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 61

nerve myself to the
task of descending among the mutineers when Peters should make a signal
to me as agreed upon. Presently he contrived to turn the conversation
upon the bloody deeds of the mutiny, and, by degrees, led the men to
talk of the thousand superstitions which are so universally current
among seamen. I could not make out all that was said, but I could
plainly see the effects of the conversation in the countenances of
those present. The mate was evidently much agitated, and presently,
when some one mentioned the terrific appearance of Rogers's corpse, I
thought he was upon the point of swooning. Peters now asked him if he
did not think it would be better to have the body thrown overboard at
once, as it was too horrible a sight to see it floundering about in the
scuppers. At this the villain absolutely gasped for breath, and turned
his head slowly round upon his companions, as if imploring some one to
go up and perform the task. No one, however, stirred, and it was quite
evident that the whole party were wound up to the highest pitch of
nervous excitement. Peters now made me the signal. I immediately threw
open the door of the companion-way, and, descending without uttering a
syllable, stood erect in the midst of the party.

The intense effect produced by this sudden apparition is not at all to
be wondered at when the various circumstances are taken into
consideration. Usually, in cases of a similar nature, there is left in
the mind of the spectator some glimmering of doubt as to the reality of
the vision before his eyes; a degree of hope, however feeble, that he
is the victim of chicanery, and that the apparition is not actually a
visitant from the world of shadows. It is not too much to say that such
remnants of doubt have been at the bottom of almost every such
visitation, and that the appalling horror which has sometimes been
brought about, is to be attributed, even in the cases most in point,
and where most suffering has been experienced, more to a kind of
anticipative horror, lest the apparition _might possibly be_ real, than
to an unwavering belief in its reality. But, in the present instance,
it will be seen immediately, that in the minds of the mutineers there
was not even the shadow of a basis upon which to rest a doubt that the
apparition of Rogers was indeed a revivification of his disgusting
corpse, or at least its spiritual image. The isolated situation of the
brig, with its

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Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 3
And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To.
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I was a child and _she_ was a child, In this kingdom.
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
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more.
Page 8
" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.
Page 9
[Illustration: To One in Paradise] _LENORE_ Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?--weep now or nevermore! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!-- An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-- A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
Page 10
Page 11
Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a.
Page 13
Frances Sargent Osgood] Beloved! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path-- (Drear path, alas! where grows Not even one lonely rose)-- My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose.
Page 15
I replied--"This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sybilic splendour is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-- See!--it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright-- We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.
Page 17
But he grew old-- This knight so bold-- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.
Page 21
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[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.
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brood Over the magic solitude.
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With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write--I cannot speak or think-- Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.
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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.
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By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.
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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.
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I pass'd from out its mossy door, And, tho' my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known-- O, I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humbler heart--a deeper woe.