Cuentos Clásicos del Norte, Primera Serie

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 62

encanto que allí residía, empujó el cuerpo de la fiera lejos de su
paso y avanzó valerosamente sobre el plateado pavimento del
castillo hasta el lugar donde estaba el escudo pendiente del muro;
el cual no aguardó, en verdad, que el héroe hubiese llegado, sino
que cayó espontáneamente a sus pies sobre el pavimento de plata con
inmenso estruendo y horrísono sonido retumbante.

No habían terminado mis labios de proferir estas palabras cuando,
semejando en realidad un escudo de bronce que cayera pesadamente en
aquel mismo instante sobre un pavimento de plata, pude oír distintamente
una metálica, hueca y estridente aunque ahogada repercusión.
Completamente trastornado, me levanté de un salto; pero el mesurado
balanceo de Úsher continuó sin interrupción. Me abalancé hacia el
asiento que ocupaba. Sus ojos estaban fijos y en toda su figura
triunfaba una rigidez de piedra. Mas tan pronto como coloqué una de mis
manos en su hombro, sentí un fuerte estremecimiento en todo su cuerpo;
una sonrisa marchita tembló sobre sus labios; y vi que hablaba en un
murmullo bajo, precipitado e ininteligible, como inconsciente de mi
presencia. Inclinándome muy cerca sobre él, pude al fin beber la
horrenda importancia de sus palabras.

--¿No lo oís?... Sí; yo lo oigo y _lo había_ oído. Muchos, muchos,
muchos, largos minutos... muchas horas, muchos días lo he oído... pero
no me atrevía... ¡oh, misericordia! ¡miserable de mí!... no me
atrevía... ¡no _me atrevía_ a hablar! _¡La hemos enterrado viva!_ ¿No
decía yo que mis sentidos son muy agudos? _Ahora_ os digo que percibí
sus primeros y débiles movimientos en el hueco ataúd. Los oí... hace
muchos, muchos días... pero no me atrevía... _¡No tenía valor de
hablar!_ Y ahora... esta noche... Éthelred... ¡ha! ¡ha!... ¡el
quebrantamiento de la puerta del ermitaño, el clamor de muerte del
dragón y el estrépito del escudo!... ¡Digamos mejor, el hendimiento del
ataúd, el chirrido de las puertas de hierro de su prisión, y su lucha
en el pasillo revestido de cobre de la bóveda! ¡Oh! ¿dónde escapar? ¿Por
ventura no estará ella aquí dentro de poco? ¿No se apresurará a
vituperarme por mi precipitación? ¿No he oído, acaso, sus pasos en la
escalera? ¿No he escuchado el pesado y horrible latir de su corazón?
¡INSENSATO! Aquí se puso en pie furiosamente y gritó sílaba por sílaba,
con tal fuerza que parecía iba a rendir el ánima: ¡INSENSATO! OS DIGO


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

Page 12
While I regarded the terrific animal, and more especially the appearance on its breast, with a feeling or horror and awe--with a sentiment of forthcoming evil, which I found it impossible to quell by any effort of the reason, I perceived the huge jaws at the extremity of the proboscis suddenly expand themselves, and from them there proceeded a sound so loud and so expressive of wo, that it struck upon my nerves like a knell and as the monster disappeared at the foot of the hill, I fell at once, fainting, to the floor.
Page 31
I should have credit for this arrangement--a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.
Page 45
Gore, for example, (the author of "Cecil,") a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, "as needed," upon a systematic plan, by Mr.
Page 56
squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.
Page 68
as he was inditing the 'aulos.
Page 91
the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty.
Page 108
There are long passages now before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their antiquity.
Page 119
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, .
Page 123
they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere-- The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year: It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir:-- It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Page 156
Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror.
Page 164
) Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes- Thy beauty and thy woes.
Page 177
Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion.
Page 191
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings-- And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: * Eyraco--Chaldea.
Page 193
toss? Or, capriciously still, *Like the lone Albatross, Incumbent on night (As she on the air) To keep watch with delight On the harmony there? Ligeia! whatever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee.
Page 200
Page 205
Of beauty which did while it thro' The minute--the hour--the day--oppress My mind with double loveliness.
Page 209
Tottering above In her highest noon The enamoured moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven And they say (the starry choir And all the listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings-- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
Page 214
About twelve by the moon-dial One, more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, They have found to be the best) Comes down--still down--and down With its centre on the crown Of a mountain's eminence, While its wide circumference In easy drapery falls Over hamlets, over halls, Wherever they may be-- O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea-- Over spirits on the wing-- Over every drowsy thing-- .
Page 216
" I THE happiest day-the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.
Page 217
IMITATION A dark unfathom'd tide Of interminable pride-- A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild, and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those thoughts I would control As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my worldly rest hath gone With a sigh as it pass'd on I care not tho' it perish With a thought I then did cherish.