 |
*That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long ago— That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. And sees the darkness coming as a cloud— ***Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?
But what is this?—it cometh—and it 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 paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
***Young flowers were whispering in melody To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree; Fountains were gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell; Yet silence came upon material things— Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings— And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
* Eyraco—Chaldea.
** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.
*** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.—Merry Wives of Windsor. [William Shakespeare]
"'Neath blue-bell or streamer— Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, *The moonbeam away— Bright beings! that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro' 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— And shake from your tresses Encumber'd with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too— (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That lull'd 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— O! leave them apart!
* In Scripture is this passage—"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes.
They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, *Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there?
Ligeia! whatever 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 shower— The murmur that springs From the growing of grass
* The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.
** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:—"The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade, and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."
Are the music of things— But are modell'd, alas!— Away, then my dearest, O! hie thee away 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 slumber'd to hear— For what can awaken An angel so soon
* 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 Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:
O! were there an island, Tho' ever so wild Where woman might smile, and No man be beguil'd, &c.
Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro', Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight— Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar O Death! from eye of God upon that star: Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death— Sweet was that error—ev'n 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 Woe? Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife With the last ecstacy of satiate life— Beyond that death no immortality— But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"— And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell— *Apart from Heaven's Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
* With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.
Un no rompido sueno— Un dia puro—allegre—libre Quiera— Libre de 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 are its less holy pleasures— the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn? 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— O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
*Unguided Love hath fallen—'mid "tears of perfect moan."
He was a goodly spirit—he who fell: A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well— A gazer on the lights that shine above— A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? For each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair— And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were 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 sate he with his love—his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turn'd it upon her—but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Iante, dearest, see! how dim that ray! How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
* There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon.—Milton.
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourn'd to leave. That eve—that eve—I should remember well— The sun-ray dropp'd, in Lemnos, with a spell On th'Arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall— And on my eye-lids—O the heavy light! How drowsily it weigh'd them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O that light!—I slumber'd—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 it was there.
The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon *Was a proud temple call'd 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, And years I left behind me in an hour. What time upon her airy bounds I hung One half the garden of her globe was flung Unrolling as a chart unto my view— Tenantless cities of the desert too! Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, And half I wish'd to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be? A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—
* It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.
** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.—Marlowe.
And greener fields than in yon world above, And women's loveliness—and passionate love."
"But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft *Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl'd— Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar And fell—not swiftly as I rose before, But with a downward, tremulous motion thro' Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto! Nor long the measure of my falling hours, For nearest of all stars was thine to ours— Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth, A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.
"We came—and to thy Earth—but not to 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 grey Time unfurl'd Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world! Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes Alone could see the phantom in the skies, When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea— But when its glory swell'd upon the sky, As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
* Pennon—for pinion.—Milton.
We paus'd before the heritage of men, And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!"
Thus, in discourse, 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.
TAMERLANE
KIND solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme— I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell'd in— I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope—Oh God! I can— Its fount is holier—more divine— I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. O! yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again— O! craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! Th' undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness—a knell.
I have not always been as now: The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly— Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar—this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life: The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head, And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Have nestled in my very hair.
So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell (Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me—with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child!—was swelling (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory!
The rain came down upon my head Unshelter'd—and the heavy wind Was giantlike—so thou, my mind!— It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive's prayer— The hum of suiters—and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp'd a tyranny which men Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power; My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there liv'd one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burn'd with a still intenser glow, (For passion must, with youth, expire) E'en then who knew this iron heart In woman's weakness had a part.
I have no words—alas!—to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are—shadows on th' unstable wind: Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters—with their meaning—melt To fantasies—with none.
O, she was worthy of all love! Love—as in infancy was mine— 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my ev'ry hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift, For they were childish—and upright— Pure—as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light?
We grew in age—and love—together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather— And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is—the heart: For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears— There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet any fears Of her—who ask'd no reason why, But turn'd on me her quiet eye!
Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone— I had no being—but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth—the air—the sea— Its joy—its little lot of pain That was new pleasure—the ideal, Dim, vanities of dreams by night— And dimmer nothings which were real— (Shadows—and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image, and—a name—a name! Two separate—yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious—have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot— But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro' The minute—the hour—the day—oppress My mind with double loveliness.
We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain which look'd down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills— The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically—in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment's converse; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly— A mingled feeling with my own— The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seem'd to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, And donn'd a visionary crown— Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me— But that, among the rabble—men, Lion ambition is chain'd down— And crouches to a keeper's hand— Not so in deserts where the grand The wild—the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!— Is not she queen of Earth? her pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling—her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne— And who her sovereign? Timour—he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o'er empires haughtily A diadem'd outlaw—
O! human love! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall'st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc wither'd plain, And failing in thy power to bless But leav'st the heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth— Farewell! for I have won the Earth!
When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly— And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 'Twas sunset: when the sun will part There comes a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly But cannot from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon—the white moon Shed all the splendour of her noon, Her smile is chilly—and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death. And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one— For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown— Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
I reach'd my home—my home no more— For all had flown who made it so— I pass'd from out its mossy door, And, tho' my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known— O! I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humbler heart—a deeper wo—
Father, I firmly do believe— I know—for Death, who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro' Eternity— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in ev'ry human path— Else how, when in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trelliced rays from Heaven No mote may shun—no tiniest fly The light'ning of his eagle eye— How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love's very hair?
1829.
TO HELEN
HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I me thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy-land!
1831.
THE VALLEY OF UNREST
Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visiter shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
1831.
ISRAFEL*
IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above In her highest noon The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven
And they say (the starry choir And all the listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings— The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.—KORAN.
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.
Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassion'd song: To thee the laurels belong Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long!
The extacies above With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute— Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely—flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.
1836.
TO ——
1
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds Are lips—and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words—
2
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin'd Then desolately fall, O! God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall—
3
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of truth that gold can never buy— Of the trifles that it may.
1829.
TO ——
I HEED not that my earthly lot
Hath-little of Earth in it—
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:—
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer-by.
1829.
TO THE RIVER——
FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty—the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks— Which glistens then, and trembles— Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper resembles; For in my heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies— His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes.
1829.
SONG
I SAW thee on thy bridal day— When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee:
And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see.
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame— As such it well may pass— Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas!
Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee.
1827.
SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
1
Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy:
2
Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall then overshadow thee: be still.
3
For the night—tho' clear—shall frown— And the stars shall look not down, From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given— But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever:
4
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne'er to vanish— From thy spirit shall they pass No more—like dew-drop from the grass:
5
The breeze—the breath of God—is still— And the mist upon the hill Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token— How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!—
1827.
A DREAM
In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed— But a waking dreams of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truths day-star?
1827.
ROMANCE
ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been—a most familiar bird— Taught me my alphabet to say— To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon thy spirit flings— That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away—forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.
1829.
FAIRY-LAND
DIM vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods, Whose forms we can't discover For the tears that drip all over Huge moons there wax and wane— Again—again—again— Every moment of the night— Forever changing places— And they put out the star-light With the breath from their pale faces. About twelve by the moon-dial One, more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down—still down—and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be— O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea— Over spirits on the wing— Over every drowsy thing— And buries them up quite In a labyrinth of light— And then, how deep!—O, deep! Is the passion of their sleep. In the morning they arise, And their moony covering Is soaring in the skies, With the tempests as they toss, Like—almost any thing— Or a yellow Albatross. They use that moon no more For the same end as before— Videlicet a tent— Which I think extravagant: Its atomies, however, Into a shower dissever, Of which those butterflies, Of Earth, who seek the skies, And so come down again (Never-contented things!) Have brought a specimen Upon their quivering wings.
1831.
THE LAKE —— TO——
IN spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide earth a spot The which I could not love the less— So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that tower'd around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody— Then—ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight— A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define— Nor Love—although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining— Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.
1827.
EVENING STAR
'TWAS noontide of summer, And midtime of night, And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, through the light Of the brighter, cold moon. 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold-too cold for me— There passed, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night., And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.
1827.
"THE HAPPIEST DAY."
I
THE happiest day-the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween But they have vanished long, alas! The visions of my youth have been But let them pass.
III
And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev'n inherit The venom thou hast poured on me Be still my spirit!
IV
The happiest day-the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feet have been:
V
But were that hope of pride and power Now offered with the pain Ev'n then I felt-that brightest hour I would not live again:
VI
For on its wing was dark alloy And as it fluttered-fell An essence-powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.
1827.
IMITATION
A dark unfathom'd tide Of interminable pride— A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild, and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those thoughts I would control As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my worldly rest hath gone With a sigh as it pass'd on I care not tho' it perish With a thought I then did cherish. 1827.
HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
Translation from the Greek
I
WREATHED in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal Like those champions devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave.
II
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam In the joy breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home Where Achilles and Diomed rest
III
In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made at the tutelar shrine A libation of Tyranny's blood.
IV
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame! Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs!
1827.
DREAMS
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream! My spirit not awak'ning, till the beam Of an Eternity should bring the morrow: Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow, 'Twere better than the dull reality Of waking life to him whose heart shall be, And hath been ever, on the chilly earth, A chaos of deep passion from his birth!
But should it be—that dream eternally Continuing—as dreams have been to me In my young boyhood—should it thus be given, 'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven! For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light, And left unheedingly my very heart In climes of mine imagining—apart From mine own home, with beings that have been Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?
'Twas once & only once & the wild hour From my rememberance shall not pass—some power Or spell had bound me—'twas the chilly wind Came o'er me in the night & left behind Its image on my spirit, or the moon Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon Too coldly—or the stars—howe'er it was That dream was as that night wind—let it pass.
I have been happy—tho' but in a dream I have been happy—& I love the theme— Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life— As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality which brings To the delirious eye more lovely things Of Paradise & Love—& all our own! Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
{From an earlier MS. Than in the book—ED.}
"IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE"
How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature's universal throne; Her woods—her wilds—her mountains-the intense Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
I
IN youth I have known one with whom the Earth In secret communing held-as he with it, In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth: Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth A passionate light such for his spirit was fit And yet that spirit knew-not in the hour Of its own fervor-what had o'er it power.
II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought To a fever* by the moonbeam that hangs o'er, But I will half believe that wild light fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever told-or is it of a thought The unembodied essence, and no more That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass As dew of the night-time, o'er the summer grass?
III
Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye To the loved object-so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in apathy? And yet it need not be—(that object) hid From us in life-but common-which doth lie Each hour before us—but then only bid With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken T' awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token
IV
Of what in other worlds shall be—and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith-with godliness—whose throne With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
* Query "fervor"?—ED.
A PAEAN.
I.
How shall the burial rite be read? The solemn song be sung? The requiem for the loveliest dead, That ever died so young?
II.
Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And weep!—oh! to dishonor Dead beauty with a tear!
III.
They loved her for her wealth— And they hated her for her pride— But she grew in feeble health, And they love her—that she died.
IV.
They tell me (while they speak Of her "costly broider'd pall") That my voice is growing weak— That I should not sing at all—
V.
Or that my tone should be Tun'd to such solemn song So mournfully—so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong.
VI.
But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk with love Of the dead, who is my bride.—
VII.
Of the dead—dead who lies All perfum'd there, With the death upon her eyes, And the life upon her hair.
VIII.
Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike—the murmur sent Through the grey chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment.
IX.
Thou died'st in thy life's June— But thou did'st not die too fair: Thou did'st not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air.
X.
From more than fiends on earth, Thy life and love are riven, To join the untainted mirth Of more than thrones in heaven—
XII.
Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft thee on thy flight, With a Paean of old days.
NOTES
30. On the "Poems written in Youth" little comment is needed. This section includes the pieces printed for first volume of 1827 (which was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources. "Al Aaraaf" first appeared, with the sonnet "To Silence" prefixed to it, in 1829, and is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for 1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was introduced by the following twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in—all subsequent collections:
AL AARAAF
Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night— Be now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar Bathe me in light I
Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty-all the flowers That list our love or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens, where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day; While the silver winds of Circassy On violet couches faint away. Little—oh "little dwells in thee" Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty's eye is here the bluest In the falsest and untruest—On the sweetest air doth float The most sad and solemn note—
If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf! Thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy.
31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at least.
32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two others of the youthful pieces. The poem styled "Romance," constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines:
Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, through the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth Ring Light on the lightning's silver wing.
For being an idle boy lang syne; Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes— And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain— His naivete to wild desire— His wit to love-his wine to fire— And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy,
And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest— I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty's breath— Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me.
*****
But now my soul hath too much room— Gone are the glory and the gloom— The black hath mellow'd into gray, And all the fires are fading away.
My draught of passion hath been deep— I revell'd, and I now would sleep And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away.
But dreams—of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly blown, To break upon Time's monotone, While yet my vapid joy and grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf— Why not an imp the graybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path— And e'en the graybeard will o'erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book.
DOUBTFUL POEMS
ALONE
From childhood's hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov'd—I lov'd alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass'd me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—
{This poem is no longer considered doubtful as it was in 1903. Liberty has been taken to replace the book version with an earlier, perhaps more original manuscript version—Ed}
TO ISADORE
I
BENEATH the vine-clad eaves, Whose shadows fall before Thy lowly cottage door Under the lilac's tremulous leaves— Within thy snowy claspeed hand The purple flowers it bore.. Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand, Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land— Enchantress of the flowery wand, Most beauteous Isadore!
II
And when I bade the dream Upon thy spirit flee, Thy violet eyes to me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight Of Love's serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight, Enthralled my soul to thee!
III
Ah I ever I behold Thy dreamy, passionate eyes, Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold; Now strangely clear thine image grows, And olden memories Are startled from their long repose Like shadows on the silent snows When suddenly the night-wind blows Where quiet moonlight ties.
IV
Like music heard in dreams, Like strains of harps unknown, Of birds forever flown Audible as the voice of streams That murmur in some leafy dell, I hear thy gentlest tone, And Silence cometh with her spell Like that which on my tongue doth dwell, When tremulous in dreams I tell My love to thee alone!
V
In every valley heard, Floating from tree to tree, Less beautiful to, me, The music of the radiant bird, Than artless accents such as thine Whose echoes never flee! Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:— For uttered in thy tones benign (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
Doth seem a melody!
THE VILLAGE STREET
IN these rapid, restless shadows, Once I walked at eventide, When a gentle, silent maiden, Wal ked in beauty at my side She alone there walked beside me All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining On the dewy meadows nigh; On the silvery, silent rivers, On the mountains far and high On the ocean's star-lit waters, Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door, Underneath the elm's long branches To the pavement bending o'er; Underneath the mossy willow And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty All bedight, the heavens were seen, Radiant hopes were bright around me, Like the light of stars serene; Like the mellow midnight splendor Of the Night's irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered Peaceful, pleasant melodies, Like the distant murmured music Of unquiet, lovely seas: While the winds were hushed in slumber In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty Still adorning all did seem, While I told my love in fables 'Neath the willows by the stream; Would the heart have kept unspoken Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered In the shadowy twilight tide, She, the silent, scornful maiden, Walking calmly at my side, With a step serene and stately, All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her. On the earth mine eyes were cast; Swift and keen there came unto me Ritter memories of the past On me, like the rain in Autumn On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted, By the lowly cottage door; One brief word alone was uttered Never on our lips before; And away I walked forlornly, Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered, Homeward, in the night, alone; Sudden anguish bound my spirit, That my youth had never known; Wild unrest, like that which cometh When the Night's first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight Through the sighing foliage streams; And each morning, midnight shadow, Shadow of my sorrow seems; Strive, 0 heart, forget thine idol! And, 0 soul, forget thy dreams!
THE FOREST REVERIE
'Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that ne'er did flow That in the sun Did rivulets run, And all around rare flowers did blow The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale And the queenly lily adown the dale (Whom the sun and the dew And the winds did woo), With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears The love of years Is wasted like the snow, And the fine fibrils of its life By the rude wrong of instant strife Are broken at a blow Within the heart Do springs upstart Of which it doth now know, And strange, sweet dreams, Like silent streams That from new fountains overflow, With the earlier tide Of rivers glide Deep in the heart whose hope has died— Quenching the fires its ashes hide,— Its ashes, whence will spring and grow Sweet flowers, ere long, The rare and radiant flowers of song!
NOTES
Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe, and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled "Alone" have the chief claim to our notice. Fac-simile copies of this piece had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its publication in "Scribner's Magazine" for September, 1875; but as proofs of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the facsimile given in "Scribner's" is alleged to be of his handwriting. If the caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added. The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage claimed for them."
While Edgar Poe was editor of the "Broadway Journal," some lines "To Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared saying they were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the "Broadway journal" over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless, to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works in his journal over noms de plume, and as no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection, so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by the author of "The Raven."
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