Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe
Page 168
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.
1844.
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HYMN
AT morn - at noon - at twilight dim -
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and 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 Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1835.
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TO ZANTE
FAIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more - no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No _more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transfomring all! Thy charms shall please _no more_ -
Thy memory _no more! _Accursed ground
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isoa d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
1837.
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SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
ROME. -- A Hall in a Palace Alessandra and Castiglione..
_Alessandra._ Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_ Castiglione. _ Sad! -- not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_ Aless. _ Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness! -- what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas. _Did I sign?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly -- a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_ Aless. _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 --
Thy looks are haggard -- nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas. (musing.) _Nothing, fair cousin, nothing -- not even deep
sorrow --
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_ Aless. _Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too -- fellows low born --
Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas. _I will drop them.
_ Aless. _ Thou wilt -- thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage -- they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion -- much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas. _I'll see to it.
_ Aless. _Then see to it! -- pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage -- much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas. _Much, much, oh! much I want
In proper dignity.
_ Aless.(haughtily) _Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cas. (abstractedly.) _Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_ Aless. _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?
_Cas. (startling.) _Cousin! fair cousin! -- madam!
I crave thy pardon -- indeed I am not well --
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive! -- Madam -- the Duke!
_Enter 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.
_ Aless. _What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_ Di Brog._ The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_ Aless. _I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy -- is he not?
And little given to thinking.
_ Di Brog._ Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
_ Aless. _'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.
_Cas. _Ridiculous! 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 Brog._ Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man? (_exeunt._)
II
ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a
hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly
upon a chair.
_ Lal._ [_Lalage_] Jacinta! is it thou?
_ Jac._ [_Jacinta_] (_pertly_.) Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.
_ Lal._ I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down! -- Let not my presence trouble you --
Sit down! -- for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac._ (_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_. )
_Lal._ "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."
O, beautiful!- most beautiful -- how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land (_pauses_) She died! -- the maiden died!
A still more happy 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 and weep -- two gentle maids
With gentle names -- Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove! -- -- Jacinta!
_Jac._ (_pettishly_.) Madam, what _is_ it?
_Lal._ Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists.
_Jac._ Pshaw! (_exit_.)
_Lal._ If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!
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 table._)
There, ma'am, 's the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (_aside._)
_Lal. (astonished.) _ What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee? -- I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trust-worthy and respectful. (_resumes her reading._)
_Jac._ I can't believe
She has any more jewels -- no -- no -- she gave me all. (_aside._)
_Lal._ What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?- and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?- is there no farther aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
_Jac_. 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.
_Lal._ Jewels! Jacinta, -- now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
_Jac._ Oh! perhaps not!
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;
And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now._ But I might have sworn it. (_exit._)
(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table -- after a
short pause raises it._)
_Lal._ 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 -- remembers me
Of Joy departed -- Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and 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 --
Castiglione lied who said he loved --
Thou true -- he false! -- false! -- false!
(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
unobserved._)
_Monk._ Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
_Lal._ (arising hurriedly.) I _cannot_ pray! -- My soul is at war
with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below
Disturb my senses -- go! I cannot pray --
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me -- go! -- thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread- thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
_Monk._ Think of thy precious soul!
_ Lal._ Think of my early days! -- think of my father
And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters! -- think of them!
And think of me! -- think of my trusting love
And confidence- his vows- my ruin -- think -- think
Of my unspeakable misery! -- begone!
Yet stay! yet stay! -- what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
_Monk._ I did.
_ Lal._ Lal. 'Tis well.
There is a vow were fitting should be made --
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow!
_Monk._ Daughter, this zeal is well !
_Lal._ Father, this zeal is anything but well !
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_)
Not that- Oh! no! -- no! -- no! (_shuddering_)
Not that! Not that! -- I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself, --
I have a crucifix Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed -- the vow -- the symbol of the deed --
And the deed's register should tally, father!
(_draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high_)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!
_Monk._ Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy- thy lips are livid --
Thine eyes are wild -- tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late! -- oh, be not -- be not rash!
Swear not the oath -- oh, swear it not!
_Lal. _'Tis sworn!
III.
An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.
_Baldazzar_. -- -- -- Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not -- nay indeed, indeed, shalt not
Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest!
_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar! _Surely_ I live.
_Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.
_Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my, forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
_ Bal_. To the field, then -- to the field --
To the senate or the field.
_Pol_. Alas! Alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is -- what voice was that?
_ Bal_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
_ Pol_. Then I but dreamed.
_ Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp -- the court,
Befit thee -- Fame awaits thee -- Glory calls --
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
_ Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then?_
_ Bal_. I heard it not.
_ Pol_. Thou heardst it not! -- Baldazaar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
We have been boys together -- schoolfellows --
And now are friends -- yet shall not be so long --
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power --
A Power august, benignant and supreme --
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
_ Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.
_ Pol_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be --
Rich melodies are floating in the winds --