The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 by Edgar Allan Poe (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

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.