golduu  star  unto  ! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  ray  falling  hours, 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours — 
Dread  star  !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Djjedalion  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  God — 

But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurled 

Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairer  world ! 

Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  augel  eyes 

Aloue  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 

When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 

Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  starry  sea — 

But  when  its  glory  swelled  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's  then !" 


204  AL   AARAAF. 

Thus,  in  discouise,  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    1  U  1'^    RIVER 


Fair  river !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 

Of  crystal,  wanderiug  water, 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty — the  unhidden  heart- 
The  playful  magazines  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  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  sonl-searching  eyes. 


T  A  M  E  R  L  A.  Js^  E  . 


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, 

0  yearning  heart !    I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 


TAMERLANE.  207 


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 — ■ 
0  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  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 


208  TAMERLANE. 

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 

(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 


TAaiERLANE.  209 

Rendered  me  mad,  and  deaf,  and  blind. 
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  suitors — and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 


My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

TJsurp'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  lovelinesa  of  loving  well  I 
14 


210  TAMERLANE. 

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. 


0,  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 — 
Pure as  her  young  example  tan^-;ht : 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift. 
Trust  to  the  fire  within  for  liffht? 


TAMERLANE.  211 

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  smiled, 
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  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, 
A.mbition  lent  it  a  new  tone — 


212  TAMEELANE. 

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  murmured  at  such  lowly  lot — 
But,  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' 


TAMEKLAXE.  211 

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


We  walk'd  togethei'  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  fooling  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. 


21 4  ta:meki.axe. 

I  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then, 

And  donn'd  a  vasionary  crown 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me— 
But  that,  among  the  rabble — men. 

Lion  ambition  is  chained  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 ! 


TAMEELANB.  215 


0,  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 


216  TAMEULAJS^E. 

Who,  ill  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly 
But  cannot  from  a  danuer  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  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. 


TAMERLANE.  217 

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  belov/ 

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  Bblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  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  trellis'd  rays  from  Heaven 


218  TAMETLANE. 

ITo  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  ? 


TO 


The  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  1  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, 
0  Grod  !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall — 


Thy  heart — thy  heart ! — I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 


A    DREAM 


In  visioiifi  of  the  dark  night 

I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departea — 

But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hatli  left  me  broken-hearted. 


Ah  I  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. 


A    DREAM.  221 

What  though  that  light,  thro'  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar — 
What  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  heen — 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. 


ROMANCE.  223 


And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flin  i;s — 
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. 


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  facea. 
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.  225 

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  \vot>ds — 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  ! — 0,  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  anything — 

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, 

K> 


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 
UpoD  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  melody — 
Then — 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  define — 
Nor  Love — althous^h  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 

A.n  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 


SONG, 


I  SAW  thee  on  thy  bridal  day — 

When  a  burning  bhish  came  o'er  thee. 

Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee  : 


And  in  tliine  eye  a  kindling  light 
(Wliatever  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  ! 


230 


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- 


Oy  ill  w  ')  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning — 

Of  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night — 

The  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  Humanity — 

Of  all  who,  on  Despair's  unhallowed  bed 

Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 

At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "  Let  there  be  light  I" 

At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 

In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes — 

Of  all  who  owe  thee  most — whose  gratitude 

Nearest  resembles  worship — oh,  remember 


232  TO    M.    L.    g . 

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


NOTES    TO    AL   AARAAF. 


PART    I 


Note  "  page  184.      Al  Aaraaf. 

A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Braho  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 
soon  since. 


"  P.  186.     On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato. 
On  Santa  Maura — olim  Deucadia. 

°  P.  186.     Of  her  who  loved  a  mortal — aiid  so  died. 

Kcvppho. 


234  NOTES   TO    AL   AAJIAAF. 

''  P.  186.     And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnamed 

This  flower  is  much  noticed  by  Leweuhoeck  and  Tournefort.  Tho 
bee,  feeding  upon  its  blossom,  becomes  intoxicated. 

°  P.  187.     And  Clytia  pondering  between  many  a  sun. 

Clylia — 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.  de  St.  Pieeeb. 

P.  187.    And  tlmt  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  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,  during  the  time  of  its  expan- 
sion, 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. 

'  P.  187.    And  Valisnerian  lotus  thither  flown. 

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 
prcsorvinn;  its  head  above  water  in  the  swellings  of  the  river. 


NOTES   TO    AL    AARAAF.  235 

T.  187.     And  t/ty  most  lovely' purple  perfume,  Zante. 
The  Hyacinth. 


'  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  floating  in 
one  of  these  down  the  river  Ganges — and  that  he  still  loves  the 
cradle  of  his  childhood. 


'  P.  187.   To  bear  (he  Goddess'  song  in  odors  up  to  Heaven. 

And  golden  vials  full  of  odors,  which  are  the  prayers  of  the 
saints. — Rev.  St.  John. 


*  P.  188.     A  model  of  their  own. 

The  Humanitarians  held  that  God  was  to  be  understood  as  having 
really  a  human  form. — Vide  Clakke's  Sermons,  vol.  1,  page  26,  fol. 
edit. 

The  drift  of  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. — Dr.  Sumwbsr's  Notes  on  Miiton's  CmusrtAN  Doctkke 

14 


236  NOTES   TO    AL   AAKAAF. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  tlie  contrary,  could 
never  have  been  very  general.  Andeus,  a  Syrian  of  Mesopotamia, 
was  condemned  for  the  opinion,  as  heretical.  He  lived  in  the  begin- 
uing  of  the  fourth  century.  His  disciples  were  called  Anth'ropmor- 
phitcs. —  Vide  Du  Pin. 

Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines  : 

"  Dicite  sacrorum  presides  naemorum  Deae,  &c. 
Quis  illo  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  finxit  humanum  genus  ? 
Eternus,  iucorruptus,  aquKvus  polo, 
Uuusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei." 

And  afterwards — 

"  Kon  cui  profundum  Csecitas  lumen  dedit 
Dircasus  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  siuu,"  &c. 


P.  189.     By  winged  Fantasy. 

Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskiude 
Der  Phantasie. — Goetle. 


-"P.  190. 
What  though  in  worlds  which  sightless  cycles  run- 
Sightless — too  small  to  be  seen. — LBOca?. 


NOTES   TO    AL   AAEAAF.  237 

'  P.  190.     Apart — like  fire-jiies  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  innu- 
merable radii. 

°  P.  191.    Her  way — biU  left  not  yet  her  Thcrascean  reign. 

Therassea,  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    AABAAF. 


PART    II. 

P.  192.     Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 
Tlirough  the  ebon  air. 

Some  star  which  from  the  ruined  roof 

Of  shaked  Olympus,  by  mischauce,  did  fall. — Mn,TON. 


'■  P.  193.     Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis. 

Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Persepolis,  says,  "  Je  connois  bien  I'admi- 
ralion  qu'inspirent  ces  ruincs — mais  un  palais  erig6  au  pied  d'une 
chaiuo  des  rochers  sterils — pent  il  6ire  un  chef  d'oeuvre  des  arts  1 " 


°  P.  193.     Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  !  O,  the  wave. 

Ula  Deguisi  is  the  Turkish  appellation  ;  but,  on  its  own  shores,  it 
is  called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah.  There  were  undoubtedly  more 
than  two  cities  ingulfed  in  the  "  Dead  Sea."  In  the  Valley  of  Siddim 
were  five — Adrah,  Zehoin,  Zoar,  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  Stephen  of 
Byzantium  mentions  eight,  anj  Strabo  thirteen  (ingulfed) — but  the 
last  is  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St.  Saba,  Nau,  Maun 


NOTES    TO    AL    AAEAAF.  239 

drell,  Troilo,  D'Arvitnix]  that  after  an  excessive  drought,  the  ves- 
tiges 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." 


"*  F  194.     Tliat  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco. 

Eyraco — Chaklea. 


°  P.  194.      Is  not   its  form — its    voice,  most   palpable 
and  loud? 

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


'P.  194.     Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody. 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. — Merry  Wn'ES  of  Windsor 

*  P.  195.      The  moonbeam  away. 

m  Scripture  is  this  passage — "  The  sun  shall  not  harm  thee  by 
day,  nor  the  moon  by  uight."  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  circum- 
etance  the  passage  evidently  alludes. 


2'10  NOTES   TO    AL    AARAAF. 

■^  P.  197.     Like  the  lone  Albatross. 
The  Albatross  is  said  to  sleep  on  the  wing. 

'  P.  197.     Tlie  murmur  that  springs. 

I  mot  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,  spriuge-heade  and  origine  of  aU  musiohe  is  the  verie  pleasaunte 
sounde  whigh  the  trees  of  the  forest  do  make  when  they  growe." 

'  P.  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: 

"  Oh  1  were  there  an  island 
Though  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  might  smile,  atd 
No  man  be  beguiled,"  &c. 

^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.  241 

where  men  suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  attain  that  tranquil 
and  even  happiness  which  they  suppose  to  he  characteristic  of 
heavenly  eujnymeut. 

Un  no  rompido  sucuo — 

Ue  dia  puro — allegre — libre 

Quiera — 

Libre  do  amor — de  zelo — 

De  odio — de  esperanza — de  rezelo. — Luis  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  ar« 
its  less  holy  pleasures — the  price  of  which,  to  those  souls  who  «nak* 
choice  of  "  Al  Aaraaf"  as  their  residence  after  life,  i»  final  d«ath 
and  annihilation. 


'  P.  200.     Unguided  love  hath  fallen — 'mid  "  tears  of 
perfect  moan." 


There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon. — Milton. 


"  P.  201.     Was  a  proud  temple,  called  the  Parthenon. 

It  was  entire  in  1687 — ^the  most  elevated  spot  in  Athena. 

16 


242  NOTES   TO    AL    AARAAF, 

"  P.  201.     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. — Mahlowe. 


*  P.  202.     Failed  as  my  pemion'd  spirit  leaped  aloft. 
Fennou — for  pinion. — Milton. 


THE    POETIC    PRINOIPLE. 


THE  POETIC  PRINCIPLE. 


In  speakiug  of  the  Poetic  Princijile,  I  Lave  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  con- 
sideration, some  few  of  those  minor  English  or  Ameri- 
can poems  which  best  suit  my  own  taste,  or  which, 
upon  my  own  fancy,  have  left  the  most  definite  impres- 
sion. 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  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

citement.  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  diGBculty 
in  reconciling  the  critical  dictum  that  the  "  Paradise 
Lost"  is  to  be  devoutly  admired  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  tliat 
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 ;  omit- 
ting the  first  book — that  is  to  say,  commencing  with 


THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  24'? 

the  second — we  shall  be  surprised  at  now  finding  thai 
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  an- 
cient model,  but  an  inconsiderate  and  blindfold  imita- 
tion. 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  admira- 
tion from  these  saturnine  pamphlets !     A  mountain,  to 


248  •   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  accomplish- 
ed an  epic,  let  us  frankly  commend  him  for  the  effort — 
if  this  indeed  be  a  thing  commendable — but  let  us  for- 
bear praising  the  epic  on  the  effort's  account.  It  is  to 
be  hoped  that  common  sense,  in  the  time  to  come,  will 
prffer  deciding  upon  a  work  of  Art,  rather  by  the  im- 
pression 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 
the  Quarterlies  in  Christendom  confound  them.  By- 
and-by,  this  proposition,  with  many  wliich  I  have  been 
just  urging,  will  be  received  as  self-evident.     In  the 


THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  249 

meantime,  by  being  geiierally  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 
epigrammatisra.  A  very  short  poem,  while  now  and 
then  producing  a  brilliant  or  vivid,  never  produces  a 
profound  or  enduring  effect.  There  must  be  the  steady 
pressing  down  of  the  stamp  upon  the  wax.  De  Be  ran- 
ger has  wrought  innumerable  things,  pungent  and  spirit- 
stirring  ;  but,  in  general,  they  have  been  too  imponder- 
ous  to  stamp  themselves  deeply  into  the  public  atten- 
tion ;  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  brevity 
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  tile  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 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  sweet  I 


250  THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE, 

Tho  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  darlv,  the  silent  stream— 
The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

0,  beloved  as  thou  art  I 


0,  hft  me  from  the  grass  I 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail  I 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
Oh  1  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Wliere  it  will  break  at  last  1 


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  ap- 
preciated 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 
midsummer  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-tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she  ;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  hor  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  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 


She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold. 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 

But  honored  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  seUing  do. 


Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
>Twixt  Waut  and  Scorn  she  walked  forlorn, 

And  nnlliing  could  avail. 


252  THE   POETIC    PEINCIPLli:. 

No  mercy  now  can  cl'ar  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Tier  woman's  heart  gave  way  I — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  hi  Heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  1 


In  this  composition  we  find  it  difiQcult  to  recognise 
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  evi- 
dent 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  corrup- 
tion of  our  Poetical  Literature  than  all  its  other  ene- 
mies 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  inculcate  a 
moral ;  and  by  tliis  moral  is  the  poetical  merit  of  the 


THE   POETIC   PPaNCIPLE.  253 

work  to  be  adjudged.  We  Americans  especially  Lave 
patronized  this  liappy  idea  ;  and  we  Bostonians,  very 
especially,  have  developed  it  in  fall.  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  om' 
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.  I  would  not  enfeeble  them  by 
dissipation.  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  severitv  rather  than 


254  THE   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  pos- 
sible, 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  poeti- 
cal modes  of  inculcation.  He  must  be  theory-mad 
beyond  redemption  who,  in  spite  of  these  differences, 
shall  still  persist  in  attempting  to  reconcile  the  obsti- 
nate oils  and  waters  of  Poetry  and  Truth. 

Dividing  the  world  of  mind  into  its  three  most  imme- 
diately obvious  distinctions,  we  have  the  Pure  Intellect, 
Taste,  and  the  Moral  Sense.  I  place  Taste  in  the  mid- 
dle, 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  them- 
selves. 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  Keason  the  expediency.  Taste  contents 


i 


THE  POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  255 

herself  with  displaying  the  charms  : — waging  war  upon 
Vice  solely  on  the  ground  of  her  deformity — her  dis- 
proportion— her  animosity  to  the  fitting,  to  the  appro- 
priate, 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  hm  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  peren- 
nial existence     It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the 


256  THE   POETIC   PRINCIPLE. 

star.  It  is  no  mere  appreciation  of  the  Beauty  before 
us — but  a  wild  effort  to  reacli  tlie  Beauty  alsove.  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  tiiat  Loveliness  whose  very  elements,  per- 
haps, 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  supposes — 
through  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  fee! 
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   PRIJfCIPLE.  257 

and  very  peculiarly,  and  with  a  wide  field,  in  the  com- 
position 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  rhythm. 
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.  We  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  a^ 
poems. 

17 


258  THE   POETIC   PKINCIPLE. 

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


THE   POETIC   PEINCIPLE.  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  purjjoses  of 
the  work  : — but  the  true  artist  will  always  contrive  to 
tone  them  down  in  proper  subjection  to  that  Beaut  if 
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  (lay  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  longing, 

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   PEINCIPLE. 

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. 

Kead  from  some  humbler  poet, 
Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart . 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Wbo  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  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. 
And  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, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


THE  I'OETic  rKiNcu'ij:.  261 

With  uo  great  range  of  imagination,  tliese  lines  iiave 
been  justly  admired  for  tbeir  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  quartraiu  is  also  very  effective. 
The  poem,  on  the  whole,  however,  is  chiefly  to  be  ad- 
mired 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  occa- 
sion.    The   author  who,  after   the   fashion   of    "The 


262  THE   POETIC    PKIKCIPLE. 

North  Americau  Review,"  should  be,  upon  all  ccca- 
sions,  merely  "  quiet,"  must  necessaril}',  upon  manii  oc- 
casions, be  simply  silly,  or  stupid  ;  aud  has  uo  Uiore 
right  to  be  considered  "  easy,"  or  "  natural,"  than  a 
Cockney  exquisite,  or  than  the  sleeping  Beauty  in  ihe 
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  loug,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  hght  should  lie, 
Aud  thick,  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  iu  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-talo,  close  beside  my  cell  ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  aud  humming-bird. 


And  what,  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  uoou, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent. 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  liiiry  laughter  blent  ? 
Aud  what  if,  iu  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 
Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  Bight  nor  sound. 


THJi   POETIC    I'KINCIPLE.  263 

I  know,  I  know  I  sliould  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  ; 
Whoso  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 — noth- 
iog  could  be  more  melodious.  The  poem  has  always 
affected  me  iu  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 


204  TUE    POETIC    PKIXCIPLE. 

rcmiud  you  thiit  (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  : 


1  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

Tlic  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  bettor  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 

J'orth  issue  from  the  rose. 


THE   POETIC   PKINCIPLE.  265 

Aflectious  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  iJol  of  past  years  I 


Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
An<l  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  paragon — 
Her  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  Ens^lancier 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  been  ranked  as  the 
first  of  American  lyrists,  by  that  maOTanimous  cabal 
M-hich  has  so  Ion?  controlled  the  destinies  of  American 


26G  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  I'efcr  chiefly  to  our  sympathy  in  tlie  poet's  en- 
thusiasm. We  pardon  his  hyperboles  for  the  evident 
earnestness  with  which  they  are  uttered. 

It  was  by  no  means  my  design,  howevei,  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 
busied  himself  about  the  errors.  On  hearing  this, 
Apollo,  handing  him  a  sack  of  unwinnowed  wheat,  bade 
him  pick  out  all  the  chaff  for  his  reward. 

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  lira- 
its  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  jmt 
to  become  self-evident.  It  is  not  excellence  if  it  require 
to  be  demonstrated  as  such  : — and  thus,  to  point  out 


THE    POlillC    PRIXCIPLK.  267 

too  particularly  tlic  merits  of  a  work  of  Art  is  to  admit 
that  they  are  not  merits  altogether. 

Amoin;^  the  "  Melodies "  of  Thomas  Moore,  is  one 
wliose  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  nil  of 
the  divine  passion  of  Love — a  sentiment  which,  perhaps, 
has  found  its  echo  ia  more,  and  in  more  passionate  hu- 
man hearts,  than  any  other  single  sentiment  ever  em- 
bodied in  words  : 


Coma,  rest  iu  this  bosom,  my  own  strickpu  door. 
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 
Tlirough  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  sham.e  ', 
I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  bi;t  know  that  I  love  th^i"",  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  ,' 


268  THE    POETIC    PRIXCirLE. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  of  late  days  to  deny  ^loore 
Imagiuation,  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 
that  he  is  fantnful  only.  But  never  was  there  a  greater 
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  imat/inative,  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  Tnes  "  l;ad  always,  for  me, 
an  inexpressible  charm : 

0  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She's  gone  into  tlio  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sim  is  down. 

And  rob  tlie  world  of  rest : 
Sue  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  wo  love  best, 
With  mornins  blushes  on  her  check, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 


THE   POETIC    PRIXClPLE.  .269 

()  turn  again,  fair  lues, 

Bofnii;  the  fall  of  niglit, 
For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  a'.one, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  brii,'ht : 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  he 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 


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  homo, 

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  I 


Alas,  alas,  fair  lues. 

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. 


270 


THK    rOKTIC    PXilNClI'LE. 


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 
Thf!  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  ti'itest — 
one  of  tlie  most  unexceptionable — one  of  the  most 
thoroughly  artistic,  both  in  its  theme  and  in  its  execu- 
tion. It  is,  moreover,  powerfully  ideal — imaginative. 
[  regret  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  importuuali'. 
Gone  to  her  death  . 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care  ; 

Fashioa'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  I 

Look  at  her  garments, 
f.linging  like  cerement* 


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,  ii5  pure  wcmiauly. 


THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 


271 


Mnkn  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rnsli  and  uudutiful ; 
Past  all  disbonor, 
Death  lias  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
\Viiio  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily  ; 
Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tress  'S  ; 
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  !  for  the  rarity 
or  Cliristian  charity 
Under  the  sun  I 
'  )h  I  it  was  pitiful  I 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
fatherly,  motherly, 
Feelings  had  changed  ; 


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 
Jlade  her  tremble  and  shiver  ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch. 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
JIad  from  life's  history. 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Anywhere,  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  i 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  1 


212 


rHE    POETIC    rKINCIl'LK. 


Ere  hsr  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decenlly, — kiudly, — 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  closo  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  I 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity. 
As  when  with  the  daring 
I^ast  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 


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


The  vigor  of  tliis  poem  is  no  less  remarltable  than 
its  pathos.  The  versification,  although  carrying  the 
f.inciful  to  the  very  verge  of  the  fantastic,  is  neverthe- 
less admirably  adapted  to  the  wild  insanity  which  is  the 
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  ; 
Tliough  thy  so  il  with  my  grief  was  acquainted. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 
And  Iho  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

rt  never  halli  found  but  in  the''. 


THK   POETIC   PRINCIPLE.  273 

Thou  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

Tlie  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  Ihee. 


Though  the  rock  of  m.v  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  bo  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me  : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  coutema  - 
Th".y  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'Tis  of  Ihee  that  I  tliiuk— not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 
Though  loved,  thou  forborcst  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slandered,  thou  never  couldst  sluike,— 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  mo, 

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  one — 
If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 
And  if  dearly  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. 

13 


274  THE   POETIC    PRINCIPLE. 

From  the  wrocic  of  the  past,  which  hath  perished, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  which  I  most  thcrishod 

Dcsorved  to  be  dearest  of  all: 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wi'Je  waste  there  st;U  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  difiScuIt, 
the  versification  could  scarcely  be  improved.  No  no- 
bler 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 — J 
have  left  myself  time  to  cite  only  a  very  brief  speci- 
men. 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  ex- 
citement which  he  induces  is,  at  all  times,  the  most 
intense — but  because  it  is,  at  all  times,  the  most  ethe- 
real— in  other  words,  tlie  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  ])oem,  "  Tho 
Princess :" 


THE    POETIC    PRINCIPLE.  275 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  knnw  not  what  they  moan, 
Tears  rrom  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Itiso  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  theundcrworlil, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  redilens  over  one 
Tlint  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  (lying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


Dear  as  remomber'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  mau- 
uer,  I  have  endeavored  to  convey  to  you  my  concep- 
tion 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  '.he  Principle  is  always  found  in  an 


276  THK   POETIC    PRINCIPLK. 

elevating  excitement  of  the  Soul — quite  independent  of 
that  passion  winch  is  the  intoxication  of  the  Heart — • 
or  of  that  Truth  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the  Rea- 
rion.  For,  in  regard  to  Pa?sion,  alas!  its  tendency  is 
to  degrade,  rather  than  to  elevate  the  Soul.  Love,  on 
the  contrary — Love — the  true,  the  divine  Eros — the 
Uraniau,  as  distinguished  from  the  Diona;ac  Venus — 
is  unquestionably  the  purest  and  truest  of  all  poetical 
themes.  And  in  regard  to  I'ruth — if,  to  be  sure, 
through  the  attainment  of  a  truth,  we  are  led  to  per- 
ceive a  harmony  where  none  was  apparent  before,  we 
experience,  at  once,  the  true  poetical  effiict— but  this 
eifect  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  refer- 
ence to  a  few  of  the  simple  elements  which  induce  in 
the  Poet  himself  the  true  poetical  effect.  He  recog- 
nizes 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^u  the  slanting  of  tall.  Eas- 
tern trees — in  the  blue  distance  of  mountains — in  the. 


TUE    rOKl'IC    PRIXCIPLE.  277 

grouping  of  clouds — in  the  twinkling  of  half-bidden 
broolis — in  the  gleaming  of  silver  rivers — in  the  repose 
of  sequestered  lakes — in  the  star-mirroring  depths  of 
lonely  wells.  He  perceives  it  in  the  songs  of  Ijirds — 
in  the  harp  of  jEoIus — in  the  sighing  of  the  night-wind 
— in  the  repining  voice  of  the  forest — in  the  surf  that 
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 
islands,  over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unexplored. 
He  owns  it  in  all  noble  thoughts — in  all  unworldly  mo- 
tives— 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  tjie  lustre  of  her 
eye — in  the  melody  of  her  voice — in  her  soft  laughter 
— in  her  sigh — in  the  harmony  of  tlie  rustling  of  her 
robes.  He  deeply  feels  it  in  her  winning  endearments 
— in  her  burning  enthusiasms — in  her  gentle  charities — 
in  her  meek  and  devotional  endurances — but  above  all 
— ah,  far  above  all — he  kneels  to  it — he  worships  it  in 
the  fixithjin  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    PKIXCIPLE. 

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  mounfe  I  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  rton  your  helmes  amaiue  ; 
Teathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  toares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand, — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrcst  of  the  land  ; 
lySt  piping  swaiue,  and  craven  wight. 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  di«. 


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LAYS  OF  THE 
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time,  from  the  thundering  versification  of  Lockbart  and  Macaulay,  to  the  sweetest  and 
Eimp leat  strains  of  Wordsworth  and  Teimys..u.  The  author  ia  oac  of  the  Grst  scholare, 
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A  Sew  and  Elesaut  Library  Kdition 

THE  NOCTES  "AMBROSIANil. 

BY 

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J.  G.  LocKHART,  James  Hogg,  and  Dr.  Maginx. 

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