The Raven and Other Poems — 1845 volume text — reading text

more — no more — (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams — In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. Eulalie — A Song EULALIE — A SONG. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I DWELT alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride — Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less — less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapour can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl — Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt — now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarté within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye — While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. To F——s S. O——d TO F——s S. O——d. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THOU wouldst be loved? — then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love — a simple duty. To F—— TO F——. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ BELOVED! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path — (Drear path, alas! where grows Not even one lonely rose) — My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose. And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea — Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms — but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o're that one bright island smile. Sonnet — Silence SONNET — SILENCE. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THERE are some qualities — some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence — sea and shore — Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's “No More.” He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man,) commend thyself to God! The Conqueror Worm THE CONQUEROR WORM. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ LO! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly — Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama — oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out — out are the lights — out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm. The Haunted Palace THE HAUNTED PALACE. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ IN the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace — Radiant palace — reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion — It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This — all this — was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingéd odour went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tunéd law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn! — for never sorrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh — but smile no more. Scenes from “Politian” 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 sigh? 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 back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. Lal. Jacinta! is it thou? Jac. (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.” Oh, beautiful! — most beautiful! — how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land! (pauses.) She died! — the maiden died! O 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.