The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket Comprising the details of a mutiny and atrocious butchery on board the American brig Grampus, on her way to the South Seas, in the month of June, 1827.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 18

suffering me to remain so long a prisoner,
except, indeed, his having suddenly died or fallen overboard, and upon
this idea I could not dwell with any degree of patience. It was
possible that we had been baffled by head winds, and were still in the
near vicinity of Nantucket. This notion, however, I was forced to
abandon; for, such being the case, the brig must have frequently gone
about; and I was entirely satisfied, from her continual inclination to
the larboard, that she had been sailing all along with a steady breeze
on her starboard quarter. Besides, granting that we were still in the
neighbourhood of the island, why should not Augustus have visited me
and informed me of the circumstance? Pondering in this manner upon the
difficulties of my solitary and cheerless condition, I resolved to wait
yet another twenty-four hours, when, if no relief were obtained, I
would make my way to the trap, and endeavour either to hold a parley
with my friend, or get at least a little fresh air through the opening,
and a further supply of water from his stateroom. While occupied with
this thought, however, I fell, in spite of every exertion to the
contrary, into a state of profound sleep, or rather stupor. My dreams
were of the most terrific description. Every species of calamity and
horror befell me. Among other miseries, I was smothered to death
between huge pillows, by demons of the most ghastly and ferocious
aspect. Immense serpents held me in their embrace, and looked earnestly
in my face with their fearfully shining eyes. Then deserts, limitless,
and of the most forlorn and awe-inspiring character, spread themselves
out before me. Immensely tall trunks of trees, gray and leafless, rose
up in endless succession as far as the eye could reach. Their roots
were concealed in wide-spreading morasses, whose dreary water lay
intensely black, still, and altogether terrible, beneath. And the
strange trees seemed endowed with a human vitality, and, waving to and
fro their skeleton arms, were crying to the silent waters for mercy, in
the shrill and piercing accents of the most acute agony and despair.
The scene changed; and I stood, naked and alone, amid the burning
sand-plains of Zahara. At my feet lay crouched a fierce lion of the
tropics. Suddenly his wild eyes opened and fell upon me. With a
convulsive bound he sprang to his feet, and laid bare his horrible
teeth. In another instant there burst from his red throat a roar like
the thunder of the firmament, and I fell impetuously to the earth.
Stifling in a paroxysm

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

Page 7
" "Now, by the five corners of my beard!" shouted the Pharisee, who belonged to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner of _dashing _and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees-a stumbling-block to less gifted perambulators)--"by the five corners of that beard which, as a priest, I am forbidden to shave!-have we lived to see the day when a blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated elements? Have we lived to see the day when--"' "Let us not question the motives of the Philistine," interrupted Abel-Phittim' "for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not extinguish, and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.
Page 14
He had an especial admiration for breadth in a jest, and would often put up with length, for the sake of it.
Page 29
It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance.
Page 32
At eight months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance pledge.
Page 35
He seemed to be in an unusual good humor.
Page 86
soul.
Page 94
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective.
Page 95
And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
Page 99
O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalltd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! .
Page 111
Then consider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses and lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, and there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should _lie"--and not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would rise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to "fill itself with roses," "And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold," and these things being its "chief" delights-and then the pre-eminent beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate admiration of the bereaved child-- "Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.
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 144
"To F----s S.
Page 146
TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length--at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, .
Page 159
There is a vow were fitting should be made-- A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, A solemn vow! Monk.
Page 181
The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees: * On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.
Page 184
**** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.
Page 201
I have not always been as now: The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly-- Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar--this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.
Page 221
* Query "fervor"?--ED.
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.
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Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze.