The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 81

empty, and a
blanket, but nothing which could serve us for food. I continued my
efforts, after getting these articles, until I was completely exhausted,
but brought up nothing else. During the night Parker and Peters occupied
themselves by turns in the same manner; but nothing coming to hand, we
now gave up this attempt in despair, concluding that we were exhausting
ourselves in vain.

We passed the remainder of this night in a state of the most intense
mental and bodily anguish that can possibly be imagined. The morning of
the sixteenth at length dawned, and we looked eagerly around the horizon
for relief, but to no purpose. The sea was still smooth, with only a
long swell from the northward, as on yesterday. This was the sixth day
since we had tasted either food or drink, with the exception of the
bottle of port wine, and it was clear that we could hold out but a very
little while longer unless something could be obtained. I never saw
before, nor wish to see again, human beings so utterly emaciated as
Peters and Augustus. Had I met them on shore in their present condition
I should not have had the slightest suspicion that I had ever beheld
them. Their countenances were totally changed in character, so that I
could not bring myself to believe them really the same individuals with
whom I had been in company but a few days before. Parker, although sadly
reduced, and so feeble that he could not raise his head from his bosom,
was not so far gone as the other two. He suffered with great patience,
making no complaint, and endeavouring to inspire us with hope in every
manner he could devise. For myself, although at the commencement of
the voyage I had been in bad health, and was at all times of a delicate
constitution, I suffered less than any of us, being much less reduced in
frame, and retaining my powers of mind in a surprising degree, while the
rest were completely prostrated in intellect, and seemed to be
brought to a species of second childhood, generally simpering in
their expressions, with idiotic smiles, and uttering the most absurd
platitudes. At intervals, however, they would appear to revive suddenly,
as if inspired all at once with a consciousness of their condition, when
they would spring upon their feet in a momentary flash of vigour, and
speak, for a short period, of their prospects, in a manner altogether
rational, although full of the most intense despair. It is possible,
however, that my companions may have entertained the same

Last Page Next Page

Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 1
Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden-notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! [Illustration: The Bells] III.
Page 4
I was a child and _she_ was a child, In this kingdom.
Page 7
and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
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
Whitman.
Page 11
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odours Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
Page 12
Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie.
Page 14
_ULALUME_ The skies 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 19
O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy-- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill-- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell.
Page 20
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant in grief Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: And Clytia, pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth, And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante! And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river-- Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess' song, in odours, up to Heaven "Spirit! thou dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue-- The boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar-- Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride and from their throne To be drudges till the last-- To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part-- Who livest--_that_ we know-- In Eternity--we feel-- But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream'd for thy Infinity A model of.
Page 22
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature love's the best for Beauty's grave Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave-- And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peerèd out, Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche-- Achaian statues in a world so rich? Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis-- From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave Is now upon thee--but too late to save! Sound loves to revel in a summer night: Witness the murmur of the grey twilight That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, Of many a wild star-gazer long ago-- That stealeth ever on the ear of him Who, musing, gazeth on the distant dim, And sees the darkness coming as a cloud-- Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud? But what is this?--it cometh, and it brings A music with it--'tis the rush of wings-- A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain And Nesace is in her halls again.
Page 23
[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
On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee.
Page 25
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover-- O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known? Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan.
Page 26
" "But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft, Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world I left so late was into chaos hurl'd-- Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Page 34
_FOR ANNIE_ Thank Heaven! the crisis-- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last-- And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last.
Page 35
let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed-- And, _to sleep_, you must slumber In just such a bed.
Page 36
It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush-- The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires--with the captive's prayer-- The hum of suitors--and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
Page 37
O, she was worthy of all love! Love--as in infancy was mine-- 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense--then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright-- Pure--as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? We grew in age--and love--together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather-- And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd And she would mark the opening skies, _I_ saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
Page 39
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.