The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 146

dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer garment,
a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the bottom hem to
the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three times around the waist,
and secured by a sort of hitch in the back. The dress immediately
beneath the frock was of fine muslin; and from this a slip eighteen
inches wide had been torn entirely out--torn very evenly and with great
care. It was found around her neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a
hard knot. Over this muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a
bonnet were attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the
strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady's, but a slip or
sailor's knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken to the
Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily interred not far
from the spot at which it was brought ashore. Through the exertions of
Beauvais, the matter was industriously hushed up, as far as possible;
and several days had elapsed before any public emotion resulted. A
weekly paper, (*9) however, at length took up the theme; the corpse was
disinterred, and a re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited
beyond what has been already noted. The clothes, however, were
now submitted to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully
identified as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.

Meantime, the excitement increased hourly. Several individuals were
arrested and discharged. St. Eustache fell especially under suspicion;
and he failed, at first, to give an intelligible account of his
whereabouts during the Sunday on which Marie left home. Subsequently,
however, he submitted to Monsieur G----, affidavits, accounting
satisfactorily for every hour of the day in question. As time passed and
no discovery ensued, a thousand contradictory rumors were circulated,
and journalists busied themselves in suggestions. Among these, the one
which attracted the most notice, was the idea that Marie Rogêt still
lived--that the corpse found in the Seine was that of some other
unfortunate. It will be proper that I submit to the reader some passages
which embody the suggestion alluded to. These passages are literal
translations from L'Etoile, (*10) a paper conducted, in general, with
much ability.

"Mademoiselle Rogêt left her mother's house on Sunday morning, June the
twenty-second, 18--, with the ostensible purpose of going to see her
aunt, or some other connexion, in the Rue des Drômes. From that hour,
nobody is proved to have seen her. There is no trace or tidings of her
at all.... There has

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Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 2
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Page 5
_SONNET--SILENCE_ There are some qualities--some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
Page 8
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.
Page 9
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" [Illustration: Lenore] _Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride-- For her, the fair and _debonair_, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-- The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Page 11
that, on this July midnight-- Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me.
Page 12
So.
Page 13
And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea-- Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms--but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile.
Page 15
" But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said--"Sadly this star I mistrust-- Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-- Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must.
Page 18
Marie Louise Shew.
Page 21
She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there How solemnly pervading the calm air! A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere.
Page 24
On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee.
Page 26
And my lord he loves me well; But, when first he breathed his vow, I felt my.
Page 27
bosom swell-- For the words rang as a knell, And the voice seemed _his_ who fell In the battle down the dell, And who is happy now.
Page 30
The night, though clear, shall frown, And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven With light like hope to mortals given, But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever.
Page 31
If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.
Page 32
[Illustration: Fairy-land] _THE COLISEUM_ 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, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength-- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades-- These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened.
Page 33
Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the tears that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters--lone and dead,-- Their still waters--still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.
Page 34
The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:--ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness--the nausea-- The pitiless pain-- Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain-- With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.
Page 35
My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes.
Page 39
death.