Bab Bab 18 · THE CONQUEROR WORM（1）
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
1838
* * * * *
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.
There is a twofold _Silence_--sea and shore--
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
1840
* * * * *
DREAMLAND.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule--
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews 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.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,--
By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
By the gray woods,--by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,--
By each spot the most unholy--
In each nook most melancholy,--
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past--
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by--
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not--dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
1844
* * * * *
TO ZANTE.
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
_No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_--
Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground
Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
1887.
* * * * *
HYMN.
At morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and wo--in good and ill--
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
1885.
* * * * *
NOTES.
20. LENORE
"Lenore" was published, very nearly in its existing shape, in 'The
Pioneer' for 1843, but under the title of "The Pæan"--now first
published in the POEMS OF YOUTH--the germ of it appeared in 1831.
* * * * *
21. TO ONE IN PARADISE
"To One in Paradise" was included originally in "The Visionary" (a tale
now known as "The Assignation"), in July, 1835, and appeared as a
separate poem entitled "To Ianthe in Heaven," in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for July, 1839. The fifth stanza is now added, for the first
time, to the piece.
* * * * *
22. THE COLISEUM
"The Coliseum" appeared in the Baltimore 'Saturday Visitor' ('sic') in
1833, and was republished in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for
August 1835, as "A Prize Poem."
* * * * *
23. THE HAUNTED PALACE
"The Haunted Palace" originally issued in the Baltimore 'American
Museum' for April, 1888, was subsequently embodied in that much admired
tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher," and published in it in Burton's
'Gentleman's Magazine' for September, 1839. It reappeared in that as a
separate poem in the 1845 edition of Poe's poems.
* * * * *
24. THE CONQUEROR WORM
"The Conqueror Worm," then contained in Poe's favorite tale of "Ligeia,"
was first published in the 'American Museum' for September, 1838. As a
separate poem, it reappeared in 'Graham's Magazine' for January, 1843.
* * * * *
25. SILENCE
The sonnet, "Silence," was originally published in Burton's 'Gentleman's
Magazine' for April, 1840.
* * * * *
26. DREAMLAND
The first known publication of "Dreamland" was in 'Graham's Magazine'
for June, 1844.
* * * * *
37. TO ZANTE
The "Sonnet to Zante" is not discoverable earlier than January, 1837,
when it appeared in the 'Southern Literary Messenger'.
* * * * *
28. HYMN
The initial version of the "Catholic Hymn" was contained in the story of
"Morella," and published in the 'Southern Literary Messenger' for April,
1885. The lines as they now stand, and with their present title, were
first published in the 'Broadway Journal for August', 1845.
* * * * *
SCENES FROM "POLITIAN."
AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
I.
ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE
_Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
_Castiglione_. Sad!--not I.
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
_Aless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
_Cas_. Did I sigh?
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly--a most silly fashion I have
When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._)
_Aless_. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.
_Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--
Not even deep sorrow--
Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
I will amend.
_Aless_. Do it! I would have thee drop
Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born
Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir
And Alessandra's husband.
_Cas_. I will drop them.
_Aless_. Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
Upon appearances.
_Cas_. I'll see to it.
_Aless_. Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
In dignity.
_Cas_. Much, much, oh, much I want
In proper dignity.
_Aless.
(haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir!
_Cos.
(abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
_Aless_. Heard I aright?
I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage?
Sir Count!
(_places her hand on his shoulder_)
what art thou dreaming?
He's not well!
What ails thee, sir?
_Cas.(starting_). Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!
_Enter Di Broglio_.
_Di Broglio_. My son, I've news for thee!--hey!
--what's the matter?
(_observing Alessandra_).
I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
I've news for you both. Politian is expected
Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
To the imperial city.
_Aless_. What! Politian
Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
_Di Brog_. The same, my love.
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him,
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.
_Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian.
Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not,
And little given to thinking?
_Di Brog_. Far from it, love.
No branch, they say, of all philosophy
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
Learned as few are learned.
_Aless_. 'Tis very strange!
I have known men have seen Politian
And sought his company. They speak of him
As of one who entered madly into life,
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
_Cas_. Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian
And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
He is a dreamer, and shut out
From common passions.
_Di Brog_. Children, we disagree.
Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
Politian was a _melancholy_ man?
(_Exeunt._)
II.
ROME.--A Lady's Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and
a hand-mirror. In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans
carelessly upon a chair.
_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?
_Jacinta
(pertly_). Yes, ma'am, I'm here.
_Lal_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.
_Jac. (aside_). 'Tis time.
(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting
her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous
look. Lalage continues to read._)
_Lal_. "It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"
(_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.)
"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind"
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
Jacinta!
(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.)
Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so--her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many"--Ah, luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story--
But like--oh, very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
Lean over her and keep--two gentle maids
With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!
_Jac_.
(_pettishly_). Madam, what is it?
_Lal_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists?
_Jac_. Pshaw!
(_Exit_)
_Lal_. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."
(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)
There, ma'am, 's the book.
(_aside_.) Indeed she is very troublesome.
_Lal_.
(_astonished_). What didst thou say, Jacinta?
Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trustworthy and respectful.
(_resumes her reading_.)
_Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe
She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.
_Lal_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?--is there no further aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?
_Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid!
That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
_Lal_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.
_Jac_. Oh, perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it.
(_Exit_)
(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a
short pause raises it_.)
_Lal_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
(_taking up the mirror_)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And beauty long deceased--remembers me,
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!
(_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches
unobserved_)
_Monk_. Refuge thou hast,
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
_Lal.
(arising hurriedly_). I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below;
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!
_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!
_Lal_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
And think of me!--think of my trusting love
And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?
_Monk_. I did.
_Lal_. 'Tis well.
There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made--
A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
A solemn vow!
_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!
_Lal_. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
This sacred vow? (_he hands her his own_.)
Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no (_shuddering_.)
Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
_I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
And the deed's register should tally, father!
(_draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in heaven!
_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter,
And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
Pause ere too late!--oh, be not--be not rash!
Swear not the oath--oh, swear it not!
_Lal_. 'Tis sworn!
III.
An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
_Baldazzar_. Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
And live, for now thou diest!
_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar!
_Surely_ I live.
_Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus!
_Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir!
_Bal_. To the field then--to the field--
To the senate or the field.
_Pol_. Alas! alas!
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is--what voice was that?
_Bal_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.
_Pol_. Then I but dreamed.
_Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.
_Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice!
Didst thou not hear it _then_?
_Bal_ I heard it not.
_Pol_. Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile
We have been boys together--school-fellows--
And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
Unto thy friend.
_Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.
_Pol_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar?
_Bal_. Indeed I hear not.
_Pol_. Not hear it!--listen--now--listen!--the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
Surely I never heard--yet it were well
Had I _but_ heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!
_Bal_. I myself hear it now.
Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from younder lattice--which you may see
Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.
_Pol_. Be still!--it comes again!
_Voice_
(_very faintly_). "And is thy heart so strong [1]
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England--never so plaintively--
Hist! hist! it comes again!
_Voice
(more loudly_). "Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus,
That have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. 'Tis hushed and all is still!
_Pol_. All _is not_ still.
_Bal_. Let us go down.
_Pol_. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
_Bal_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
_Voice_
(_distinctly_). "Who have loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay! say nay!"
_Bal_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
_Pol_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember.
(_going_).
Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
"To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue."
_Bal_. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down, I pray you.
_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!
_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought
the voice
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
(_Approaching the window_)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me;
I go not down to-night.
_Bal_. Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
_Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night.
IV.
The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.
_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!
This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!
_Politian_. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage--
Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_;
Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?
(_arising_.)
Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
Thy beauty and thy woes.
_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?
_Pol_. Speak not to me of glory!
I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it--
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust--so we descend together?
Descend together--and then--and then perchance--