Cuentos Clásicos del Norte, Primera Serie

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 61

un palacio de oro, pavimentado de plata; y pendiente del muro
veíase un escudo de brillante bronce con la siguiente leyenda

Quien aquí penetra es conquistador;
Ganará el escudo quien mate al dragón;

y entonces Éthelred, levantando su maza, hirió en la cabeza al
dragón; el cual se desplomó a sus plantas rindiendo su pestilente
aliento con tan hórrido, agudo y penetrante alarido que Éthelred se
vió precisado a cubrirse los oídos con las manos para defenderse
del pavoroso ruido del que nada análogo había escuchado hasta

Aquí me detuve de nuevo bruscamente, esta vez con sentimiento de
profundo estupor, porque no podía caberme la menor duda de que en el
mismo instante había oído en realidad, aun cuando me fuera imposible
indicar la dirección, un grito ahogado y aparentemente lejano, pero
áspero, prolongado y extraño; un sonido discordante, exacta reproducción
de lo que mi fantasía había ya evocado como el sobrenatural alarido del
dragón descrito por el romancero.

Oprimido como me sentía por mil encontradas sensaciones en que
predominaban la angustia y un excesivo terror a causa de la segunda y
más extraordinaria coincidencia, tuve aún la presencia de espíritu
necesaria para evitar que se excitara con cualquiera observación la
sensitiva nerviosidad de mi compañero. No estaba seguro de que se
hubiera apercibido de aquellos rumores, a pesar de que indudablemente
mostraba extraña alteración en su conducta en los últimos minutos. Desde
el sitio que ocupaba frente a mí había arrastrado su silla poco a poco
hasta dar cara a la puerta de entrada de la habitación, de modo que
apenas podía yo distinguir parcialmente sus facciones, aunque me parecía
que sus labios temblaban como si estuviese murmurando palabras
ininteligibles. Su cabeza había caído sobre el pecho; pero yo sabía que
no estaba dormido, pues en una ojeada furtiva a su perfil descubrí uno
de sus ojos rígidamente abierto. El movimiento de su cuerpo difería
también de su manera habitual, porque se mecía de un lado a otro con
ondulación suave, uniforme y constante. Notando todo esto con rapidez,
reasumí la narración de Sir Láuncelot que proseguía así:

Y habiendo escapado el campeón en esta forma a la furia tremebunda
del dragón, y recordando el bronceado escudo y la ruptura del

Last Page Next Page

Text Comparison with The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5

Page 1
We have no aristocracy of blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the _display of wealth _has here to take the place and perform the office of the heraldic display in monarchical countries.
Page 6
Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a tranquil but magical radiance over all.
Page 10
To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.
Page 56
" Wid that I giv'd her a big wink jist to say, "lit Sir Pathrick alone for the likes o' them thricks," and thin I wint aisy to work, and you'd have died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm betwane the back o' the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, "the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt.
Page 77
Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what we all meant.
Page 85
Besides, I am anxious to know who will be President in 2045.
Page 127
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in Heaven--the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare.
Page 132
Page 149
Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly-- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama--oh, be sure .
Page 165
Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy--a land new found-- Miraculously found by one of Genoa-- A thousand leagues within the golden west? A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come? Pol.
Page 178
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.
Page 181
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.
Page 184
Page 186
Page 190
From the wild energy of wanton haste Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart; And zone that clung around her gentle waist Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Page 198
_ She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourn'd to leave.
Page 206
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, _would_ fly But _cannot_ from a danger nigh.
Page 208
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet.
Page 210
Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassion'd song: To thee the laurels belong Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The extacies above With thy burning measures suit-- Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute-- Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely--flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.
Page 226
Thy lowly cottage door Under the lilac's tremulous leaves-- Within thy snowy claspeed hand The purple flowers it bore.