(Exit,
followed
by Politian.
Poe - 5
(aside.
) 'Tis he!
--he comes himself?
(aloud) Thou reasonest
well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message-
Well! --I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
Bal. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not? --at the Vatican.
Pol. At the Vatican. (exit
Bal. )
Enter Castigilone.
Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!
Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.
Cas. 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
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha! --am I right?
'Twas a mistake? --undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
Cas. Ha! --draw? --and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (draws. )
Pol. (drawing. ) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand! --avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus? --now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!
Cas. 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--dare not.
Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee! --coward, I do believe thee!
Cas. Ha! --coward! --this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, 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 veriest coward. O pity me!
Pol. (greatly softened. ) Alas! --I do--indeed I pity thee.
Cas. And Lalage-
Pol. Scoundrel! --arise and die!
Cas. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O 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--
(baring his bosom. )
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-
Strike home. I will not fight thee.
Pol. Now, s' Death and Hell!
Am I not--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 lovest-
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit. )
Cas. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
--ED}
NOTE
29. Such portions of "Politian" 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 Politian: an
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 author's earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance
his reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered.
The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.
Duke. Why do you laugh?
Castiglione. Indeed
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.
Duke, Perfectly.
I do remember it-what of it-what then?
Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.
Duke. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
'At nothing at all!
Cas. Most singular-singular!
Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
What are you talking of?
Cas. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.
Duke. Him! --Whom?
Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes! --is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.
Cas. Ha! ha! --now did I?
Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.
Cas. 'Tis 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 Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road-such oddity-such humor--
Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
Was gravity itself--
Duke. Did I not tell you?
Cas. You did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.
Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It can not be the Earl?
Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!
(Enter Politian and Baldazzar. )
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily. ]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.
Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding--
Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
Baldazzar! ah! --my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
Duke. Retire! --So soon?
Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito. )
Ben. This way, my lord!
(Exit, followed by Politian. )
Duke. Retire! Unwell!
Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.
Duke. Return anon!
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 Earl, mirthful, indeed! --which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt. )
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS--1831
_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 Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' 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
imbedded, 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 _mine _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 B-'s 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
judge 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 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 wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, 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 poetical 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 Regained' 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 Regained' 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 wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.
"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either-. if so-justly.
"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy 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
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplifled.
"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry
is, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism 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 be still
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: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance to
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 professedly 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 indefatigably,
through three octavo 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 Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, 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 the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in
hiding--the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon 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 Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _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 a ray-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 the
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 straggling 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 matters 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 evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pickpocket, in 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
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend 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 'Temora. ' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
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. Imprimis:
"'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 o'er the hedge, be-fore 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-tether'd 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 B-, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, 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 modem 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 bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
"Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
_'Tai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne
partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient,' 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
Nyctanthes, 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-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of
a scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry. '
_'Tresvolontiers;' _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-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, wi thout the 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 rigmarole, I have, dear B--, what 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.
SONNET--TO SCIENCE
SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest 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 jewelled skies
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
AL AARAAF (*)
PART I.
O! NOTHING earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy--
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill--
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours--
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
Adorn yon world afar, afar--
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
An oasis in desert of the blest.
* A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a
brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly
disappeared, and has never been seen since.
Away--away--'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
Fit emblems of the model of her world--
Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
*On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
? Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
* On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.
*And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd--
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
**And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth--
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
* This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.
** Clytia--The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol--which continually turns
towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from
which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its
flowers during the most violent heat of the day. --_B. de St.
Pierre_.
*** There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large
and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla,
during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It
does not blow till towards the month of July--you then
perceive it gradually open its petals--expand them--fade
and die. --_St. Pierre_.
*And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
**And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro! --Fior di Levante!
***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
****To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue--
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar--
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last--
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part--
* There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of
three or four feet--thus preserving its head above water
in the swellings of the river.
** The Hyacinth.
*** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first
seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges--and
that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.
**** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.
--Rev. St. John.
Who livest--_that_ we know--
In Eternity--we feel--
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
*A model of their own--
Thy will is done, Oh, God!
well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message-
Well! --I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.
Bal. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not? --at the Vatican.
Pol. At the Vatican. (exit
Bal. )
Enter Castigilone.
Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!
Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.
Cas. 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
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha! --am I right?
'Twas a mistake? --undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.
Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!
Cas. Ha! --draw? --and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (draws. )
Pol. (drawing. ) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage)
Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand! --avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.
Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus? --now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!
Cas. 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--dare not.
Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee! --coward, I do believe thee!
Cas. Ha! --coward! --this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, 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 veriest coward. O pity me!
Pol. (greatly softened. ) Alas! --I do--indeed I pity thee.
Cas. And Lalage-
Pol. Scoundrel! --arise and die!
Cas. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O 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--
(baring his bosom. )
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-
Strike home. I will not fight thee.
Pol. Now, s' Death and Hell!
Am I not--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 lovest-
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit. )
Cas. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
--ED}
NOTE
29. Such portions of "Politian" 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 Politian: an
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 author's earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance
his reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered.
The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.
Duke. Why do you laugh?
Castiglione. Indeed
I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.
Duke, Perfectly.
I do remember it-what of it-what then?
Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.
Duke. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
'At nothing at all!
Cas. Most singular-singular!
Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
What are you talking of?
Cas. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.
Duke. Him! --Whom?
Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.
Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes! --is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.
Cas. Ha! ha! --now did I?
Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.
Cas. 'Tis 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 Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road-such oddity-such humor--
Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
Was gravity itself--
Duke. Did I not tell you?
Cas. You did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.
Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It can not be the Earl?
Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!
(Enter Politian and Baldazzar. )
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily. ]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.
Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding--
Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
Baldazzar! ah! --my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.
Duke. Retire! --So soon?
Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito. )
Ben. This way, my lord!
(Exit, followed by Politian. )
Duke. Retire! Unwell!
Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.
Duke. Return anon!
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 Earl, mirthful, indeed! --which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt. )
POEMS OF YOUTH
INTRODUCTION TO POEMS--1831
_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 Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' 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
imbedded, 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 _mine _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 B-'s 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
judge 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 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 wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, 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 poetical 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 Regained' 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 Regained' 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 wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.
"I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either-. if so-justly.
"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy 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
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplifled.
"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry
is, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism 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 be still
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: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance to
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 professedly 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 indefatigably,
through three octavo 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 Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, 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 the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in
hiding--the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon 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 Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _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 a ray-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 the
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 straggling 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 matters 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 evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pickpocket, in 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
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend 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 'Temora. ' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
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. Imprimis:
"'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 o'er the hedge, be-fore 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-tether'd 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 B-, there are occasions when even
Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, 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 modem 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 bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified
a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
"Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering
intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,
_'Tai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne
partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient,' 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
Nyctanthes, 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-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded of
a scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry. '
_'Tresvolontiers;' _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-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, wi thout the 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 rigmarole, I have, dear B--, what 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.
SONNET--TO SCIENCE
SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest 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 jewelled skies
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
AL AARAAF (*)
PART I.
O! NOTHING earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy--
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill--
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours--
Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
Adorn yon world afar, afar--
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
An oasis in desert of the blest.
* A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a
brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly
disappeared, and has never been seen since.
Away--away--'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
Fit emblems of the model of her world--
Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
*On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
? Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
* On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.
*And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd--
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
**And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth--
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
* This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.
** Clytia--The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
better-known term, the turnsol--which continually turns
towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from
which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its
flowers during the most violent heat of the day. --_B. de St.
Pierre_.
*** There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a
species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large
and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla,
during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It
does not blow till towards the month of July--you then
perceive it gradually open its petals--expand them--fade
and die. --_St. Pierre_.
*And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
**And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro! --Fior di Levante!
***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
****To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue--
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar--
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last--
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part--
* There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of
three or four feet--thus preserving its head above water
in the swellings of the river.
** The Hyacinth.
*** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first
seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges--and
that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.
**** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.
--Rev. St. John.
Who livest--_that_ we know--
In Eternity--we feel--
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
*A model of their own--
Thy will is done, Oh, God!
