The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5
Page 22
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.