The Poems of Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe

Author:Edgar Allan Poe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dover Publications
Published: 2013-01-08T16:00:00+00:00

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 ABLDAZZAR.

Baldazzar. Arouse thee now, Politian!

Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not

Give way unto these humours. 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 honoured 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.

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