Great Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe Read online

  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 upturn’d 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 all 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 lie enwritten

  Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!

  How dark a wo! 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!

  Sonnet—To Science1

  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

  To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,

  Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?

  Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

  And driven the Hamadryad from the wood

  To seek a shelter in some happier star?

  Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,

  The Elfin from the green grass, and from me

  The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

  1 Private reasons—some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson’s first poems—have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boy-hood. They are printed verbatim—without alteration from the original edition—the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged.

  E. A. P.

  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 –

  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 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;

  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 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.

  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; –

  ’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 a minute 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 –

&
nbsp; 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 my sad 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 –

  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 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.

  “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!

  Tales

  The Tell-Tale Heart

  TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

  It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

  Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

  Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

  I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out—“Who’s there?”

  I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

  Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grie
f—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

  When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye.

  It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

  And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

  But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.