Tottering above
In her highest noon, The enamour'd 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 the other listening things) That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and singsThe trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
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 ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour 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.
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.
Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
And the people-ah, the people- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls,
A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bellsOf the bells, bells, bells
To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells- To the tolling of the bells,
1906.-FOR ANNIE.
Thank Heaven! the crisisThe danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last
And the fever call'd "Living' Is conquer'd at last.
I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length; But no matter!-I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed, That any beholder
Might fancy me dead- Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead-
The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing At heart-ah that horrible, Horrible throbbing!
The sickness-the nausea- The pitiless pain- Have ceased, with the fever That madden'd my brain- With the fever call'd "Living" That burn'd in my brain. And oh! of all tortures,
That torture the worst Has abated-the terrible Torture of thirst For the napthaline river Of Passion accurst:
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:
Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From the spring but a few
Feet under groundFrom a cavern not very far Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept
In a different bed
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses- Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses :
For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies
A holier odour
About it, of pansiesA rosemary odour,
Commingled with pansies- With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily, Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of AnnieDrown'd in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kiss'd me,
She fondly caress'd,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguish'd, She cover'd me warm, And she pray'd to the angels To keep me from harm- To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love,)
That you fancy me dead- And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast,)
That you fancy me deadThat you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead :
But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many
Stars of the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie
Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.
Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.
1907.-THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, While I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "Tapping at my chamber doorOnly this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, It was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember Wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow; Vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrowSorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic Terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating Of my heart, I stood repeating ""Tis some visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; Hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly
Your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, Tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you,"- Here I open'd wide the door : Darkness there, and nothing more!
Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, And the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken
Was the whisper'd word, "Lenore!" This I whisper'd, and an echo
Murmur'd back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Then into the chamber turning, All my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping
Somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is Something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, And this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment, And this mystery explore ;- 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, When, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepp'd a stately raven
Of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ; But, with mien of lord or lady,
Perch'd above my chamber doorPerch'd upon a bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door- Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.
Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters
It is only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful Disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, Till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope the Melancholy burden bore
Of Nevermore,'-of 'Nevermore." " But the raven still beguiling All my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in Front of bird and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking
What this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, Gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, But no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now Burn'd into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining That the lamplight gloated o'er; But whose velvet violet lining With the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, never more!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls Tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent
By these angels he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe
From thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!— Prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether Tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, On this desert land enchanted- On this home by Horror haunted- Tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead? Tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- Prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us- By that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, Bird or fiend!" I shriek'd, upstarting"Get thee back into the tempest
And the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-
Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart,
And take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow That lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-nevermore!
Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.
1908.-THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewing'd, bedight In veils, and drown'd 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 Woe!
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 a rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man," Its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.
What though the name is old and oft repeated,
What though a thousand beings bear it now,
And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted
What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's Vow?
We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming Is a familiar rapture to the eye; And yon bright star we hail, although its looming
Age after age has lit the northern sky. As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing, As garden odours to the desert blown, In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing, Like patriot music or affection's tone- Thus, thus, for aye, the name of Mary spoken By lips or text, with magic-like control, The course of present thought has quickly broken,
And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.
The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow, The fairest trophies of the limner's fame, To my fond fancy, Mary, seem to borrow Celestial halos from thy gentle name: The Grecian artist glean'd from many faces, And in a perfect whole the parts combined, So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces To form the Mary of my ardent mind. And marvel not I thus call my ideal- We inly paint as we would have things be- The fanciful springs ever from the real, As Aphrodite rose from out the sea. Who smiled upon me kindly day by day, In a far land where I was sad and lone ? Whose presence now is my delight away?
Both angels must the same bless'd title own. What spirits round my weary way are flying. What fortunes on my future life await, Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing,
Are all unknown-in trust I bide my fate;
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