Edgar Allan Poe - The Complete Poetry

Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!

In every deed shall mingle, love.

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Hark, echo! - Hark, echo!

'Tis the sound

Of archangels, in happiness wrapt.

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How often we forget all time, when lone

Admiring Nature's universal throne;

Her woods—her wilds—her mountains—the intense

Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence!

(BYRON, The Island.)

I

In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

In secret communing held—as he with it,

In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit

From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light—such for his spirit was fit—

And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour

Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

II

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sovereignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told—or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more,

That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass

As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

III

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

To the loved object—so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be—(that object) hid

From us in life—but common—which doth lie

Each hour before us—but then only, bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,

To awake us—'Tis a symbol and a token

IV

Of what in other worlds shall be—and given

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven

Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,

Tho' not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne

With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

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In youth have I known one with whom the Earth

In secret communing held- as he with it,

In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:

Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit

From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth

A passionate light- such for his spirit was fit-

And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour

Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought

To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,

But I will half believe that wild light fraught

With more of sovereignty than ancient lore

Hath ever told- or is it of a thought

The unembodied essence, and no more,

That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass

As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?

Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye

To the loved object- so the tear to the lid

Will start, which lately slept in apathy?

And yet it need not be- (that object) hid

From us in life- but common- which doth lie

Each hour before us- but then only, bid

With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,

To awake us- 'Tis a symbol and a token

Of what in other worlds shall be- and given

In beauty by our God, to those alone

Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven

Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,

That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,

Tho' not with Faith- with godliness- whose throne

With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;

Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

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I.

I have sent for thee, holy friar;

But 'twas not with the drunken hope,

Which is but agony of desire

To shun the fate, with which to cope

Is more than crime may dare to dream,

That I have call'd thee at this hour:

Such, father, is not my theme—

Nor am I mad, to deem that power

Of earth may shrive me of the sin

Unearthly pride hath revelled in—

I would not call thee fool, old man.

But hope is not a gift of thine;

If I can hope (O God! I can) It falls from an eternal shrine.

II.

The gay wall of this gaudy tower

Grows dim around me—death is near.

I had not thought, until this hour

When passing from the earth, that ear

Of any, were it not the shade

Of one whom in life I made

All mystery but a simple name,

Might know the secret of a spirit

Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame.—

Shame, said'st thou?

Ay, I did inherit

That hated portion, with the fame,

The worldly glory, which has shown

A demon-light around my throne,

Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain

Not Hell shall make me fear again.

III.

I have not always been as now—

The fever'd diadem on my brow

I claim'd and won usurpingly—

Ay—the same heritage hath given

Rome to the Cæsar—this to me;

The heirdom of a kingly mind—

And a proud spirit, which hath striven

Triumphantly with human kind.

In mountain air I first drew life;

The mists of the Taglay have shed

Nightly their dews on my young head;

And my brain drank their venom then,

When after day of perilous strife

With chamois, I would seize his den

And slumber, in my pride of power,

The infant monarch of the hour—

For, with the mountain dew by night,

My soul imbibed unhallow'd feeling;

And I would feel its essence stealing

In dreams upon me—while the light

Flashing from cloud that hover'd o'er,

Would seem to my half closing eye

The pageantry of monarchy!

And the deep thunder's echoing roar

Came hurriedly upon me, telling

Of war, and tumult, where my voice,

My own voice, silly child! was swelling (O how would my wild heart rejoice And leap within me at the cry) The battle cry of victory!

*****

IV.

The rain came down upon my head

But barely shelter'd—and the wind

Pass'd quickly o'er me—but my mind

Was maddening—for 'twas man that shed

Laurels upon me—and the rush,

The torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush

Of empires, with the captive's prayer,

The hum of suitors, the mix'd tone

Of flattery round a sovereign's throne.

The storm had ceased—and I awoke—

Its spirit cradled me to sleep,

And as it pass'd me by, there broke

Strange light upon me, tho' it were

My soul in mystery to steep:

For I was not as I had been;

The child of Nature, without care,

Or thought, save of the passing scene.—

V.

My passions, from that hapless hour,

Usurp'd a tyranny, which men

Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,

My innate nature—be it so:

But, father, there lived one who, then—

Then, in my boyhood, when their fire

Burn'd with a still intenser glow;

(For passion must with youth expire)

Even then , who deem'd this iron heart In woman's weakness had a part.

I have no words, alas! to tell

The loveliness of loving well!

Nor would I dare attempt to trace

The breathing beauty of a face,

Which even to my impassion'd mind, Leaves not its memory behind. In spring of life have ye ne'er dwelt Some object of delight upon, With steadfast eye, till ye have felt The earth reel—and the vision gone? And I have held to memory's eye One object—and but one—until Its very form hath pass'd me by, But left its influence with me stilL