Poems by Edgar A. Poe — 1831 text — reading text

Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges — and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 88:] *And golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of the saints. — Rev. St. John. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 89:] *The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a human form. — Vide Clarke's Sermons, vol. 1, page 26, fol. edit. The drift of Milton's argument, leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church Dr. Summers' Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine. This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Messopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anthropmorphites. — Vide Du Pin. Among Milton's poems are these lines: Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, &c. Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers finxit humanum genus? Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. — And afterwards, Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 90:] *Seltsamen Tochter Jovis Seinem Schosskinde Der Phantasie. — Goethe. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 91:] *Sightless — too small to be seen. — Legge. †I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-fly. They will collect in a body, and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerable radii. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 92:] †Therasæ, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 96:] *Some star which, from the ruin'd roof Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance, did fall — Milton. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 97:] *“Oh! the wave” — Ula Degusi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were, undoubtedly, more than two cities engluphed in the “dead sea.” In the valley of Siddim were five — Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom, and Gomorrah. Stephen, of Byzantium, mentions eight, and Strabo, thirteeen, (engulphed) — but the last is out of all reason. It is said, (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel, of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux) that, after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At any season, such remains may be discoverd by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the “Asphaltites.” †Eyraco — Chaldea. ‡I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 98:] *Fairies use flowers for their charactery — Merry Wives of Windsor. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 99:] *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. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 100:] *The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 101:] *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 pleasannte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe.” [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 102:] *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. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 103:] *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. There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon. — Milton. [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 106:] *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. — Marlow . [The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 107:] *Pennon — for pinion. — Milton. Tamerlane TAMERLANE. ————— I. Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme: I will not madly think 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 (O 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. II. Hear 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! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime Rings in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness, — a knell. Despair, the fabled vampire-bat, Hath long upon my bosom sat, And I would rave, but that he flings A calm from his unearthly wings. III. I have not always been as now: The fever'd diadem on my brow, I claim'd and won usurpingly — Hath not the same heirdom given Rome to the Cæsar — this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. IV. 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 Hath nestled in my very hair. V. 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, Appear'd 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. VI. The rain came down upon my head, Unshelter'd, and the heavy wind Was giant-like — 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 suitors, and the tone Of flattery, round a sovereign's throne. VII. 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) Ev’n then who knew that as infinite My soul — so was the weakness in it. VIII. For in those days it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less. So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake with black rock bound, And the sultan-like pines that tower'd around! But when the night had thrown her pall Upon that spot as upon all, And the black wind murmur'd by, In a dirge of melody; My infant spirit would awake To the terror of that lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright — But a tremulous delight — A feeling not the jewell'd mine Could ever bribe me to define, Nor love, Ada! tho' it were thine. How could I from that water bring Solace to my imagining? My solitary soul — how make An Eden of that dim lake? IX. But then a gentler, calmer spell, like moonlight on my spirit fell, And O! I have no words to tell The loveliness of loving well! I will not now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments upon my mind Are shadows on the unstable wind. I well remember having dwelt, Pages of early lore upon, With loitering eye till I have felt The letters with their meaning melt To fantasies with — none. X. Was she not 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? XI. 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. XII. 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 lean upon her gentle breast, And pour my spirit out in tears, There was no need to speak the rest, No need to quiet any fears Of hers — who ask'd no reason why, But turn'd on me her quiet eye. XIII. I had no being but in thee: The world and all it did contain, In the earth — the air — the sea, Of pleasure or of pain — The good, the bad, 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. XIV. 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. XV. I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically, in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moments’ converse — in her eyes I read — perhaps too carelessly — A mingled feeling with my own — The flush upon her cheek to me, Seem'd fitted for a queenly throne, Too well that I should let it be, Light in the wilderness alone. XVI. 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 its fire. * * * * * XVII. Say, holy father, breathes there yet A rebel or a Bajazet? How now! why tremble, man of gloom, As if my words were the Simoom! Why do the people bow the knee, To the young Tamerlane — to me! XVIII. O human love! thou spirit given On earth of all we hope in Heaven! Which fallest into the soul like rain Upon the Syroc-wither'd plain, And