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

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 art 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! (exit.) 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 those 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! Sonnet — to Science POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.* ——————————— SONNET — TO SCIENCE. SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? *Private reasons — some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems — have induced me, after some hesitation, to re-publish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood They are printed verbatim — without alteration from the original edition — the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged. Al Aaraaf AL AARAAF.* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PART I. O! NOTHING earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy — O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill — Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell — Oh, nothing of the dross of ours — Yet all the beauty — all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers — Adorn yon world afar, afar — The wandering star. 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace — for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns — a temporary rest — An oasis in desert of the blest. Away — away — 'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul — The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin'd eminence — To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour'd one of God — But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre — leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) She look'd into Infinity — and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled — Fit emblems of the model of her world — Seen but in beauty — not impeding sight Of other beauty glittering thro' the light — A wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal'd air in color bound. All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head *On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of —— deep pride — †Of her who lov'd a mortal — and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees: *And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd — Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd All other loveliness: its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond — and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief Disconsolate linger — grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: †And Clytia pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: ‡And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth — And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: *And Valisnerian lotus thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: †And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d'oro! — Fior di Levante! ‡And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river — Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given §To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven: “Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue — The boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar — Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride, and from their throne To be drudges till the last — To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part — Who livest — that we know — In Eternity — we feel — But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream'd for thy Infinity *A model of their own — Thy will is done, Oh, God! The star hath ridden high Thro' many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to thee — In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne — *By winged Fantasy, My embassy is