Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
Pol. And then, perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still-
Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
Pol. And still together--together.
Lal. Now Earl of Leicester! Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly.
Pol. Oh, Lalage!
(throwing himself upon his knee.) And lovest thou me?
Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure passed- A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless- Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
(walks across and returns.) I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
Pol. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom.
Lal. Politian! Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy--a land new found-- Miraculously found by one of Genoa-- A thousand leagues within the golden west? A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come?
Pol. O, wilt thou--wilt thou Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee And worship thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me?
Lal. A deed is to be done-- Castiglione lives!
Pol. And he shall die! (exit)
Lal. (after a pause.) And--he--shall--die!--alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian! Thou art not gone--thou are not gone, Politian! I feel thou art not gone--yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go With those words upon thy lips--O, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word, To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone- O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. Villain, thou art not gone--thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well! So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure, 'Tis well, 'tis very well--alas! alas!
V.
The suburbs. Politian alone.
Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, And much I fear me ill--it will not do To die ere I have lived!--Stay, stay thy hand, O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me! O pity me! let me not perish now, In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet--yet a little while: 'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late Demanded but to die!--what sayeth the Count?
Enter Baldazzar.
Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself. He doth decline your cartel.
Pol. What didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day, Or one more worthy Italy, methinks No mortal eyes have seen!--what said the Count?
Bal. That he, Castiglione' not being aware Of any feud existing, or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, Cannot accept the challenge.
Pol. It is most true-- All this is very true. When saw you, sir, When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did say?
Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir: The Count Castiglione will not fight, Having no cause for quarrel.
Pol. Now this is true- All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, Hold him a villain?--thus much, I prythee, say Unto the Count--it is exceeding just He should have cause for quarrel.
Bal. My lord!--my friend!-
Pol. (aside.) 'Tis he!--he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest well. I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message- Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it. Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person With whom affairs of a most private nature I would adjust.
Bal. I go--to-morrow we meet, Do we not?--at the Vatican.
Pol. At the Vatican. (exit Bal.)
Enter Castigilone.
Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!
Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, Dost thou not? that I am here.
Cas. My lord, some strange, Some singular mistake--misunderstanding-- Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged Thereby, in heat of anger, to address Some words most unaccountable, in writing, To me, Castiglione; the bearer being Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right? 'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all Do err at times.
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
Cas. Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once, Proud Earl! (draws.)
Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb, Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee In the name of Lalage!
Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage)
Of Lalage! Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt, I say! Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count? Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well; Didst say thou darest not? Ha!
Cas. I dare not--dare not-- Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee-- I cannot--dare not.
Pol. Now by my halidom I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!
Cas. Ha!--coward!--this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl)
Alas! my lord, It is--it is--most true. In such a cause I am the veriest coward. O pity me!
Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.
Cas. And Lalage-
Pol. Scoundrel!--arise and die!
Cas. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O let me die Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting That in this deep humiliation I perish. For in the fight I will not raise a hand Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
(baring his bosom.) Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon- Strike home. I will not fight thee.
Pol. Now, s' Death and Hell! Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir, Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare For public insult in the streets--before The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee Even unto death. Before tho
se whom thou lovest- Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee, Dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me? Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit.)
Cas. Now this indeed is just! Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29. --ED}
NOTE
29. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw thelight of publicity in the "Southern Literary Messenger" for December,1835, and January, 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian: anunpublished drama." These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draftsubsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is notconsidered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hastyand unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhancehis reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, thefollowing fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered.The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father ofCastiglione her betrothed.
Duke. Why do you laugh?
Castiglione. Indeed
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl? Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday. Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember! We were walking in the garden.
Duke, Perfectly. I do remember it-what of it-what then?
Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.
Duke. Nothing at all! It is most singular that you should laugh 'At nothing at all!
Cas. Most singular-singular!
Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean. What are you talking of?
Cas. Was it not so? We differed in opinion touching him.
Duke. Him!--Whom?
Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean? We differed, indeed. If I now recollect The words you used were that the Earl you knew Was neither learned nor mirthful.
Cas. Ha! ha!--now did I?
Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time You were wrong, it being not the character Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be A most hilarious man. Be not, my son, Too positive again.
Cas. 'Tis singular! Most singular! I could not think it possible So little time could so much alter one! To say the truth about an hour ago, As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo, All arm in arm, we met this very man The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar, Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered! Such an account he gave me of his journey! 'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told Of his caprices and his merry freaks Along the road-such oddity-such humor-- Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment Set off too in such full relief by the grave Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth, Was gravity itself--
Duke. Did I not tell you?
Cas. You did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange, How much I was mistaken! I always thought The Earl a gloomy man.
Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here? It can not be the Earl?
Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!
(Enter Politian and Baldazzar.) My lord, a second welcome let me give you To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio. Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.] That, his friend Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters, So please you, for Your Grace.
Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian! And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you! I knew your father well, my Lord Politian. Castiglione! call your cousin hither, And let me make the noble Earl acquainted With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time Most seasonable. The wedding--
Politian. Touching those letters, sir, Your son made mention of--your son, is he not? Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them. If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here-- Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
Duke. Retire!--So soon?
Came What ho! Benito! Rupert! His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them! His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito.)
Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)
Duke. Retire! Unwell!
Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me 'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell. The damp air of the evening-the fatigue Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better Follow his lordship. He must be unwell. I will return anon.
Duke. Return anon! Now this is very strange! Castiglione! This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee. You surely were mistaken in what you said Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.)
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS--1831
_LETTER TO MR. B--._
"WEST POINT, 1831.
"DEAR B......... Believing only a portion of my former volume to beworthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well toinclude in the present book as to republish by itself. I have thereforeherein combined 'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hithertounprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' nowomitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placedin a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they wereimbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.
"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written byone who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _ofpoetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less justthe critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there arebut few B-'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world'sgood opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might hereobserve, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, andyet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the worldjudge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?'The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or'opinion.' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be calledtheirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did notwrite the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, butit is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yetthe fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is astep higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say,his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen orunderstood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions)are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which thatsuperiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have beendiscovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--thefool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion. _This neighbor'sown opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him,and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around thesummit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon thepinnacle.
"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established witof the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with lawor empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne inpossession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great adistinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fopsglance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where themystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely somany letters of recommendation.
"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think thenotion that no poet can form a correct est
imate of his own writings isanother. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talentwould be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a badpoet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love wouldinfallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who isindeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making-a just critique;whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replacedon account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short,we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's ownwritings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a greatexample of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the'Paradise Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivialcircumstances men are often led to assert what they do not reallybelieve! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But,in fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not likeepics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading those ofMilton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first toderive any pleasure from the second.
"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either-. if so-justly.
"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly uponthe most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what iscalled, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might havebeen induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formalrefutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work ofsupererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridgeand Southey, but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories soprosaically exemplifled.
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Page 19