The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe (Illustrated Edition). Эдгар Аллан По

16. Some star which, from the ruin'd roof Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall. Milton.

17. Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says,

      "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines—mais un palais érigé au pied d'une chaîne de rochers steriles—peut-il être un chef d'oeuvre des arts!"

18. "Oh, the wave"—Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its own shores, it is called Baliar Loth, or Al-motanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In the valley of Siddim were five—Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed) —but the last is out of all reason. It is said (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, Troilo, D'Arvieux), that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, etc., are seen above the surface. At any season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distance as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the "Asphaltites."

19. Eyraco-Chaldea.

20. I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.

21. Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Merry Wives of Windsor.

22. In Scripture is this passage:

      "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night."

      It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently alludes.

23. The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

24. I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:

      "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."

25. The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. The rhyme in the verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro—in whose mouth I admired its effect:

      O! were there an island,

       Tho' ever so wild,

       Where woman might smile, and

       No man be beguil'd, etc.

26. With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.

      Un no rompido sueno—

       Un dia puro—allegre—libre

       Quiera—

       Libre de amor—de zelo—

       De odio—de esperanza—de rezelo.

       Luis Ponce de Leon.

      Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium.

       The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures—the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.

27. There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon. Milton.

28. It was entire in 1687—the most elevated spot in Athens.

29. Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the queen of love. Marlowe.

30. Pennon, for pinion.—Milton.

      Tamerlane

       Table of Contents

      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 revelled 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—O 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 Bowed 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! The 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 fevered diadem on my brow I claimed and won usurpingly— Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Cæsar—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 Unsheltered—and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 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 suitors—and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurped a tyranny which men Have deemed since I have reached to power, My innate nature—be it so: But, father, there lived one who, then, Then—in my boyhood—when their fire Burned 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,