Cuentos Clásicos del Norte, Primera Serie

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 34

la apariencia de papel, y yo había creído al principio que
lo era; pero cuando quise dibujar en ella descubrí al momento que era en
realidad un trozo de pergamino muy fino. Estaba completamente sucio,
como recordaréis. Bien; en el momento mismo de estrujarlo y arrojarlo al
fuego cayeron mis ojos sobre el dibujo que habíais estado contemplando
y, ¡juzgad de mi sorpresa cuando advertí, en efecto, la figura de una
calavera precisamente en el mismo sitio en que yo creía haber dibujado
el escorzo del insecto! Por un instante quedé tan atónito que apenas
podía razonar con claridad. Sabía perfectamente que mi dibujo era muy
diferente de aquél en los detalles, aun cuando existía cierta
similaridad en las líneas generales. Entonces cogí una bujía y
sentándome al otro extremo de la habitación procedí al escrutinio
minucioso del pergamino. Volviéndolo del otro lado descubrí mi propio
dibujo por el revés, exactamente tal como lo había delineado. Mi primera
idea en aquel momento fué simplemente de sorpresa ante la extraordinaria
semejanza del diseño, ante la extraña coincidencia de que, sin saberlo
yo, hubiera una calavera al otro lado del pergamino precisamente debajo
de la figura de mi escarabajo y de que, no sólo en sus líneas sino en su
tamaño, aquella calavera tuviera con mi dibujo semejanza tan notable.
Decía que la singularidad de esta coincidencia me dejó estupefacto por
algunos instantes. Tal es el efecto ordinario de ciertas coincidencias.
La imaginación lucha por establecer alguna relación, alguna sucesión de
causa y efecto; y en la incapacidad de realizarlo sufre una especie de
parálisis temporal. Mas, al recobrarme de este estupor, despertóse
gradualmente dentro de mí una convicción que me impresionó más
hondamente aún que la misma coincidencia. Positiva, distintamente
comencé a recordar que _no_ había dibujo alguno en el pergamino cuando
hice mi diseño del escarabajo. Estaba ahora perfectamente seguro de
ello; porque rememoré que había vuelto primero un lado del pergamino y
después el otro en busca del sitio más limpio. Si la calavera hubiese
estado allí era imposible que hubiera yo dejado de advertirlo. Existía
un misterio que me encontraba incapaz de explicar; pero, sin embargo,
desde el primer momento comenzó a brillar débilmente y a intermitencias,
como una luciérnaga en las celdas más remotas y secretas del
pensamiento, la concepción de aquella verdad que la aventura de anoche
ha demostrado con tan gran magnificencia. Me levanté entonces, y
poniendo en lugar seguro el pergamino deseché toda reflexión sobre el
asunto hasta que pudiera hallarme a solas.

Tan luego que partisteis y que Júpiter se quedó dormido me dediqué a una
investigación metódica del suceso. En primer

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Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 0
Page 1
Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden-notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! [Illustration: The Bells] III.
Page 2
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Page 4
_EULALIE--A SONG_ I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Page 5
The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
Page 6
upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
Page 7
" Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore.
Page 13
The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake.
Page 18
But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Page 21
" Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
Page 23
[Illustration: Al Aaraaf] Ligeia! Ligeia! My beautiful one! Whose harshest idea Will to melody run, O! is it thy will On the breezes to toss? Or, capriciously still, Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight .
Page 24
Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep-- But the strains still arise Which _thy_ vigilance keep-- The sound of the rain, Which leaps down to the flower-- And dances again In the rhythm of the shower-- The murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of things-- But are modell'd, alas!-- Away, then, my dearest, Oh! hie thee away To the springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray-- To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast-- Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid-- Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee-- Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea-- Go! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, Thy musical number They slumbered to hear-- For what can awaken An angel so soon, Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?" Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro' Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight-- Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen.
Page 25
That eve--that eve--I should remember well-- The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall-- And on my eyelids--O the heavy light! How drowsily it weigh'd them into night! On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan: But O that light!--I slumber'd--Death, the while, Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle So softly that no single silken hair Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.
Page 28
[Illustration: The Valley of Unrest] _THE LAKE--TO----_ In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
Page 29
[Illustration: To ---- ---- (Mrs.
Page 30
2 Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er, But I will half believe that wild light fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever told--or is it of a thought The unembodied essence, and no more That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass? 3 Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye To the loved object--so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in apathy? And yet it need not be--(that object) hid From us in life--but common--which doth lie Each hour before us--but _then_ only, bid With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken, To awake us--'Tis a symbol and a token 4 Of what in other worlds shall be--and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Tho' not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
Page 31
That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame-- As such it well may pass-- Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas! Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay; The world all love before thee.
Page 35
And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead-- And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead-- That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead;-- But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie-- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie-- With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.
Page 37
I have no words--alas!--to tell The loveliness of loving well! Nor would I now attempt to trace The more than beauty of a face Whose lineaments, upon my mind, Are----shadows on th' unstable wind Thus I remember having dwelt Some page of early lore upon, With loitering eye, till I have felt The letters--with their meaning--melt To fantasies--with none.
Page 39
And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one-- For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown-- Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty--which is all.