Kitabı oxu: «The Works of Edgar Allan Poe – Volume 5», səhifə 11

POEMS

TO

THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX

THE AUTHOR OF

“THE DRAMA OF EXILE” —

TO

MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

OF ENGLAND

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME

WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH

THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM

1845 E.A.P

PREFACE

THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the “rounds of the press.” I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of man-kind.

E. A. P.

1845

POEMS OF LATER LIFE
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 visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
                          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 —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
                          Nameless here for evermore.
 
 
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
“‘Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visiter 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 opened 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 whispered word, “Lenore!”
  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” —
                          Merely this, and nothing more.
 
 
Back 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 stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
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,
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;
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
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther 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.”
 
 
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
                         Of “Never – nevermore.”
 
 
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul 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 —
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
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
                          She shall press, ah, nevermore!
 
 
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 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! —
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.”
 
 
“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 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!
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,
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!
 

Published 1845.

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!
                While the stars that oversprinkle
                All the heavens, seem to twinkle
                      With a crystalline delight;
                   Keeping time, time, time,
                   In a sort of Runic rhyme,
     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
                          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,
                          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,
     What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
                          How it swells!
                          How it dwells
                      On the Future! – how it tells
                      Of the rapture that impels
                  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!
 

III

 
                    Hear the loud alarum bells —
                          Brazen bells!
     What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
                In the startled ear of night
                How they scream out their affright!
                    Too much horrified to speak,
                    They can only shriek, shriek,
                       Out of tune,
     In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
     In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                       Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                       With a desperate desire,
                    And a resolute endeavor
                    Now – now to sit, or never,
                By the side of the pale-faced moon.
                       Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
                       What a tale their terror tells
                          Of Despair!
             How they clang, and clash, and roar!
             What a horror they outpour
     On the bosom of the palpitating air!
                Yet the ear, it fully knows,
                      By the twanging
                      And the clanging,
                 How the danger ebbs and flows;
             Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
                   In the jangling
                   And the wrangling,
             How the danger sinks and swells,
     By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells —
                   Of the bells —
           Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells —
        In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
 

IV

 
                    Hear the tolling of the bells —
                          Iron bells!
     What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
             In the silence of the night,
             How we shiver with affright
         At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
                 For every sound that floats
                 From the rust within their throats
                         Is a groan.
                     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 stone —
             They are neither man nor woman —
             They are neither brute nor human —
                         They are Ghouls: —
                 And their king it is who tolls: —
                 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
                          Rolls
                     A pæan from the bells!
                 And his merry bosom swells
                     With the pæan 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 bells —
                 Of 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 —
           Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells —
        To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
 

1849.

ULALUME

 
    The skies they were ashen and sober;
         The leaves they were crisped and sere —
         The leaves they were withering and sere;
     It was night in the lonesome October
         Of my most immemorial year:
     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,
         Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —
         Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
     There were days when my heart was volcanic
         As the scoriac rivers that roll —
         As the lavas that restlessly roll
     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,
         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!)
     We noted not the dim lake of Auber,
         (Though once we had journeyed down here)
     We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
         Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
 
 
     And now, as the night was senescent,
         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
         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 —
         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 —
         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.”
 
 
     But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
         Said – “Sadly this star I mistrust —
         Her pallor I strangely mistrust —
     Ah, hasten! – ah, let us not linger!
         Ah, fly! – let us fly! – for we must.”
      In terror she spoke; letting sink her
         Wings till 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.
 
 
     I replied – “This is nothing but dreaming.
         Let us on, by this tremulous light!
         Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
     Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
         With Hope and in Beauty to-night —
         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,
         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 —
         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 —
         ‘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
         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?
     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.”
 

1847.

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,
     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 —
     Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
     That gave out, in return for the love-light,
     Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death —
     Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
     That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
     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 upturn’d faces of the roses,
     And on thine own, upturn’d – alas, in sorrow!
 
 
     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 footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
     Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! – oh, 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!)
 
 
     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.
     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,
     Saw only them until the moon went down.
     What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten
 
 
     Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
     How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
     How silently serene a sea of pride!
     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
     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.
     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.
     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
     Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!