The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По

the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and débonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. "Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven."

      To One in Paradise

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      Thou wast that all to me, love,

       For which my soul did pine—

       A green isle in the sea, love,

       A fountain and a shrine,

       All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

       And all the flowers were mine.

       Ah, dream too bright to last!

       Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

       But to be overcast!

       A voice from out the Future cries,

       "On! on!"—but o'er the Past

       (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

       Mute, motionless, aghast!

       For, alas! alas! with me

       The light of Life is o'er!

       "No more—no more—no more"—

       (Such language holds the solemn sea

       To the sands upon the shore)

       Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

       Or the stricken eagle soar!

       And all my days are trances,

       And all my nightly dreams

       Are where thy dark eye glances,

       And where thy footstep gleams—

       In what ethereal dances,

       By what eternal streams!

       Alas! for that accursed time

       They bore thee o'er the billow,

       From love to titled age and crime,

       And an unholy pillow!

       From me, and from our misty clime,

       Where weeps the silver willow!

      The Coliseum

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      Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

       Of lofty contemplation left to Time

       By buried centuries of pomp and power!

       At length—at length—after so many days

       Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,

       (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

       I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

       Amid thy shadows, and so drink within

       My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

       Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!

       Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!

       I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—

       O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king

       Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!

       O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee

       Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

       Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

       Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,

       A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

       Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

       Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

       Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

       Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

       Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,

       The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

       But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—

       These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—

       These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—

       These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—

       These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—

       All of the famed, and the colossal left

       By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

       "Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"not all!

       Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

       From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

       As melody from Memnon to the Sun.

       We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule

       With a despotic sway all giant minds.

       We are not impotent—we pallid stones.

       Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—

       Not all the magic of our high renown—

       Not all the wonder that encircles us—

       Not all the mysteries that in us lie—

       Not all the memories that hang upon

       And cling around about us as a garment,

       Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

      The Haunted Palace

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      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 winged odor went away.

       Wanderers in that happy valley,

       Through two luminous windows, saw

       Spirits moving musically,

       To a lute's well-tunëd law,