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Edgar Allan Poe - The Complete Poetry

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Название:
The Complete Poetry
Автор:
Edgar Allan Poe
Жанр:
unrecognised / на английском языке
Год:
неизвестен
ISBN:
нет данных
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3 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Musaicum Books presents to you this meticulously edited Poe poetry collection:
Content:
The Raven
Poems of Later Life
The Bells
Ulalume
To Helen
Annabel Lee
A Valentine
An Enigma
To My Mother
For Annie
To F—
To Frances S. Osgood
Eldorado
Eulalie
A Dream Within a Dream
To Marie Louise (Shew)
To Marie Louise
The City in the Sea
The Sleeper
Bridal Ballad
Poems of Manhood
Lenore
To One in Paradise
The Coliseum
The Haunted Palace
The Conqueror Worm
Silence
Dreamland
To Zante
Hymn
Scenes from Politian
Poems of Youth
To Science
Al Aaraaf
Tamerlane
To Helen
The Valley of Unrest
Israfel
To the River
Song
Spirits of the Dead
A Dream
Romance
Fairyland
The Lake
Evening Star
Imitation
The Happiest Day
Hymn
Dreams
In Youth I have known one
A Pæan
Doubtful Poems
Alone
To Isadore
The Village Street
The Forest Reverie
Other Poems
An Acrostic
Beloved Physician
The Doomed City
Deep in Earth
The Divine Right of Kings
Elizabeth
Enigma
Epigram for Wall Street
Evangeline
Fanny
Impromptu – To Kate Carol
Lines on Ale
O, Tempora! O, Mores!
Poetry
Serenade
Spiritual Song
Stanzas
Stanzas – to F. S. Osgood
Tamerlane (early version)
To —
To Isaac Lea
To Margaret
To Miss Louise Olivia Hunter
To Octavia
The Valley Nis
Visit of the Dead
Prose Poems
The Island of the Fay
The Power of Words
The Colloquy of Monos and Una
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion
Shadow—a Parable
Silence—a Fable
Essays
The Philosophy of Composition
The Rationale of Verse
The Poetic Principle
Old English Poetry
Biography
The Dreamer by Mary Newton Stanard

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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!
Alessandra	Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
Castiglione	Did I sigh? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A silly—a most silly fashion I have When I am very happy. Did I sigh? [ sighing ]
Alessandra	Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these Will ruin thee! thou art already altered— Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away The constitution as late hours and wine.
Castiglione (musing)	Nothing, fair cousin, nothing— Not even deep sorrow— Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend.
Alessandra	Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir And Alessandra's husband.
Castiglione	I will drop them.
Alessandra	Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends Upon appearances.
Castiglione	I'll see to it.
Alessandra	Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir, To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest In dignity.
Castiglione	Much, much, oh, much I want In proper dignity.
Alessandra (haughtily)	Thou mockest me, sir!
Castiglione (abstractedly)	Sweet, gentle Lalage!
Alessandra	Heard I aright? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage? Sir Count! [places her hand on his shoulder ] what art thou dreaming? He's not well! What ails thee, sir?
Castiglione (starting)	Cousin! fair cousin!—madam! I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well— Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
	Enter Di Broglio
Di Broglio	My son, I've news for thee!—hey!—what's the matter? [ observing Alessandra ]. I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her, You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! I've news for you both. Politian is expected Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester! We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit To the imperial city.
Alessandra	What! Politian Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
Di Broglio	The same, my love. We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him, But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth, And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
Alessandra	I have heard much of this Politian. Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not, And little given to thinking?
Di Broglio	Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all philosophy So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as few are learned.
Alessandra	'Tis very strange! I have known men have seen Politian And sought his company. They speak of him As of one who entered madly into life, Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
Castiglione	Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer, and shut out From common passions.
Di Broglio	Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian was a melancholy man?
	[ Exeunt ]

ROME.—A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.

Lalage	Jacinta! is it thou?
Jacinta (pertly)	Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
Lalage	I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you— Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.
Jacinta (aside)	'Tis time.
	(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read.)
Lalage	"It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!" [ pauses—turns over some leaves and resumes. ] "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower— But Ocean ever to refresh mankind Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind" Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land! [ pauses ] She died!—the maiden died! O still more happy maiden who couldst die! Jacinta! [ Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes, ] Again!—a similar tale Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play— "She died full young"—one Bossola answers him— "I think not so—her infelicity Seemed to have years too many"—Ah, luckless lady! Jacinta! [ still no answer. ] Here's a far sterner story— But like—oh, very like in its despair— Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts—losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids Lean over her and keep—two gentle maids With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion! Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta!
Jacinta (pettishly)	Madam, what is it?
Lalage	Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the library and bring me The Holy Evangelists?
Jacinta	Pshaw!
	[ Exit ]
Lalage	If there be balm For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there! Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble Will there be found—"dew sweeter far than that Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
	[ re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table ]
Jacinta ( aside )	There, ma'am, 's the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.
Lalage (astonished)	What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry. For thou hast served me long and ever been Trustworthy and respectful. [ resumes her reading. ]
Jacinta (aside)	I can't believe She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all.
Lalage	What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be? Can I do aught?—is there no further aid Thou needest, Jacinta?
Jacinta (aside)	Is there no further aid! That's meant for me. [ aloud ] I'm sure, madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
Lalage	Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels.
Jacinta	Oh, perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all, There's Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he's sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you; And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot Have use for jewels now . But I might have sworn it.
	[ Exit ]
	[ Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a short pause raises it. ]
Lalage	Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!—but courage!—'tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! [ taking up the mirror ] Ha! here at least's a friend—too much a friend In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And beauty long deceased—remembers me, Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope, Inurned and entombed!—now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not! Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break— Castiglione lied who said he loved—— Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
	[ While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved. ]
Monk	Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
Lalage (arising hurriedly)	I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below; Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray— The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe!
Monk	Think of thy precious soul!
Lalage	Think of my early days!—think of my father And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters!—think of them! And think of me!—think of my trusting love And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think Of my unspeakable misery!——begone! Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne?
Monk	I did.
Lalage	'Tis well. There is a vow 'twere fitting should be made— A sacred vow, imperative and urgent, A solemn vow!
Monk	Daughter, this zeal is well!
Lalage	Father, this zeal is anything but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register This sacred vow? [ he hands her his own. ] Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no [ shuddering. ] Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,— I have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed— And the deed's register should tally, father! [ draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high. ] Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in heaven!
Monk	Thy words are madness, daughter, And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid— Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine! Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash! Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!
Lalage	'Tis sworn!