Selections from Poe. Edgar Allan Poe

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 never more!

      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.

      "Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,

      And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her – that she died!

      How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be sung

      By you – by yours, the evil eye, – by yours, the slanderous tongue

      That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

      Peccanimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song

      Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.

      The sweet Lenore hath gone before, with Hope that flew beside,

      Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride:

      For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,

      The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes;

      The life still there, upon her hair – the death upon her eyes.

      "Avaunt! avaunt! from friends below, the indignant ghost is riven —

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

      From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!

      Let no bell toll, then, – lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

      Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth!

      And I! – to-night my heart is light! – No dirge will I upraise,

      But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days."

      THE VALLEY OF UNREST

      Once it smiled a silent dell

      Where the people did not dwell;

      They had gone unto the wars,

      Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,

      Nightly, from their azure towers,

      To keep watch above the flowers,

      In the midst of which all day

      The red sunlight lazily lay.

      Now each visitor shall confess

      The sad valley's restlessness.

      Nothing there is motionless,

      Nothing save the airs that brood

      Over the magic solitude.

      Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees

      That palpitate like the chill seas

      Around the misty Hebrides!

      Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven

      That rustle through the unquiet Heaven

      Uneasily, from morn till even,

      Over the violets there that lie

      In myriad types of the human eye,

      Over the lilies there that wave

      And weep above a nameless grave!

      They wave: – from out their fragrant tops

      Eternal dews come down in drops.

      They weep: – from off their delicate stems

      Perennial, tears descend in gems.

      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 Judæan 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 hornéd 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."

      HYMN

      At morn – at noon – at twilight dim,

      Maria! thou hast heard my hymn.

      In joy and woe, 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