The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Read online

  2. The bibliographical history of "The Bells" is curious. The subject,and some lines of the original version, having been suggested by thepoet's friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of thepoem, headed it, "The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew." This draft, now theeditor's property, consists of only seventeen lines, and read thus:

  I.

  The bells!-ah, the bells! The little silver bells! How fairy-like a melody there floats From their throats-- From their merry little throats-- From the silver, tinkling throats Of the bells, bells, bells-- Of the bells!

  II.

  The bells!-ah, the bells!

  The heavy iron bells! How horrible a monody there floats From their throats-- From their deep-toned throats-- From their melancholy throats! How I shudder at the notes Of the bells, bells, bells-- Of the bells!

  In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent itto the editor of the "Union Magazine." It was not published. So, in thefollowing February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a muchenlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed withoutpublication, another revision of the poem, similar to the currentversion, was sent, and in the following October was published in the"Union Magazine."

  3. This poem was first published in Colton's "American Review" forDecember, 1847, as "To--Ulalume: a Ballad." Being reprinted immediatelyin the "Home Journal," it was copied into various publications with thename of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to him.When first published, it contained the following additional stanza whichPoe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely suppressed:

  Said we then--we two, then--"Ah, can it Have been that the woodlandish ghouls-- The pitiful, the merciful ghouls-- To bar up our path and to ban it From the secret that lies in these wolds-- Had drawn up the spectre of a planet From the limbo of lunary souls-- This sinfully scintillant planet From the Hell of the planetary souls?"

  4. "To Helen!" (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until November,1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the"Union Magazine," and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge ordesire of Poe, of the line, "Oh, God! oh, Heaven--how my heart beats incoupling those two words."

  5. "Annabel Lee" was written early in 1849, and is evidently anexpression of the poet's undying love for his deceased bride,although at least one of his lady admirers deemed it a response to heradmiration. Poe sent a copy of the ballad to the "Union Magazine," inwhich publication it appeared in January, 1850, three months after theauthor's death. While suffering from "hope deferred" as to its fate,Poe presented a copy of "Annabel Lee" to the editor of the "SouthernLiterary Messenger," who published it in the November number of hisperiodical, a month after Poe's death. In the meantime the poet's owncopy, left among his papers, passed into the hands of the person engagedto edit his works, and he quoted the poem in an obituary of Poe, in theNew York "Tribune," before any one else had an opportunity of publishingit.

  6. "A Valentine," one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appearsto have been written early in 1846.

  7. "An Enigma," addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis ("Stella"), was sentto that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the following Marchappeared in Sartain's "Union Magazine."

  8. The sonnet, "To My Mother" (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication tothe short-lived "Flag of our Union," early in 1849,' but does not appearto have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared inthe "Leaflets of Memory" for 1850.

  9. "For Annie" was first published in the "Flag of our Union," in thespring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortlyafterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the "Home Journal."

  10. "To F----" (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the "Broadwayjournal" for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from thoseinscribed "To Mary," in the "Southern Literary Messenger" for July,1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in"Graham's Magazine" for March, 1842, as "To One Departed."

  11. "To F----s S. O--d," a portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs.Osgood, was published in the "Broadway Journal" for September, 1845.The earliest version of these lines appeared in the "Southern LiteraryMessenger" for September, 1835, as "Lines written in an Album," and wasaddressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised,the poem reappeared in Burton's "Gentleman's Magazine" for August, 1839,as "To--."

  12. Although "Eldorado" was published during Poe's lifetime, in 1849,in the "Flag of our Union," it does not appear to have ever received theauthor's finishing touches.

  POEMS OF MANHOOD

  LENORE

  AH broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

  "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, "And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! "How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung "By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue "That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?"

  _Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside 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! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, "But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days! "Let no bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, "Should catch the note, as it doth float--up from the damned Earth. "To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-- "From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-- "From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven."

  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, 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, "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! 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!

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

  1835.

  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, (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! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength-- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt C
haldee 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 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 wanlight--wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

  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-- 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, "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-- "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, "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

  1833.

  THE HAUNTED PALACE.

  IN the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace-- Radiant palace--reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion-- It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair.

  Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odour went away.

  Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.

  And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.

  But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!--for never sorrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.

  And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, lie a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh--but smile no more.

  1838.

  THE CONQUEROR WORM.

  LO! 'tis 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 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 Wo!

  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 the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

  1838.

  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 two-fold _Silence_--sea and shore-- 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! 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!

  1840.

  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 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 Titian woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, 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.

  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 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-- By the grey woods,--by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,-- By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,-- 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 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 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-- For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis--oh 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not--dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

  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 From this ultimate dim Thule.

  1844.

  HYMN

  AT morn--at noon--at twilight dim-- Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and wo--in good and ill-- Mother of God, be with me still! When the Hours flew brightly by 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, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

&n
bsp; 1835.

  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! How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes! No _more!_ alas, that magical sad sound Transfomring all! Thy charms shall please _no more_-- Thy memory _no more! _Accursed ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! "Isoa d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

  1837.

  SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"

  AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

  I.

  ROME.--A Hall in a Palace Alessandra and Castiglione.

  Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

  Castiglione. Sad!--not I. Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!