 Section 24 of the Complete Poetical Works. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Complete Poetical Works by Edgar Allen Poe. Section 24. Notes. Note on the Raven. The Raven was first published on the 29th January 1845 in the New York Evening Mirror. A paper its author was then assistant editor of. It was prefaced by the following words understood to have been written by N. P. Willis. We are permitted to copy, in advance of publication, from the second number of the American Review, the following remarkable poem by Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of fugitive poetry ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and pokerishness. It is one of those dainties bred in a book which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it. In the February number of the American Review, the poem was published as by quarrels, and it was introduced by the following note evidently suggested, if not written by Poe himself. Quote, The following lines from a correspondent, besides the deep, quaint strain of the sentiment and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the author, appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been thoroughly studied, much more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater abundance of spondyic feat, we have other and very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of the raven arises from alliteration and the studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form, but the presence in all of the others of one line, mostly the second in the verse, stanza, which flows continuously with only an aspirate pause in the middle, like that before the short line in the Sappho adenic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound with any part beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were better understood. EDITER AMERICAN REVIEW NOTE ON THE BELLS The bibliographical history of the bells is curious. The subject, and some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet's friend, Mrs. Shoe, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem, headed it, the bells by Mrs. M.A. Shoe. This draft, now the editor's property, consists of only seventeen lines and reads thus. 1. The bells, ah the bells, the little silver bells, how fairy like a melody there floats from their throats, from their merry little throats, from the silver tinkling throats of the bells, bells, bells of the bells. 2. The bells, ah the bells, the heavy iron bells, how horrible ammonity there floats from their throats, from their deep-toned throats, from their melancholy throats, how I shudder at the notes of the bells, bells, bells of the bells. In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem and sent it to the editor of the Union Magazine. It was not published, so in the following February the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much enlarged and altered manuscript. Three months having elapsed without publication another revision of the poem, similar to the current version, was sent and in the following October was published in the Union Magazine. Note on Ulla Loom. This poem was first published in Colton's American Review for December 1847 as, quote, To Blank Blank Ulla Loom, a ballad, end quote, being reprinted immediately in the home journal it was copied into various publications with the name of the editor N. P. Willis appended and was ascribed to him. When first published it contained the following additional stanza which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely suppressed. Said we then, the two then, ah, can it have been that the woodlandish ghouls, the pitiful, the merciful ghouls, to bar up our path and to ban it, from the secret that lies in these worlds, had drawn up the specter of a planet from the limbo of lunaris souls, the sinfully scintillant planet from the hell of the planetary souls. Note on To Helen. To Helen, Mrs. S. Helen Whitman, was not published until November 1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the Union Magazine and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or desire of Poe, of the line, O God, O Heaven, how my heart beats in coupling those two words. Note on Annabelle Lee. Annabelle Lee was written early in 1849 and is evidently an expression of the Poe's undying love for his deceased bride, although at least one of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a copy of the ballad to the Union Magazine, in which publication it appeared in January 1850, three months after the author's death. Whilst suffering from hope deferred as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of Annabelle Lee to the author of the Southern Literary Messenger, who published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe's death. In the meantime, the Poe's own copy, left among his papers, passed into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the Poe in an obituary of Poe in the New York Tribune, before anyone else had an opportunity of publishing it. Note on a Valentine. A Valentine, one of three Poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to have been written early in 1846. Note on an Enigma. An Enigma, addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewig, Stella, was sent to that lady in a letter in November 1847, and the following March appeared in Sartain's Union Magazine. Note on To My Mother. The Sonnet To My Mother, Maria Clem, was sent for publication to the short-lived Flag of Our Union, early in 1849, but does not appear to have been issued until after its author's death, when it appeared in the Leaflets of Memory for 1850. Note on For Annie. For Annie was published in the Flag of Our Union in the spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the home journal. Note on To F. To F, Francis Sergeant Osgood, appeared in the Broadway Journal for April 1845. These lines are but slightly varied from those inscribed to Mary in the Southern Literary Messenger for July 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed, in Graham's Magazine for March 1842 as To One Departed. Note on To Francis S. Osgood. To F. S. S. O. D. A portion of the poet's triune tribute to Mrs. Osgood was published in the Broadway Journal for September 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger for September 1835 as Lines Written in an Album, and was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor's daughter. Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine for August 1839 as To Blank. Note on El Dorado. Although El Dorado was published during Poe's lifetime in 1849 in The Flag of Our Union, it does not appear to have ever received the author's finishing touches. Note on You Lely. You Lely, a song, first appears in Colton's American Review for July 1845. Note on A Dream Within a Dream. A Dream Within a Dream does not appear to have been published as a separate poem during its author's lifetime. A portion of it was contained in 1829 in The Peace Beginning Should My Early Life Seem, and in 1831 some few lines of it were used as a conclusion to Tammer Lane. In 1849 the poet sent a friend all but the first nine lines of the piece as a separate poem headed For Annie. Note on To Marie Louise Shoe. To M. L. S., addressed to Mrs. Marie Louise Shoe, was written in February 1847 and published shortly afterwards. In the first posthumous collection of Poe's poems these lines were, for some reason, included in the poems written in youth, and amongst those poems they have hitherto been included. Note on the second poem entitled To Marie Louise Shoe. To Blank, a second piece addressed to Mrs. Shoe and written in 1848, was also first published but in a somewhat faulty form in the above named posthumous collection. Note on The City in the Sea. Under the title of The Doomed City the initial version of The City in the Sea appeared in the 1831 volume of Poems by Poe. It reappeared as The City of Sin in the Southern Literary Messenger for August 1835, whilst the present draft of it first appeared in Colton's American Review for April 1845. Note on The Sleeper. As Irene, the first known version of The Sleeper appeared in the 1831 volume. It reappeared in the Literary Messenger for May 1836 and in its present form in the Broadway Journal for May 1845. Note on The Bridal Ballad. The Bridal Ballad is first discoverable in the Southern Literary Messenger for January 1837 and in its present compressed and revised form was reprinted in the Broadway Journal for August 1845. End of Section 24 Lenore by Edgar Allen Poe. Read for LibriVox.org by Nima. Low lies thy love, Lenore. Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung, an anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young, a dirge for her to doubly dead in that she died so young. Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, and when she fell in people health he blessed her that she died. How shall the ritual then be read, the requiem how be sung, by you, by yours, the evil eye, by yours, the slanderous tongue, that did to death the innocent that died and died so young. Pecavimas, 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 the wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride, for her, the farened debonair 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. Avant, to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise, but waft the angel on her flight with a peon 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 highest state far up within the heaven, from grief and groan to a golden throne beside the king of heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thou wasst that all to me love for which my soul did pine, a green eye on 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 dits 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, a cast. 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 sore. 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 the o'er the billow, from love to titled ageing crime, and an unholy pillow, from me and from our misty climb where weeps the silver willow. 1835 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Colosseum by Edgar Allan Poe. Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk. Type of the antique Rome. Rich reliquary of lofty contemplation left to time by buried centuries of pump 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 ere duty in king-taught in the gardens of Gethsemane. O charms more potent than the rapt Caldy 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 lulled, glides Spectre-like unto his marble home, lit by the one 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 freeze, these shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin, these stones, alas, these grey 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 the 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Haunted Palace by Edgar Allan Poe. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. In the greenest of our valleys by good angels tinneted, once a fairer's daitly palace, radiant palace, reared its head. In the monarch-thoughts dominion it stood there. Never serve a spread opinion over a 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 order went away. Wonders in that happy valley, through two luminous windows, saw spirits moving musically to a lute's well-tuned law, bound about a throne where sitting, or phyrogen, 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. A lattice 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. And travellers now within that valley, through the red-litten windows see vast forms that move fantastically to a discordant melody, while like a ghastly rapid river, through the pale door, a hideous throng rush out for ever and laugh. But smile no more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Neema Low to zek gala night within the lonesome latter years, an angel throng bewinged bedite and veils and drowned in tears, sit in a theatre to see a play of hope 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 in visible woe. That motley drama, oh be sure it shall not be forgot, with its phantom chased forevermore by a crowd that sees 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 route, a crawling shape intrude, a blood-red thing that rise from out the scenic solitude. It rise, it rise with mortal pangs, the mimes become its food, and the angel sob at vermin fangs, and human gore and bewed. Out, out are the lights out all, and over each quivering form the curtain of funeral paw 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There are some qualities, some incorporate things, that have a double life, which thus is made a type of that twin entity which springs from matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a twofold silence, sea and shore, body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, newly with grass or groan. Some solemn graces, some human memories and tearful lore, render him terrorless. His name's no more. He is the corporate silence, dread him not. No power hath he of evil in himself. But should some urgent fate untimely lot bring thee to meet his shadow, nameless elf that haunteth the lone regions where hath trod no foot of man, command thyself to God. 1840. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I have reached these lands but newly, from an ultimate dim tully, from a wild, weird climb that lieth sublime, out of space, out of time. Bottomless veils and boundless floods and chasms and caves and titan woods, with forms that no man can discover for the dues that drip all over. Mountains toppling evermore into seas without a shore, seas that restlessly aspire, surging on disguise of fire, lakes that endlessly outspread their lone waters, lone and dead, their still waters, still and chilly, with the snows of the lowling lily. By the mountains near the river murmuring lowly, murmuring ever. By the gray woods by the swamp where the toad and the newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools where dwell the ghouls. By the gray woods by the swamp where the toad and the newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools where dwell the ghouls. By each spot the most unholy in each nook, most melancholy. There the traveler meets aghast, sheeted memories of the past, shrouded forms the start and sigh as they pass the wanderer by, white-robed forms of friends long given in agony to the earth and heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion, does a peaceful soothing region, for the spirit that walks in shadow, tizz, oh, tizz, oh, tizz, oh, tizz, oh, tizz, oh, tizz, oh, tizz, it walks in shadow, tizz, oh, tizz, and eldorado, but the traveler, traveling through it, may not, dare not openly view it. Never its mysteries are exposed to the weak human eye unclosed, so wills its king who hath forbid the uplifting of the fringed blid, and thus the sad soul that here passes beholds it but through darkened classes. By a root obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only, where an idoland named Knight on a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly from this ultimate dim tully. 1844 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tuzanti by Edgar Allan Poe Red4Libervox.org Fair Isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take, how many memories of what radiant hours at sight of thee and thine at once awake, how many scenes of what departed bliss, how many thoughts of what in tuned hopes, how many visions of a maiden that is no more, no more upon thy verdant slopes, no more, alas, that magical sad sound transforming all, thy charms shall please no more, thy memory no more, a cursed ground, henceforward I hold thy flower enameled shore, O High Synthen Isle, O Purplesanti, Yoladoro, Fior De Levante. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hymn by Edgar Allan Poe Red4Libervox.org By Larry Wilson At morn, at noon, at twilight dim, memory thou hast heard my hymn. Enjoy and woe, and good and ill. Mother of God, be with me still. When the hours flew brightly by and not a cloud obscured the sky, my soul lest it should true and be, thy grace did guide to thine and thee now when storms of fate or cast darkly my present and my past. Let my future radiant shine with sweet hopes of thee and thine. 1885. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Section 34 of the Complete Poetical Works This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. The Complete Poetical Works by Edgar Allan Poe Section 34 Notes Note on Lenore Lenore was published very nearly in its existing shape in The Pioneer for 1843 but under the title of The Pien. Now first published in the Poems of Youth, the germ of it appeared in 1831. Note on To One in Paradise To One in Paradise was included originally in The Visionary, a tale now known as The Ascignation in July 1835 and appeared as a separate poem entitled To Ianthe in Heaven in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine for July 1839. The fifth stanza is now added for the first time to the piece. Note on The Colosseum The Colosseum appeared in the Baltimore Saturday visitor in 1833 and was republished in the Southern Literary Messenger for August 1835 as a prize poem. Note on The Haunted Palace The Haunted Palace originally issued in the Baltimore American Museum for April 1838 was subsequently embodied in that much-admired tale The Fall of the House of Usher and published in it in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine for September 1839. It reappeared in that as a separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's Poems. Note on The Conqueror Worm The Conqueror Worm then contained in Poe's favorite tale of Legea was first published in the American Museum for September 1838 as a separate poem it reappeared in Graham's Magazine for January 1843. Note on Silence The Sonnet Silence was originally published in Burton's Magazine for April 1840. Note on Dreamland The first known publication of Dreamland was in Graham's Magazine for June 1844. Note on Tizante The Sonnet Tizante is not discoverable earlier than January 1837 when it appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger. Note on Him The initial version of the Catholic Him was contained in the story of Morella and published in the Southern Literary Messenger for April 1835. The lines as they now stand and with their present title were first published in the Broadway Journal for August 1845. End of Section 34 Section 35 of the Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Scenes from Polition Scene 1 Castiglione Read by Augie Pug De Brocolio Stage Directions Scene 1 Rome, a hall in a palace Alessandro in Castiglione Thou art sad, Castiglione Sad? Not I? Rome, a few days more thou knowest my Alessandro will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy! Me thinks thou hast a singular way of showing thy happiness. What else, thee cousin of mine? Why did thou sigh so deeply? Did I sigh? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, a silly, when I am very happy. Did I sigh? Thou densed, 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. Nothing, fair cousin, nothing, not even deep sorrow wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend. Do it! I would have thee dropped I riotous company too. Fellows low-born, ill-suit, the like of old D'Ibroglio's heir and Alessandro's husband. I will drop them. Thou wilt, thou must attend thou also more to thy dress and equipage. They are overplaying for their lofty rank and fashion. Much depends upon appearances. I'll see to it. Then see to it. Pay more attention, sir, to a becoming carriage. Much thou wantest in dignity. Much, much, oh much I want in proper dignity. Thou mockest me, sir. Sweet, gentle, lalogy. Heard I a rite. I speak to him. He speaks of lalage. Sir, count. Places her hand on his shoulder. What are thou dreaming? He's not well. What else thee, sir? Cousin, fair cousin, madam, I crave thy pardon. Indeed, I am not well. Your hand drop my shoulder, if you please. This heir is most oppressive. Madam, the duke. Enter Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee. Hey, what's the matter? Observing Alessandro. In the pouts. Kiss her, Castellone. Kiss her, you dog. And make it up. I say this minute. I've news for you both. Polition is expected hourly in Rome. Polition, Earl of Leicester. We'll have him at the wedding. Tis his first visit to the Imperial City. Polition of Britain, Earl of Leicester. The same, my love. We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young in years, but grey in fame. I've not seen him, but rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy. Preeminent in arts and arms and wealth. And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding. I've heard much of this Polition. Gay, volatile and giddy. Is he not? And little given to thinking? Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all philosophy. So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as few are learned. Tis very strange. I have known men have seen Polition and sought his company. They speak of him as of one who entered madly into life, drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Polition and know him well. Nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer and shut out from common passions. Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear, Polition was a melancholy man? Exit. End of Section 35 Section 36 of the Complete Poetical works of Edgar Allan Poe. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Scenes from Polition, Scene 2. An unpublished drama. La Laage, read by Tricia G. Jacinta, read by B. L. Newman. The Monk, read by Marendo 07. Stage Directions, read by Larry Wilson. Rome. A lady's apartment with a window open and looking into a garden. La Laage in deep morning reading at a table on which slice some books and a hand mirror. In the background Jacinta, a servant maid, leans carelessly upon a chair. Jacinta, is it thou? Yes, ma'am, I'm here. 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. It is 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. La Laage continues to read. Yet in another climate, so he said, bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil. Pauses, turns over some leaves and resumes. No lingering winters there, nor snow nor shower, but ocean ever to refresh mankind breezed the shrill spirit of the western wind. Oh, beautiful, most beautiful! How like to what my fevered soul doth dream of heaven! Oh, happy land! Pauses. She died. The maiden died. Oh, still more happy maiden who couldst die. Jacinta. Jacinta returns no answer, and La Laage presently resumes. Again, a similar tale told of a beautyous dame beyond the sea. Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play. She died full young. One basola answers him. I think not so, her infelicity seemed to have years too many. Ha, 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, Iros and Charmian. Rainbow and Dove. Jacinta. Jacinta, pettishly. Madame, what is it? Will thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind as to go down in the library and bring me the holy evangelists? Pasha. Exit. If there be balm for the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there. You, in the night-time of my bitter trouble, will there be found. Do sweeter far than that which hangs like chains of pearl on Herman Hill. Re-enter Jacinta and throws a volume on the table. There, ma'am, is the book. Jacinta, aside. Indeed, she is very troublesome. La la, just honest. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done ought to grieve thee or to vex thee? I am sorry, for thou hast served me long and ever been trustworthy and respectful. Re-zooms her reading. Jacinta, aside. I can't believe she has any more jewels. No, no, she gave me all. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now, I bethink me, thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. How fair is good Ugo! And when is it to be? Can I do ought? Is there no further aid thou needest, Jacinta? Jacinta, aside. Is there no further aid that's meant for me? Allowed. I'm sure, ma'am, you need not be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. Jewels? Jacinta! Now indeed, Jacinta, I thought not of the jewels. Oh, perhaps not. But then I might have sworn it. After all, there's Ugo says the ring is only paced. For he sure the Count Castiglion never would have given a real diamond to such as you. And, at the best, I'm certain, ma'am, 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. Poor Lalage! And has it come to this? Thy servant made. Lage, 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, innerned 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 falls, falls, falls. While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment And approaches, unobserved. Refuge thou hast, sweet daughter, in heaven. Think of eternal things. Give up thy soul to penitence and pray. The lodge are rising hurriedly. I cannot pray. My soul is at war with God. The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturbed 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. Think of thy precious soul. 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. Be gone, yet stay, yet stay. What was it thou saidst of prayer and penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne? I did. Tis well. There is a vow to where fitting should be made. A sacred vow, imperative and urgent. A solemn vow. Daughter, this zeal is well. Father, this zeal is anything but well. Has 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. Shattering. 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. Me thinkst where 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. Thy words are madness, daughter, and speak of purpose unholy. Thy lips are livid. Thine eyes are wild. Tempt not the wrath divine. Pause, ear too late. Oh, be not. Be not rash. Swear not the oath. Oh, swear it not. Tis sworn. End of Section 36. Section 37 of the Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Scenes from Polition, Scene 3. An unpublished drama. Polition. Read by Adrien Stevens. Baldazar. Read by Phil Shant. Voice. Read by Tricia G. Stage Directions. Read by Larry Wilson. An apartment in a palace. Polition and Baldazar. Arouse thee now, Polition. Thou must not. Nay, indeed. Indeed, thou shalt not give way unto these humours. Be thyself. Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, and live for now thou dyest. Not so, Baldazar. Surely, I live. Polition, it doth grieve me to see thee thus. Baldazar, it doth grieve me to give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend. Command me, sir, what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature, which from my forefathers I did inherit, which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, and be no more polition. But some other. Command me, sir. To the field, then. To the field. To the senate or the field. Alas. Alas. There is an imp would follow me even there. There is an imp hath followed me even there. There is... voice was that? I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, and the echo of thine own. Then I but dreamed. Give not thy soul to dreams. The camp, the court befith thee. Fame awaits thee. Glory calls. Enter trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear, in hearkening to imaginary sounds and phantom voices. It is a phantom voice. Didst thou not hear it then? I heard it not. Thou heardst it not? Boudazar, speak no more to me, polition of thy camps and courts. Oh, I am sick, sick, sick even unto death, of the hollow and high-sounding vanities of the populous earth. Bear with me yet a while. We have been boys together, school-fellows, and now our friends. Yet shall not be so long, for in the eternal city thou shalt do me a kind and gentle office, and a power, a power august, benignant and supreme shall then absolve thee of all further duties unto thy friend. Thou speakest a fearful riddle. I will not understand. Yet now as fate approaches, and the hours are breathing low, the sands of time are changed to golden grains, and dazzle me, Boudazar. Alas, alas, I cannot die, having within my heart so keen a relish for the beautiful as hath been kindled within it. Me thinks the air is barmier now than it was want to be. Rich melodies are floating in the winds, a rarer loveliness bedacts the earth, and with a holier luster the quiet moon sitteth in heaven. HIST! HIST! Thou canst not say, thou hearest not now, Boudazar. Indeed I hear not. Not hear it? Listen! Now! Listen! The faintest sound, and yet the sweetest that ear ever heard, a lady's voice, and sorrow in the tone. Boudazar, it oppresses me like a spell. Again! Again! How solemnly it falls into my heart of hearts, that eloquent voice surely I never heard, yet it were well, had I but heard it with its thrilling tones in earlier days. I myself hear it now. Be still. The voice, if I mistake not greatly, proceeds from yonder lattice, which you may see very plainly through the window. It belongs, does it not, unto this palace of the Duke. The singer is undoubtedly beneath the roof of his Excellency, and perhaps is even that Alessandra of whom we spoke, as the betrothed of Castiglione, his son and heir. Be still. It comes again. And is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus that have loved thee so long in wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus? Say... The song is English, and oft I have heard it in Mary England, never so plaintively. Be still. It comes again. Is it so strong as for to leave me thus that have loved thee so long in wealth and woe among? Is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus? Tis hushed, and all is still. All is not still. Let us go down. Go down, Baldazar, go. The hour is growing late. The Duke awaits us. Thy presence is expected in the hall below. What heals the Earl polition? Who have loved thee so long in wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong? Say nay, say... Let us descend. Tis time. Polition, give these fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness unto the Duke. Arouse thee, and remember. Remember? I do. Lead on. I do remember. Going. Let us descend. Give me. I would give freely to give the broad lands of my earldom to look upon the face hidden by Yon Lattice. To gaze upon that veiled face and hear once more that silent tongue. Let me beg you, sir. Descend with me. The Duke may be offended. Let us go down. I pray you. Say nay, say nay. Polition, aside. Tis strange. Tis very strange. Me thought the voice chimed in with my desires and bade me to stay. Approaching the window. Sweet voice, I heed thee and will surely stay. Now be this fancy by heaven or be it fate. Still will I not descend. Baldazar, make apology unto the Duke for me. I will not go down to night. Your lordship's pleasure shall be attended to. Good night, Polition. Good night, my friend. Good night. End of Section 37 Section 38 of the Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Scenes from Polition, Scene 4, an unpublished drama. Polition, read by Adrien Stevens. Lollage, read by Trisha G. Stage Directions, read by Larry Wilson. The Gardens of Apollos, Moonlight. Lollage and Polition. And dost thou speak of love to me, Polition? Dost thou speak of love to Lollage? Ah, woe! Ah, woe is me! This mockery is most cruel! Most cruel indeed! Weep not! O sub not thus! Thy bitter tears will madden me! O more not, Lollage! Be comforted! I know. I know it all. And still I speak of love. Look at me brightest and beautiful, Lollage. Turn here thine eyes. Thou askest me if I could speak of love. Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen, Thou askest me that. And thus I answer thee. Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. Kneeling. Sweet Lollage, I love thee. Love thee. Love thee. Through good and ill, through wheel and woe, I love thee. Not mother with her first-born on her knee, Thrills with intense a love than I for thee. Not on God's altar, in any time or climb, Burned there a holier fire than burneth now Within my spirit for thee. And do I love. Even for thy woes I love thee. Even for thy woes, thy beauty and thy woes. Alas, proud Earl, thou dost forget thyself remembering me. How in thy father's halls, among the maidens pure And reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonored Lollage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory, My seared and blighted name, How could it tally with the ancestral honors Of thy house and with thy glory? Speak not to me of glory. I hate, I loathe the name. I do abhor the unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lollage, and I pollution. Do I not love? Art thou not beautiful? What need we more? Ha! Glory! Now speak not of it. By all I hold most sacred and most solemn. O'er my wishes now, my fears hereafter, By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven, There is no deed I would more glory in Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it underfoot. What matters it? What matters it, my fairest and my best, That we go down, unhonoured and forgotten Into the dust? So we descend together, descend together, And then, and then perchance, Why dost thou pause, polition? And then perchance arise together, Lollage, And roam the starry and quiet dwellings Of the blessed, and still, Why dost thou pause, polition? And still, together, together. Now, Earl of Leicester, thou lovest me, And in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. Oh, Lallange! Throwing himself upon his knee. And lovest thou me? Hissed, hush! Within the gloom of yonder trees Me thought a figure past, a spectral figure, Solemn and slow and noiseless, Like the grim shadow conscience, Solemn and noiseless. Walks across and returns. I was mistaken, Twas but a giant bow stirred by the autumn wind. Polition! My Lallange! My love! Why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn so pale? Not conscious self, far less a shadow Which thou likens to it Should shake the firm spirit thus? But the night wind is chilly, And these melancholy bows Throw over all things a gloom. Polition! Thou speakest to me of love! Knowest thou the land with which all tongues are busy? A land new found, miraculously found by one of Genoa? A thousand leaks within the golden west? A fairy land of flowers And fruit and sunshine And crystal lakes and overarching forests And mountains around whose towering summits The winds of heaven untrammeled flow Which ere to breathe is happiness now And will be freedom hereafter In days that are to come. O wilt thou! Wilt thou fly to that paradise, my Lallange? Wilt thou fly thither with me? Their care shall be forgotten And sorrow shall be no more And ear us be awe. And life shall then be mine For I will live for thee And in thine eyes And thou shalt be no more a mourner But the radiant joys shall wait upon thee And the angel hope attend thee ever And I will kneel to thee And worship thee And call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, My wife, my all. O wilt thou! Wilt thou, Lallange? Fly thither with me? A deed is to be done. Castiglione lives And he shall die Exit Lallange after a pause And he shall die Alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I? What was it, he said? Polition! Thou art not gone! Thou art not gone, Polition! I feel thou art not gone! Yet, dare not look, Lest I behold thee not! Thou couldst not go With those words upon thy lips! Oh, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice! One word, one word, To say thou art not gone! One little sentence To say how thou dost scorn, How thou dost hate My womanly weakness! Ha, ha! Thou art not gone! Oh, speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not! Couldst not! Durst not go! Villain, thou art not gone! Thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee! Thus! He is gone! He is gone! Gone! Gone! Where am I? Tis well! Tis very well! So that the blade be keen, The blow be sure! Tis well! Tis very well! Alas! Alas! In the section 38 Section 39 of the complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe This liver-of-ox recording Is in the public domain. Scenes from Polition Scene 5 An Unpublished Drama Polition Read by Adrian Stevens Baldazar Read by Phil Shampf Castiglione Read by Algy Pug Stage Directions Read by Larry Wilson The suburbs Polition alone This weakness grows upon me I am faint and much I fear me ill It will not do to die ere I have lived Stay, stay thy hand, O Azrael, yet a while Prince of the powers of darkness and the tomb O pity me! O pity me! Let me not perish now In the budding of my paradisal hope Give me to live yet, yet a little while Tis I who pray for life I who so late demanded but to die What sayeth the Count? Enter Baldazar That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl, Polition, and himself He doth decline your cartel What didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazar? With what excessive fragrance the Zephyr comes Laden from yonder bowers A fairer day, or one more worthy Italy, me thinks No more lies have seen What said the Count? That he, Castiglione, not being aware of any feud existing Or any cause of quarrel between your lordship and himself Cannot accept the challenge It is most true All this is very true When saw you, sir When saw you now, Baldazar, in the frigid, ungenial Britain Which we left so lately A heaven so calm as this So utterly free from the evil taint of clouds And he did say No more, my lord, than I have told you The Count Castiglione will not fight Having no cause for quarrel Now this is true, all very true Thou art my friend, Baldazar And I have not forgotten it Thou do me a piece of service Wilt thou go back and say unto this man That I, the Earl of Leicester, hold him a villain Thus much I prithee say unto the Count It is exceeding just He should have cause for quarrel When, lord, my friend Polition aside Tis he he comes himself Allowed Thou reasonest well I know what thou would say The message, well, I will think of it I will not send it Now, prithee, leave me Hither doth come a person with whom Affairs of a most private nature I would adjust I go, come where we meet, do we not? At the Vatican? At the Vatican Exit Baldazar Enter Castiglione The Earl of Leicester, here I am the Earl of Leicester And thou ceased, does thou not, that I am here? My lord, some strange, some singular mistake Misunderstanding Hath without doubt arisen Thou hast been urged thereby In heat of anger to address Some words most unaccountable In writing, to me, Castiglione The bearer being Baldazar Duke of Surrey I am aware of nothing I warrant thee in this thing Having given thee no offence Ha, am I right? It was a mistake Undoubtedly, we all do err at times Draw, villain, and pray no more Ah, draw? And villain? Have at thee at once proud, Earl Draws Thus to the expiatory tomb Untimely sepulcher I do devote thee In the name of Lalange Castiglione, letting fall his sword And recoiling to the extremity of the stage Of lulogy? Hold off thy sacred hand Of aunt, I say Of aunt, I will not fight thee Indeed, I dare not Thou wilt not fight me, did say, Sir Count Shall I be baffled thus? Now this is well, did say thou dares not? I dare not Dare not Hold off thy hand With that beloved name So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee I cannot, I dare not Now, by my halledom I do believe thee, coward I do believe thee Coward? This may not be Such is his sword and staggers towards Polition But his purpose is changed before reaching him And he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl Alas, my lord It is It is most true In such a cause I am the various coward Oh pity me Polition greatly softened Alas, I do Indeed, I pity thee And lulogy Scoundrel, arise and die It needeth not be thus, thus Oh, let me die thus on my bended knee It were most fitting that in this deep humiliation I perish For in the fight I will not raise a hand against thee, Earl of Leicester Strike thou home Baron, his bosom Here there is no lead or hindrance to thy weapon Strike home I will not fight thee Now's death and hell Am I not sorely, grievously tempted to take thee at thy word But mark me, sir, think not to fly me thus Do thou prepare for public insult in the streets Before the eyes of the citizens I'll follow thee Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee even unto death Before those whom thou loved Before all Rome are taunt thee, villain Are taunt thee, dust here with cowardice Thou wilt not fight me, thou liest Thou shalt exit Now this indeed is just Most righteous and most just avenging heaven End of Section 39 End of Scenes from Polition by Edgar Allan Poe Notes on Polition by Edgar Allan Poe Read for LibriVox.org by Richmond Na Tete Such portions of Polition, as are known to the public First saw the light of publicity in the Southern Literary Messenger For December 1835 and January 1836 Being styled, scenes from Polition and unpublished drama These scenes were included, unaltered in the 1845 collection of poems by Poe The larger portion of the original draft subsequently became the property of the present editor But it is not considered just to the poet's memory to publish it The work is a hasty and unrevised production of its authors earlier days of literary labour And beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance its reputation As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished The following fragments from the first scene of Art 2 may be offered The duke it should be premised is uncle to Alessandro And father of Castiglione, her betrothed Duke, why do you laugh? Castiglione, indeed, I hardly know myself Stay, was it not on yesterday who were speaking of the L? Of the L Polition, yes, it was yesterday, Alessandro You and I, and you must remember, we were walking in the garden Duke, perfectly, I do remember it, what of it? What then? Castiglione, oh, nothing, nothing at all Duke, nothing at all, it is most singular that you should laugh at nothing at all Castiglione, most singular, singular Duke, look you on Castiglione, be so kind as tell me sir At once, what is you mean, what are you talking of? Castiglione, was it not so, we differed in opinion touching him Duke, him? Whom? Castiglione, why sir, the L Polition Duke, the L of Lester Yes, is it he you mean? We differed indeed, if I now recollect the words you use with that the L you knew was neither Leonard nor Mithful Castiglione, haha, now did I? Duke, that you did, sir, and well I knew at the time you were wrong it's not being the character of the L Whom all the world allows to be a most hilarious man be not my son too positive again Castiglione, to singular, most singular I could not think it possible so little time could so much alter one to say the truth about an hour ago, as I was walking with the Count San Ozu all arm in arm, we met this very man, the L he, with his friend Baldurza, having just arrived in room haha, he is altered, such an account he gave me of his journey it would have made you die with laughter, such tales he told of his caprices and his merry freaks along the road such oddity, such humour, such wit, such vim, such flashes of wild merriment set off too in such full relief by the grave demeanour of his friend who to speak, the truth was gravity itself Duke, did I not tell you Castiglione you did, and yet is strange, but true, as strange how much I was mistaken, I always thought the L a gloomy man Duke, so, so you see, be not too positive Whom have we here, it cannot be the L Castiglione, the L, oh no, this not the L, but yet it is and leaning upon his friend Baldurza, ah, welcome sir and a polition in Baldurza my lord, a second welcome let me give you to Rome, his grace the Duke of Broglie Father, this is the L polition, L of Leicester in Great Britain Polition, bows howtily, that his friend Baldurza Duke of Sory, the L has letters, so please you for your grace Duke, ha ha, most welcome to Rome into our palace L polition, and you most noble Duke I'm glad to see you, I knew your father well my lord polition, Castiglione, call your cousin heather and let me make the noble L acquainted with your betrothed you come sir, at the time most seasonable, the wedding polition, touching those letters sir your son made mention of, your son is he not touching those letters sir, I would not of them if such there be, my friend Baldurza here Baldurza, ha, my friend Baldurza here will hand them to your grace I would retire, Duke, retire so soon Castiglione, what hall, Benito, Rupert his lordship's chambers, show his lordships to them his lordship is unwell, enter Benito Benito, this way my lord exit, followed by polition Duke, retire, unwell, Baldurza so please you sir, I fear me, just as you say his lordship is unwell, the damn air of the evening the fatigue of a long journey, though indeed I had better follow his lordship, he must be unwell return, unwell, Duke, return, unwell now this is very strange Castiglione, this way my son I wish to speak with thee, you surely were mistaken in what you said of the air, mythful indeed which of us said, polition was a melancholy man exuant, and of notes this recording is in the public domain section 41 of the complete poetical works this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Aaron Stone the complete poetical works by Edgar Allen Poe section 41 poems of youth introduction letter to Mr. B West Point 1831 Dear B believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second edition that small portion I thought it as well to include in the present book as to republish by itself I have therefore herein combined Al-Araf and Tambor Lane with other poems hitherto unprinted nor have I hesitated to insert from the minor poems, now omitted whole lines and even passages to the end that being placed in a fairer light and the trash shaken from them in which they were embedded they may have some chance of being seen by posterity it has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who is no poet himself this according to your idea and divide of poetry I feel to be false the less poetical the critic the less just the critique and the converse on this account and because there are but few bees in the world I would be as much ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud of your own another than yourself might here observe Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets it appears then that the world judged correctly why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment the difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word judgment or opinion the opinion is the world's truly but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his having bought it he did not write the book but it is his they did not originate the opinion but it is theirs a fool for example thinks that Shakespeare a great poet yet the fool has never read Shakespeare but the fool's neighbor who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind whose head, that is to say his more exalted thought is too far above the fool to be seen or understood but whose feet, by which I mean his everyday actions are sufficiently near to be discerned and by means of which that superiority is ascertained which but for them would never have been discovered this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet the fool believes him and it is henceforward his opinion this neighbor's own opinion has in like manner been adopted from one above him and so ascendingly to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the summit beholding face to face the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle you are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer he is read, if at all in preference to the combined and established width of the world I say establish for it is with literature as with law or empire an established name is an estate and tenure or a throne and possession besides, one might suppose that books like their authors improved by travel their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction our antiquaries abandon time for distance our very phops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title page where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genia are precisely so many letters of recommendation I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism I think the notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is another I remarked before that in proportion to the political talent would be the justice of a critique upon poetry therefore a bad poet would, I grant, make a false critique and his self-love would infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor but a poet who is indeed a poet could not, I think, fail of making a just critique whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject in short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own writings are the test simply because we have more bad poets than good there are, of course, many objections to what I say Milton is a great example of the contrary but his opinion with respect to the Paradise we gained is by no means fairly ascertained by what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really believe perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity but, in fact, the Paradise we gained is little, if at all inferior to the Paradise lost and is only supposed so to be because men do not like epics whatever they may say to the contrary and reading those of Milton in their natural order are too much we read with the first to derive any pleasure from the second I daresay Milton preferred Comus to either, if so justly as I am speaking of poetry it will not be a miss to touch slightly upon the most singular I daresay in its modern history the hearsay of what is called very foolishly the lake school some years ago I might have been induced by an occasion like the present to attempt a formal reputation of their doctrine at present it will be a work of super-irrigation the wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Calderidge and Salvi but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplified Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most philosophical of all writings but it required a word's worth to pronounce it the most metaphysical he seems to think that the end of poetry is or should be instruction yet it is a true wisdom that the end of our existence is happiness if so, the end of every separate part of our existence everything connected with our existence should still be happiness therefore the end of instruction should be happiness and happiness is another name for pleasure therefore the end of instruction should be pleasure yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the reverse to proceed, Ceturus Paribus he who pleases is of more importance than his fellow men than he who instructs since utility is happiness and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means of obtaining I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves so much on the utility of their works unless indeed they refer to instruction with eternity in view in which case, sincere respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment contempt which it would be difficult to conceal since their writings are professively to be understood by the few and it is the many who stand in need of salvation in such case, I should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth who labors endophatically through three octable volumes to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls while any common devil would have demolished one or two thousand against the subtleties which would make poetry a study, not a passion it becomes the metaphysician to reason, but the poet to protest yet, words worth in Calderidge are men in years the one imbued in contemplation from his childhood the other a giant and intellect in learning the difference, then, with which I venture to dispute their authority would be overwhelming, did I not feel, from the bottom of my heart that learning has little to do with the imagination intellect with the passions, or age with poetry trifles, like straws upon the surface flow he who would search for pearls must dive below are lines which have done much mischief as regards to the greater truths men often are heir by seeking them at the bottom than at the top truth lies in the huge evices where wisdom is sought not in the palpable places where she is found the ancients were not always right in hiding the goddess in a well witness the light which begging has thrown upon philosophy witness the principles of our divine faith that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man we see an instance of Calderidge's liability to heir in his biographia Lideria professibly his literary life and opinions but, in fact, a treatise the omniscibili et quibusidum alis he goes wrong by reason of his very profundity and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star he who regards it directly and intensely sees it is true, the star, but it is the star without array while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below its brilliancy and its beauty as to Wordsworth I have no faith in him that he had in youth feelings of a poet I believe for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom his El Dorado but they have the appearance of a better day recollected and glimpses at best are little evidence of present poetic fire we know that a few struggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier he was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end of poetizing in his manhood with the increase of his judgment the light which should make it apparent has faded away his judgment consequently is too correct this may not be understood but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it who used to debate manners of importance to their state twice once when drunk and once when sober sober that they might not be deficient in formality drunk lest they should be destitute of vigor the long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration of his poetry speak very little in his favor they are full of such assertions as this I have opened one of his volumes at random of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done and what was never done before indeed then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done or what has been done before no genius can be events yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act pockets have been picked time in memorial and Barrington the pick pocket and point of genius would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth the poet again in estimating the merit of certain poems whether they be Aseans or MacPherson's can surely be of little consequence yet in order to prove their worthlessness W. W. has expended many pages in the controversy Tatyante Amias can great minds dissent to such absurdity but worse still that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems he triumphantly drags forward a passage in his abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize it is the beginning of the epic poem to Mora the waves of Olin roll in the light the green hills are covered with day trees shake their dusty heads in the breeze and this this gorgeous yet simple imagery where all is alive and panting with immortality this William Wordsworth the author of Peter Bell has selected for his contempt we shall see what better he in his own person has to offer and now she's at the pony's tail and now she's at the pony's head on that side now and now on this and almost stifled with her bliss a few sad tears does Betty shed she pats the pony where or when she knows not happy Betty Foy oh Johnny never mind the doctor secondly the dew was falling fast the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said drink pretty creature drink and looking over the hedge before me I espied a snow white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side no other sheep was near the lamb was all alone and by a slender cord was tethered to a stone now we have no doubt this is all true we will believe it indeed we will Mr. W is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart but there are occasions dear Bea there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable even Stan Bull it is said shall have an end and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion here is an extract from his preface those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion impossible will no doubt have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness ha ha ha they will look round for poetry ha ha ha ha and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title ha ha ha ha ha yet let not Mr. W despair he has given immortality to a wagon and the Bea Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys of Calderidge I cannot speak but with reverence his towering intellect his gigantic power to use an author quoted by himself j'ai trouvé souvent qu'il n'a plus pas de sectes en raison d'un bon parti de ce qu'elle avance mais non pas une ce qu'elle mienne and to employ his own language he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others it is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics and like the Necanthes waste its perfume upon the night alone in reading that man's poetry I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano conscious from the very darkness bursting from the crater of the fire and the light that are weltering below what is poetry? poetry that proteus-like idea with as many appellations as the nine tilted coquira give me I demanded of a scholar some time ago give me a definition of poetry très volontaire and he proceeded to his library brought me a Dr. Johnson and overwhelmed me with a definition shade of the immortal Shakespeare I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major think of poetry dear B think of poetry and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson think of all that is airy and fairy-like and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy think of his huge bulk, the elephant and then think of the tempest the Midsummer Night's Dream Prospero Oberon and Titania a poem, in my opinion is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object pleasure, not truth to romance by having for its object an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure being a poem only so far as this object is attained romance presenting perceptible images with definite poetry with indefinite sensations to which end music is an essential since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception music, when combined with a pleasurable idea is poetry music, without the idea is simply music the idea, without music is prose from its very definitiveness what was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul to sum up this long-winged rural I have dear B what do you no doubt perceive for the metaphysical poets as poets the most sovereign contempt that they have followers proves nothing no Indian prince has to his palace more followers than a thief to the gallows End of section 41 Sonnet to Science by Edgar Allan Poe read for Librebox.org by Trevor Flynn Science, true daughter of old time thou art who alterest all things with thy peering eyes why prayest thou thus upon the poet's heart vulture, whose wings are dull realities how should he love thee or how deem thee wise who wouldst not leave him in his wandering to seek for treasure in the jeweled skies albeit he soared with an undaunted wing hast thou not dragged Diana from her car and driven the hammer-dryad from the wood to seek a shelter in some happier star hast thou not torn the naad from her flood the elfin from the green grass and from me the summer dream beneath the tamarind tree 1829 End of poem This recording is in the public domain