Kitabı oku: «The Works of Edgar Allan Poe – Volume 5», sayfa 15

AL AARAAF⁶

PART I

 
          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,
          Its echo dwelleth and will dwell —
          Oh, nothing of the dross of ours —
          Yet all the beauty – all the flowers
          That list our Love, and deck our bowers —
          Adorn yon world afar, afar —
          The wandering star.
 
 
             ‘Twas a sweet time for Nesace – for there
          Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
          Near four bright suns – a temporary rest —
          An oasis in desert of the blest.
 
 
          Away – away – ‘mid seas of rays that roll
          Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul —
          The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
          Can struggle to its destin’d eminence —
          To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
          And late to ours, the favour’d one of God —
          But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm,
          She throws aside the sceptre – leaves the helm,
          And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
          Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
 
 
              Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
          Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
          (Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
          Like woman’s hair ‘mid pearls, until, afar,
          It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
          She look’d into Infinity – and knelt.
          Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled —
          Fit emblems of the model of her world —
          Seen but in beauty – not impeding sight
          Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light —
          A wreath that twined each starry form around,
          And all the opal’d air in color bound.
 
 
              All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
          Of flowers:  of lilies such as rear’d the head
          ⁷On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
          So eagerly around about to hang
          Upon the flying footsteps of – deep pride —
          ⁸Of her who lov’d a mortal – and so died.
          The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
          Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees:
 
 
          ⁹ On Santa Maura – olim Deucadia.
 
 
          ¹⁰And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d —
          Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d
          All other loveliness: its honied dew
          (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
          Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven,
          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:
          ¹¹And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
          While pettish tears adown her petals run:
          ¹²And 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:
 
 
     ¹³And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
     From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
     ¹⁴And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
     Isola d’oro! – Fior di Levante!
     ¹⁵And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
     With Indian Cupid down the holy river —
     Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
     ¹⁶To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven:
 
 
        “Spirit! that 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
              ¹⁷A model of their own —
          Thy will is done, Oh, God!
              The star hath ridden high
          Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
              Beneath thy burning eye;
          And here, in thought, to thee —
              In thought that can alone
          Ascend thy empire and so be
              A partner of thy throne —
 
 
          ¹⁸By winged Fantasy,
              My embassy is given,
          Till secrecy shall knowledge be
              In the environs of Heaven.”
 
 
          She ceas’d – and buried then her burning cheek
          Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek
          A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
          For the stars trembled at the Deity.
          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.”
           Ours is a world of words:  Quiet we call
          “Silence” – which is the merest word of all.
          All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
          Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings —
          But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
          The eternal voice of God is passing by,
          And the red winds are withering in the sky!
 
 
          ¹⁹“What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
          Link’d to a little system, and one sun —
          Where all my love is folly and the crowd
          Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
          The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath —
          (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
          What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
          The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
 
 
          Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
          To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
          Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
          With all thy train, athwart the moony sky —
          ²⁰Apart – like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
          And wing to other worlds another light!
          Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
          To the proud orbs that twinkle – and so be
          To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban
          Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”
 
 
              Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
          The single-mooned eve! – on Earth we plight
          Our faith to one love – and one moon adore —
          The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
          As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
          Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
          And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
          ²¹Her way – but left not yet her Therasæan reign.
 

Part II

 
          HIGH on a mountain of enamell’d head —
          Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
          Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
          Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
          With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”
           What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven —
          Of rosy head, that towering far away
          Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
          Of sunken suns at eve – at noon of night,
          While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light —
          Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile
          Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air,
          Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
          Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
          And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
          ²²Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
          Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall
          Of their own dissolution, while they die —
          Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
          A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
          Sat gently on these columns as a crown —
          A window of one circular diamond, there,
          Look’d out above into the purple air,
          And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
          And hallow’d all the beauty twice again,
          Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,
          Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing.
          But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
          The dimness of this world:  that greyish green
          That Nature loves 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 peeréd out
          Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche —
          Achaian statues in a world so rich?
          ²³Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis —
          From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
          ²⁴Of 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
          ²⁵That 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 distance dim.
          And sees the darkness coming as a cloud —
          ²⁶Is 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.
          From the wild energy of wanton haste
              Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
          And zone that clung around her gentle waist
              Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
          Within the centre of that hall to breathe
          She paus’d and panted, Zanthe!  all beneath,
          The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair
          And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
 
 
              ²⁷Young flowers were whispering in melody
          To happy flowers that night – and tree to tree;
          Fountains were gushing music as they fell
          In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
          Yet silence came upon material things —
          Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings —
          And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
          Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
 
 
           “‘Neath blue-bell or streamer —
               Or tufted wild spray
           That keeps, from the dreamer,
               ²⁸The moonbeam away —
             Bright beings!  that ponder,
               With half closing eyes,
           On the stars which your wonder
               Hath drawn from the skies,
           Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
               Come down to your brow
           Like – eyes of the maiden
               Who calls on you now —
           Arise!  from your dreaming
               In violet bowers,
           To duty beseeming
               These star-litten hours —
           And shake from your tresses
               Encumber’d with dew
           The breath of those kisses
               That cumber them too —
           (O!  how, without you, Love!
               Could angels be blest?)
           Those kisses of true love
               That lull’d ye to rest!
           Up! – shake from your wing
               Each hindering thing:
           The dew of the night —
               It would weigh down your flight;
           And true love caresses —
               O! leave them apart!
          They are light on the tresses,
              But lead on the heart.
 
 
          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,
              ²⁹Like the lone Albatross,
          Incumbent on night
              (As she on the air)
          To keep watch with delight
              On the harmony there?
 
 
          Ligeia!  whatever
              Thy image may be,
          No magic shall sever
              Thy music from thee.
          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 —
          ³⁰The murmur that springs
              From the growing of grass
          Are the music of things —
              But are modell’d, alas! —
          Away, then my dearest,
              O!  hie thee away
          To 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
              ³¹ Have slept with the bee —
          Arouse them my maiden,
              On moorland and lea —
          Go!  breathe on their slumber,
              All softly in ear,
          The musical number
              They slumber’d 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 rythmical 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 light
          That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds, afar
          O Death!  from eye of God upon that star:
          Sweet was that error – sweeter still that death —
          Sweet was that error – ev’n with us the breath
          Of science dims the mirror of our joy —
          To them ‘twere the Simoom, and would destroy —
          For what (to them) availeth it to know
          That Truth is Falsehood – or that Bliss is Woe?
          Sweet was their death – with them to die was rife
          With the last ecstacy of satiate life —
          Beyond that death no immortality —
          But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be” —
          And there – oh!  may my weary spirit dwell —
³²Apart from Heaven’s Eternity – and yet how far from Hell!
 
 
          What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
          Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
          But two:  they fell:  for Heaven no grace imparts
          To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
          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?
³³Unguided Love hath fallen – ‘mid “tears of perfect moan.”
 
 
          He was a goodly spirit – he who fell:
          A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well —
          A gazer on the lights that shine above —
          A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
          What wonder?  For each star is eye-like there,
          And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair —
          And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy
          To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
          The night had found (to him a night of wo)
          Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo —
          Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
          And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
          Here sate he with his love – his dark eye bent
          With eagle gaze along the firmament:
          Now turn’d it upon her – but ever then
          It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
 
 
          “Iante, dearest, see!  how dim that ray!
          How lovely ‘tis to look so far away!
          She seem’d not thus upon that autumn eve
          I left her gorgeous halls – nor mourn’d to leave.
          That eve – that eve – I should remember well —
          The sun-ray dropp’d, in Lemnos, with a spell
          On th’Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
          Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall —
          And on my eye-lids – O the heavy light!
          How drowsily it weigh’d them into night!
          On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
          With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
          But O that light! – I slumber’d – Death, the while,
          Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
          So softly that no single silken hair
          Awoke that slept – or knew that it was there.
 
 
          The last spot of Earth’s orb I trod upon
          ³⁴Was a proud temple call’d the Parthenon —
          More beauty clung around her column’d wall
          ³⁵Than ev’n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
          And when old Time my wing did disenthral
          Thence sprang I – as the eagle from his tower,
          And years I left behind me in an hour.
          What time upon her airy bounds I hung
          One half the garden of her globe was flung
          Unrolling as a chart unto my view —
          Tenantless cities of the desert too!
          Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
          And half I wish’d to be again of men.”
 
 
          “My Angelo! and why of them to be?
          A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee —
           And greener fields than in yon world above,
           And women’s loveliness – and passionate love.”
           “But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
           ³⁶Fail’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.
           Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
           And fell – not swiftly as I rose before,
           But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
           Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
           Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
           For nearest of all stars was thine to ours —
           Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
           A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.
 
 
           “We came – and to thy Earth – but not to us
           Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
           We came, my love; around, above, below,
           Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
           Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
           She grants to us, as granted by her God —
           But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl’d
           Never his fairy wing o’er fairier world!
           Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
           Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
           When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
           Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea —
           But when its glory swell’d upon the sky,
           As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
           We paus’d before the heritage of men,
           And thy star trembled – as doth Beauty then!”
 
 
           Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
           The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
           They fell:  for Heaven to them no hope imparts
           Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
 

TAMERLANE

 
     KIND solace in a dying hour!
         Such, father, is not (now) my theme —
     I will not madly deem that power
             Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
             Unearthly pride hath revell’d in —
         I have no time to dote or dream:
     You call it hope – that fire of fire!
     It is but agony of desire:
     If I can hope – Oh God! I can —
         Its fount is holier – more divine —
     I would not call thee fool, old man,
         But such is not a gift of thine.
 
 
     Know thou the secret of a spirit
         Bow’d from its wild pride into shame.
     O! yearning heart! I did inherit
         Thy withering portion with the fame,
     The searing glory which hath shone
     Amid the jewels of my throne,
     Halo of Hell! and with a pain
     Not Hell shall make me fear again —
     O! craving heart, for the lost flowers
     And sunshine of my summer hours!
     Th’ undying voice of that dead time,
     With its interminable chime,
     Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
     Upon thy emptiness – a knell.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     On mountain soil I first drew life:
         The mists of the Taglay have shed
         Nightly their dews upon my head,
     And, I believe, the winged strife
     And tumult of the headlong air
     Have nestled in my very hair.
 
 
     So late from Heaven – that dew – it fell
         (Mid dreams of an unholy night)
     Upon me – with the touch of Hell,
         While the red flashing of the light
     From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
         Appeared to my half-closing eye
         The pageantry of monarchy,
     And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar
         Came hurriedly upon me, telling
             Of human battle, where my voice,
         My own voice, silly child! – was swelling
             (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
     And leap within me at the cry)
     The battle-cry of Victory!
 
 
     The rain came down upon my head
         Unshelter’d – and the heavy wind
         Was giantlike – so thou, my mind! —
     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 suiters – and the tone
     Of flattery ‘round a sovereign’s throne.
 
 
     My passions, from that hapless hour,
         Usurp’d a tyranny which men
     Have deem’d, since I have reach’d to power;
             My innate nature – be it so:
         But, father, there liv’d one who, then,
     Then – in my boyhood – when their fire
             Burn’d with a still intenser glow,
     (For passion must, with youth, expire)
         E’en then who knew this iron heart
         In woman’s weakness had a part.
 
 
     I have no words – alas! – to tell
     The loveliness of loving well!
     Nor would I now attempt to trace
     The more than beauty of a face
     Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
     Are – shadows on th’ unstable wind:
     Thus I remember having dwelt
     Some page of early lore upon,
     With loitering eye, till I have felt
     The letters – with their meaning – melt
     To fantasies – with none.
 
 
     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 ev’ry 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.
 
 
     Young Love’s first lesson is – the heart:
         For ‘mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
     When, from our little cares apart,
         And laughing at her girlish wiles,
     I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
         And pour my spirit out in tears —
     There was no need to speak the rest —
         No need to quiet any fears
     Of her – who ask’d no reason why,
     But turn’d on me her quiet eye!
 
 
     Yet more than worthy of the love
     My spirit struggled with, and strove,
     When, on the mountain peak, alone,
     Ambition lent it a new tone —
     I had no being – but in thee:
         The world, and all it did contain
     In the earth – the air – the sea —
         Its joy – its little lot of pain
     That was new pleasure – the ideal,
         Dim, vanities of dreams by night —
     And dimmer nothings which were real —
         (Shadows – and a more shadowy light!)
     Parted upon their misty wings,
             And, so, confusedly, became
             Thine image, and – a name – a name!
     Two separate – yet most intimate things.
 
 
     I was ambitious – have you known
             The passion, father? You have not:
     A cottager, I mark’d a throne
     Of half the world as all my own,
             And murmur’d at such lowly lot —
     But, just like any other dream,
             Upon the vapour of the dew
     My own had past, did not the beam
             Of beauty which did while it thro’
     The minute – the hour – the day – oppress
     My mind with double loveliness.
 
 
     We walk’d together on the crown
     Of a high mountain which look’d down
     Afar from its proud natural towers
         Of rock and forest, on the hills —
     The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
         And shouting with a thousand rills.
 
 
     I spoke to her of power and pride,
         But mystically – in such guise
     That she might deem it nought beside
         The moment’s converse; in her eyes
     I read, perhaps too carelessly —
         A mingled feeling with my own —
     The flush on her bright cheek, to me
         Seem’d to become a queenly throne
     Too well that I should let it be
         Light in the wilderness alone.
 
 
     I wrapp’d myself in grandeur then,
         And donn’d a visionary crown —
             Yet it was not that Fantasy
             Had thrown her mantle over me —
     But that, among the rabble – men,
             Lion ambition is chain’d down —
     And crouches to a keeper’s hand —
     Not so in deserts where the grand
     The wild – the terrible conspire
     With their own breath to fan his fire.
 
 
     Look ‘round thee now on Samarcand! —
         Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
     Above all cities? in her hand
         Their destinies? in all beside
     Of glory which the world hath known
     Stands she not nobly and alone?
     Falling – her veriest stepping-stone
     Shall form the pedestal of a throne —
     And who her sovereign? Timour – he
         Whom the astonished people saw
     Striding o’er empires haughtily
         A diadem’d outlaw —
 
 
     O! human love! thou spirit given,
     On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
     Which fall’st into the soul like rain
     Upon the Siroc wither’d plain,
     And failing in thy power to bless
     But leav’st the heart a wilderness!
     Idea! which bindest life around
     With music of so strange a sound
     And beauty of so wild a birth —
     Farewell! for I have won the Earth!
 
 
     When Hope, the eagle that tower’d, could see
         No cliff beyond him in the sky,
     His pinions were bent droopingly —
         And homeward turn’d his soften’d eye.
     ‘Twas sunset: when the sun will part
     There comes a sullenness of heart
     To him who still would look upon
     The glory of the summer sun.
     That soul will hate the ev’ning mist,
     So often lovely, and will list
     To the sound of the coming darkness (known
     To those whose spirits hearken) as one
     Who, in a dream of night, would fly
     But cannot from a danger nigh.
 
 
     What tho’ the moon – the white moon
     Shed all the splendour of her noon,
     Her smile is chilly – and her beam,
     In that time of dreariness, will seem
     (So like you gather in your breath)
     A portrait taken after death.
     And boyhood is a summer sun
     Whose waning is the dreariest one —
     For all we live to know is known,
     And all we seek to keep hath flown —
     Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
     With the noon-day beauty – which is all.
 
 
     I reach’d my home – my home no more —
         For all had flown who made it so —
     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 wo —
 
 
     Father, I firmly do believe —
         I know– for Death, who comes for me
             From regions of the blest afar,
     Where there is nothing to deceive,
             Hath left his iron gate ajar,
         And rays of truth you cannot see
         Are flashing thro’ Eternity —
     I do believe that Eblis hath
     A snare in ev’ry human path —
     Else how, when in the holy grove
     I wandered of the idol, Love,
     Who daily scents his snowy wings
     With incense of burnt offerings
     From the most unpolluted things,
     Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
     Above with trelliced rays from Heaven
     No mote may shun – no tiniest fly
     The light’ning of his eagle eye —
     How was it that Ambition crept,
         Unseen, amid the revels there,
     Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
         In the tangles of Love’s very hair?
 

1829.