The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 47

writer's own eye, but an inspection of the pamphlet
will convince almost any thinking person of the truth of my suggestion.
The fact is, Sir Humphrey Davy was about the last man in the world
to commit himself on scientific topics. Not only had he a more than
ordinary dislike to quackery, but he was morbidly afraid of appearing
empirical; so that, however fully he might have been convinced that he
was on the right track in the matter now in question, he would never
have spoken out, until he had every thing ready for the most practical
demonstration. I verily believe that his last moments would have been
rendered wretched, could he have suspected that his wishes in regard
to burning this 'Diary' (full of crude speculations) would have been
unattended to; as, it seems, they were. I say 'his wishes,' for that he
meant to include this note-book among the miscellaneous papers directed
'to be burnt,' I think there can be no manner of doubt. Whether it
escaped the flames by good fortune or by bad, yet remains to be seen.
That the passages quoted above, with the other similar ones referred to,
gave Von Kempelen the hint, I do not in the slightest degree question;
but I repeat, it yet remains to be seen whether this momentous discovery
itself (momentous under any circumstances) will be of service or
disservice to mankind at large. That Von Kempelen and his immediate
friends will reap a rich harvest, it would be folly to doubt for a
moment. They will scarcely be so weak as not to 'realize,' in time, by
large purchases of houses and land, with other property of intrinsic
value.

In the brief account of Von Kempelen which appeared in the
'Home Journal,' and has since been extensively copied, several
misapprehensions of the German original seem to have been made by the
translator, who professes to have taken the passage from a late number
of the Presburg 'Schnellpost.' 'Viele' has evidently been misconceived
(as it often is), and what the translator renders by 'sorrows,' is
probably 'lieden,' which, in its true version, 'sufferings,' would give
a totally different complexion to the whole account; but, of course,
much of this is merely guess, on my part.

Von Kempelen, however, is by no means 'a misanthrope,' in appearance, at
least, whatever he may be in fact. My acquaintance with him was casual
altogether; and I am scarcely warranted in saying that I know him
at all; but to have seen and conversed with a man of so prodigious a
notoriety as he has attained, or will attain

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Text Comparison with Poemas

Page 0
--Imp.
Page 1
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Entonces, Calibán mueve contra él a Sicorax, y se le destierra o se le mata.
Page 3
Entonces, Alma, Stella, oigo sonar cerca de mí el oro invisible de tu escudo angélico.
Page 4
¿Es que en el número de los escogidos, de los aristócratas del espíritu, no estaba ya pesado en su propio valor, el odioso fárrago del canino Griswold? La infame autopsia moral que se hizo del ilustre difunto debía tener esa bella protesta.
Page 5
En el primero, el artista parece haber querido hacer una cabeza simbólica.
Page 6
» Una persona que le oye recitar en Boston, dice: «Era la mejor realización de un poeta, en su fisonomía, aire y manera.
Page 7
Nació con la adorable llama de la poesía, y ella le alimentaba al propio tiempo que era su martirio.
Page 8
En él la ecuación dominaba a la creencia, y aun en lo referente a Dios y sus tributos, pensaba con Spinosa que las cosas invisibles y todo lo que es objeto del entendimiento no puede percibirse de otro modo que por los ojos de la demostración; olvidando la profunda afirmación filosófica: _Intelectus noster sic ¿de habet? ad prima entium quæ sunt manifestissima in natura, sicut oculus vespertillionis ad solem.
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Mi alma tantalizada reposa dulcemente aquí, olvidando, sin recordarlas jamás, sus rosas, sus antiguas ansias de mirtos y de rosas.
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halo de oro, y dulcemente, filtrando por la cumbre tranquila de la montaña, resbala perezosa y armoniosamente por el valle universal.
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¡Quiera Dios que pueda despertar! Porque sueño no sé cómo.
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¡Tu corazón, tu corazón! Me despierto y suspiro y vuelvo a dormirme para ensoñar hasta el día de la verdad, que el oro,--capaz de tantas locuras,--no podrá jamás comprar.
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La muerte reinaba en el seno de esa onda envenenada, y en su remolino había una tumba bien hecha para aquel que pudiera beber en ella un consuelo a su imaginación taciturna, para aquel cuya alma desamparada pudiera haberse hecho un Edén de ese lago velado.
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su existencia el final.
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Esto y más--sobre cojines reclinado--con anhelo me empeñaba en descifrar, sobre el rojo terciopelo do imprimía viva huella luminoso mi fanal-- terciopelo cuya púrpura ¡ay! jamás volverá ella a oprimir--¡Ah! ¡Nunca más! Pareciome el aire entonces, por incógnito incensario que un querube columpiase de mi alcoba en el santuario, perfumado--«Miserable sér--me dije--Dios te ha oído y por medio angelical, tregua, tregua y el olvido del recuerdo de Leonora te ha venido hoy a brindar: ¡bebe! bebe ese nepente, y así todo olvida ahora.