Edgar Allan Poe - The Complete Poetry

VI.

'Tis not to thee that I should name—

Thou canst not—wouldst not dare to think

The magic empire of a flame

Which even upon this perilous brink

Hath fix'd my soul, tho' unforgiven,

By what it lost for passion—Heaven.

I loved—and O, how tenderly!

Yes! she [was] worthy of all love!

Such as in infancy was mine,

Tho' then its passion could not be: 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy—her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense—then a goodly gift— For they were childish, without sin, Pure as her young example taught; Why did I leave it and adrift, Trust to the fickle star within?

VII.

We grew in age and love together,

Roaming the forest and the wild;

My breast her shield in wintry weather,

And when the friendly sunshine smiled

And she would mark the opening skies,

I saw no Heaven but in her eyes—

Even childhood knows the human heart;

For when, in sunshine and in smiles,

From all our little cares apart,

Laughing at her half silly wiles,

I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,

And pour my spirit out in tears,

She'd look up in my wilder'd eye—

There was no need to speak the rest—

No need to quiet her kind fears—

She did not ask the reason why.

The hallow'd memory of those years

Comes o'er me in these lonely hours,

And, with sweet loveliness, appears

As perfume of strange summer flowers;

Of flowers which we have known before

In infancy, which seen, recall

To mind—not flowers alone—but more,

Our earthly life, and love—and all.

VIII.

Yes! she was worthy of all love!

Even such as from the accursed time

My spirit with the tempest strove,

When on the mountain peak alone,

Ambition lent it a new tone,

And bade it first to dream of crime,

My frenzy to her bosom taught:

We still were young: no purer thought

Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine ; For passionate love is still divine: I loved her as an angel might With ray of the all living light Which blazes upon Edis' shrine. It is not surely sin to name, With such as mine—that mystic flame, I had no being but in thee! The world with all its train of bright And happy beauty (for to me All was an undefined delight), The world—its joy—its share of pain Which I felt not—its bodied forms Of varied being, which contain The bodiless spirits of the storms, The sunshine, and the calm—the ideal And fleeting vanities of dreams, Fearfully beautiful! the real Nothings of mid-day waking life— Of an enchanted life, which seems, Now as I look back, the strife Of some ill demon, with a power Which left me in an evil hour, All that I felt, or saw, or thought, Crowding, confused became (With thine unearthly beauty fraught) Thou—and the nothing of a name.

IX.

The passionate spirit which hath known,

And deeply felt the silent tone

Of its own self supremacy,—

(I speak thus openly to thee,

'Twere folly now to veil a thought With which this aching breast is fraught) The soul which feels its innate right— The mystic empire and high power Given by the energetic might Of Genius, at its natal hour; Which knows (believe me at this time, When falsehood were a tenfold crime, There is a power in the high spirit To know the fate it will inherit) The soul, which knows such power, will still Find Pride the ruler of its will.

Yes! I was proud—and ye who know

The magic of that meaning word,

So oft perverted, will bestow

Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard

That the proud spirit had been broken,

The proud heart burst in agony

At one upbraiding word or token

Of her that heart's idolatry—

I was ambitious—have ye known

Its fiery passion?—ye have not—

A cottager, I mark'd a throne

Of half the world, as all my own,

And murmur'd at such lowly lot!

But it had pass'd me as a dream

Which, of light step, flies with the dew,

That kindling thought—did not the beam

Of Beauty, which did guide it through

The livelong summer day, oppress

My mind with double loveliness—

*****

X.

We walk'd together on the crown

Of a high mountain, which look'd down

Afar from its proud natural towers

Of rock and forest, on the hills—

The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers

Her own fair hand had rear'd around,

Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills,

Which as it were, in fairy bound

Embraced two hamlets—those our own—

Peacefully happy—yet alone—

*****

I spoke to her of power and pride—

But mystically, in such guise,

That she might deem it nought beside

The moment's converse; in her eyes

I read (perhaps too carelessly)

A mingled feeling with my own;

The flush on her bright cheek, to me,

Seem'd to become a queenly throne

Too well, that I should let it be

A light in the dark wild, alone.

XI.

There—in that hour—a thought came o'er

My mind, it had not known before—

To leave her while we both were young,—

To follow my high fate among

The strife of nations, and redeem

The idle words, which, as a dream

Now sounded to her heedless ear—

I held no doubt—I knew no fear

Of peril in my wild career;

To gain an empire, and throw down

As nuptial dowry—a queen's crown,

The only feeling which possest,

With her own image, my fond breast—

Who, that had known the secret thought

Of a young peasant's bosom then,

Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught

But one, whom fantasy had led

Astray from reason—Among men

Ambition is chain'd down—nor fed

(As in the desert, where the grand,

The wild, the beautiful, conspire

With their own breath to fan its fire)

With thoughts such feeling can command;

Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn

Of those, who hardly will conceive

That any should become "great," born

In their own sphere—will not believe

That they shall stoop in life to one

Whom daily they are wont to see

Familiarly—whom Fortune's sun

Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon,

Lowly—and of their own degree—

XII.

I pictured to my fancy's eye

Her silent, deep astonishment,

When, a few fleeting years gone by,

(For short the time my high hope lent

To its most desperate intent,)

She might recall in him, whom Fame

Had gilded with a conqueror's name,

(With glory—such as might inspire

Perforce, a passing thought of one,

Whom she had deemed in his own fire

Withered and blasted; who had gone

A traitor, violate of the truth

So plighted in his early youth,)

Her own Alexis, who should plight

The love he plighted then —again. And raise his infancy's delight. The bride and queen of Tamerlane.—

XIII.

One noon of a bright summer's day

I pass'd from out the matted bower

Where in a deep, still slumber lay

My Ada. In that peaceful hour,

A silent gaze was my farewell.

I had no other solace—then

To awake her, and a falsehood tell

Of a feign'd journey, were again

To trust the weakness of my heart

To her soft thrilling voice: To part

Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd

Of long delight, nor yet had deem'd

Awake, that I had held a thought

Of parting, were with madness fraught;

I knew not woman's heart, alas!