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From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--

From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.'

________

The End | Go to top

To One In Paradise

Thou wast that all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine--

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine,

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

'On! on!'--but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of Life is o'er!

'No more-- no more--no more'--

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams--

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams!

Alas! for that accursed time

They bore thee o'er the billow,

From love to titled age and crime,

And an unholy pillow!

From me, and from our misty clime,

Where weeps the silver willow!

________

The End | Go to top

The Coliseum

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

Of lofty contemplation left to Time

By buried centuries of pomp and power!

At length--at length--after so many days

Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,

(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

Amid thy shadows, and so drink within

My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!

Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!

I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--

O spells more sure than e'er Judean king

Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!

O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee

Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,

The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--

These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--

These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--

These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--

These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--

All of the famed, and the colossal left

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

'Not all'--the Echoes answer me--'not all!

Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

As melody from Memnon to the Sun.

We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule

With a despotic sway all giant minds.

We are not impotent--we pallid stones.

Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--

Not all the magic of our high renown--

Not all the wonder that encircles us--

Not all the mysteries that in us lie--

Not all the memories that hang upon

And cling around about us as a garment,

Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.'

________

The End | Go to top

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace--

Radiant palace--reared its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion--

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow,

(This--all this--was in the olden

Time long ago),

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tun?d law,

Bound about a throne where, sitting

(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

Вы читаете Works of Edgar Allan Poe
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