TAMERLANE1

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!
The 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

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I claim'd and won usurpinglyHath not the same fierce heirdom given 30 Rome to the Cæsar-this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.

1 "Tamerlane" appeared first in Tamerlane and Other Poems, 1827, but was entirely rewritten for the 1829 volume, Al Aaraf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems. The text here used is practically that of the 1829 volume. A comparison of the two versions is valuable, as showing Poe's growth in poetic power if not in narrative strength.

As Poe conceives the story, Tamerlane is lured from his shepherd home in the mountains and from his early love by ambition. He conquers the entire Eastern world, and returns home to find that his love has died of neglect. The opening lines of the 1827 version give the setting more clearly.

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, 50
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!

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 70

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.

The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch of the Imaus, in the southern part of Independ ent Tartary. They are celebrated for the singu lar wildness and beauty of their valleys. (POE, 1827.)

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 tearsThere was no need to speak the restNo 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 toneI had no being-but in thee:

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The world, and all it did contain In the earth-the air-the seaIts joy-its little lot of pain That was new pleasure-the ideal, Dim vanities of dreams by nightAnd 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 do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every 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 trellic'd 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?

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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 my 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.

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Preface to "Al Aaraf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems," 1829.

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