Chapter IV: Introduction: Edgar Allan Poe: His Life, Character, and Art (2)

_Peccanimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong. The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that flew beside, 15 Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride: For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes; The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! from friends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- 20 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven! Let no bell toll, then,--lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth! And I!--to-night my heart is light!--No dirge will I upraise, 25 But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days."

THE VALLEY OF UNREST

Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, 5 To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. 10 Nothing there is motionless, Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas 15 Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie 20 In myriad types of the human eye, Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:--from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. 25 They weep:--from off their delicate stems Perennial, tears descend in gems.

THE COLISEUM

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length--at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst 5 (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie), I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.

Vastness, and Age, and Memories of Eld! 10 Silence, and Desolation, and dim Night! I feel ye now, I feel ye in your strength, O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 15 Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat; Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 20 Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle; Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones. 25

But stay! these walls, these ivy-clad arcades, These mouldering plinths, these sad and blackened shafts, These vague entablatures, this crumbling frieze, These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin, These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all, 30 All of the famed and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

"Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all! Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, 35 As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent, we pallid stones: Not all our power is gone, not all our fame, 40 Not all the magic of our high renown, Not all the wonder that encircles us, Not all the mysteries that in us lie, Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, 45 Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

HYMN

At morn--at noon--at twilight dim, Maria! thou hast heard my hymn. In joy and woe, in good and ill, Mother of God, be with me still! When the hours flew brightly by, 5 And not a cloud obscured the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy grace did guide to thine and thee. Now, when storms of fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, 10 Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

TO ONE IN PARADISE

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine:
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 5
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, 10 "On! on!"--but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o'er! 15
No more--no 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. 20

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy gray eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances, 25
By what eternal streams.

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 5 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,-- 10 Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms, but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile.

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, 5
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love--a simple duty.

TO ZANTE

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take,
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss, 5
How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes,
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
_No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more, 10
Thy memory no more. Accurséd ground!
Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

BRIDAL BALLAD

The ring is on my hand, And the wreath is on my brow; Satins and jewels grand Are all at my command, And I am happy now. 5

And my lord he loves me well; But, when first he breathed his vow, I felt my bosom swell, For the words rang as a knell, And the voice seemed his who fell 10 In the battle down the dell, And who is happy now.

But he spoke to reassure me, And he kissed my pallid brow, While a reverie came o'er me, 15 And to the church-yard bore me, And I sighed to him before me, Thinking him dead D'Elormie, "Oh, I am happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken, 20 And this the plighted vow; And though my faith be broken, And though my heart be broken, Here is a ring, as token That I am happy now! 25

Would God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken, Lest the dead who is forsaken 30 May not be happy now.

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 twofold Silence--sea and shore, 5 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: 10 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! 15

THE CONQUEROR WORM

Lo! 't is 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 5
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, 10

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 15
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, 20
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 25
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, 30
And seraphs 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, 35
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. 40

DREAM-LAND

By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly 5 From an ultimate dim Thule: From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space--out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms and caves and Titan woods, 10 With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, 15 Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,-- Their still waters, still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. 20

By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,-- Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily; By the mountains--near the river 25 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever; By the gray woods, by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp; By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls; 30 By each spot the most unholy, In each nook most melancholy,-- There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past: Shrouded forms that start and sigh 35 As they pass the wanderer by, White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion 'T is a peaceful, soothing region; 40 For the spirit that walks in shadow 'T is--oh, 't is an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not--dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed 45 To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringéd lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 50 By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly 55 From this ultimate dim Thule.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 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 muttered, "tapping at my chamber door: 5 Only 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 wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore, 10 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore: Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 15 "'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, Some 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; 20 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 opened wide the door:-- Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 25 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:" Merely this and nothing more. 30

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard 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: 35 'T is the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, 40 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door: Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,-- "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 45 Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore: Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; 50 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 55 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered,--"Other friends have flown before; On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 60

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 65 Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned 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, 70 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 burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 75 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 80 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--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! 85 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 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." 90

"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." 95 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 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! 100 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's that is dreaming, 105 And the lamp-light 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.

EULALIE

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. 5

Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make 10 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, 15 For her soul gives me sigh for sigh; And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye, 20 While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

TO M.L.S--

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning; Of all to whom thine absence is the night, The blotting utterly from out high heaven The sacred sun; of all who, weeping, bless thee Hourly for hope, for life, ah! above all, 5 For the resurrection of deep-buried faith In truth, in virtue, in humanity; Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!" 10 At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes; Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude Nearest resembles worship, oh, remember The truest, the most fervently devoted, 15 And think that these weak lines are written by him: By him, who, as he pens them, thrills to think His spirit is communing with an angel's.

ULALUME

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispéd and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year; 5
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir:
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic 10
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll 15
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober, 20
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year,
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 25
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent 30
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent 35
Arose with a duplicate horn,
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs, 40
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies, 45
To the Lethean peace of the skies:
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes:
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes." 50

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust:
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must." 55
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust;
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 60

I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night: 65
See, it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright:
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright, 70
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista, 75
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said--"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume-- 80
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried--"It was surely October 85
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed--I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here:
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 90
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber,
This misty mid region of Weir:
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

TO ----

Not long ago the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: 5 And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words, two foreign soft dissyllables, Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," 10 Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart Unthought-like thoughts, that are the souls of thought,-- Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures"), 15 Could hope to utter. And I--my spells are broken; The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand; With thy dear name as text, though hidden by thee, I cannot write--I cannot speak or think-- Alas, I cannot feel; for't is not feeling,-- 20 This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, Gazing entranced adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, 25 Amid empurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates--thee only.

AN ENIGMA

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet-- Trash of all trash! how can a lady don it? 5 Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff, Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant 10 Bubbles, ephemeral and _so_ transparent; But _this_ is, now, you may depend upon it, Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't.

TO HELEN.

I saw thee once--once only--years ago: I must not say how many--but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 5 There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude and sultriness and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe: 10 Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death: Fell on the upturned faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 15 By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturned--alas, in sorrow! 20

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-- Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept, 25 Save only thee and me--O Heaven! O God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!-- Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked, And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) 30 The pearly lustre of the moon went out:

The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 35 All, all expired save thee--save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes, Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes: I saw but them--they were the world to me: I saw but them, saw only them for hours, 40 Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seem to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres; How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope; How silently serene a sea of pride; 45 How daring an ambition; yet how deep, How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 50 Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained: They would not go--they never yet have gone; Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since; They follow me--they lead me through the years; 55 They are my ministers--yet I their slave; Their office is to illumine and enkindle-- My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire, 60 They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), And are, far up in heaven, the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still--two sweetly scintillant 65 Venuses, unextinguished by the sun.

A VALENTINE

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! they hold a treasure 5
Divine, a talisman, an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure--
The word--the syllables. Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor:
And yet there is in this no Gordian knot 10
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing 15
Of poets, by poets--as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto, Mendez Ferdinando,
Still form a synonym for Truth.--Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do. 20

FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last,
And the fever called "Living" 5
Is conquered at last.

Sadly I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length: 10
But no matter!--I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder 15
Might fancy me dead,
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing, 20
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:--ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness, the nausea, 25
The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain,
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain. 30

And oh! of all tortures,
That torture the worst
Has abated--the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river 35
Of Passion accurst:
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound, 40
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground,
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

And ah! let it never 45
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy,
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed: 50
And, _to sleep_, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never 55
Regretting, its roses:
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses;

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies 60
A holier odor
About it, of pansies:
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies,
With rue and the beautiful 65
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie, 70
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently 75
To sleep on her breast,
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm, 80
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm,
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly 85
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly
Now, in my bed, 90
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead,
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter 95
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie:
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie, 100
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

THE BELLS

I

Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! 5 While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline deligit; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, 10 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 15 Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, 20 And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, 25 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels 30 To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 35