Poetry

Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme⁠— I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revelled in⁠— I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope⁠—that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I can hope⁠—O God! I can⁠— Its fount is holier⁠—more divine⁠— I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit Bowed from its wild pride into shame. O yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again⁠— O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! Th’ undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness⁠—a knell.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently⁠— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free⁠— Up domes⁠—up spires⁠—up kingly halls⁠— Up fanes⁠—up Babylon-like walls⁠— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers⁠— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.

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 wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute’s well-tunèd 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 morrow 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.

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 Woe!

That motley drama⁠—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased forevermore, 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.

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.