EDGAR ALLAN POE. 1811-1849. TO HELEN. I SAW thee once, once only, years ago: It was a July midnight, and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe ; No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride How daring an ambition! yet how deep, How fathomless a capacity for love! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still-two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! TO ONE IN PARADISE. Thou wast all that to me, love, 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, Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams, In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. GEORGE MEREDITH. ["Poems." 1851.] LOVE IN THE VALLEY. UNDER yonder beech-tree standing on the green sward, Couched with her arms behind her little head, Her knees folded up, and her tresses on her bosom, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her! Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow, Waking on the instant she could not but embrace me— Ah! would she hold me, and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow; Swift as the swallow when athwart the western flood Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine tops; What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her? What can have taught her distrust of all my vows? No, she does not doubt me! on a dewy eve-tide Whispering together beneath the listening moon, I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she faltered, When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Often she thinks, "Were this wild thing wedded, I should have more love, and much less care." Clambering roses peep into her chamber, Jasmine and woodbine, breathe sweet, sweet, White-necked swallows twittering of summer, Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to feet. Ah! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, When the petals fall, and fierce blcom is on the leaves? Will the Autumn garners see her still ungathered, When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping eaves? Comes a sudden question-Should a strange hand pluck her! Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth; They see as I see, mine is the fairest! Would she were older, and could read my worth! Are there not sweet maidens if she still deny me? Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar? So I rhyme and reason till she darts before me, Through the milky meadows from flower to flower she flies, Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eyelids From the golden love that looks too eager in her eyes. |