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hee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf! Thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy.

31. The earliest version of “Tamerlane” was included in the suppressed volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at least.

32. “To Helen” first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also “The Valley of Unrest” (as “The Valley Nis”), “Israfel,” and one or two others of the youthful pieces. The poem styled “Romance,” constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines:

Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, through the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth Ring Light on the lightning’s silver wing. For being an idle boy lang syne; Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes— And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain— His naiveté to wild desire— His wit to love-his wine to fire— And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy, And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest— I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath— Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me.

But now my soul hath too much room— Gone are the glory and the gloom— The black hath mellow’d into gray, And all the fires are fading away. My draught of passion hath been deep— I revell’d, and I now would sleep And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away. But dreams—of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly blown, To break upon Time’s monotone, While yet my vapid joy and grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf— Why not an imp the graybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path— And e’en the graybeard will o’erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book.

DOUBTFUL POEMS

ALONE

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—_I_ lov’d alone— _Then_—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ‘round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

{This poem is no longer considered doubtful as it was in 1903. Liberty has been taken to replace the book version with an earlier, perhaps more original manuscript version—Ed}

TO ISADORE

I Beneath the vine-clad eaves, Whose shadows fall before Thy lowly cottage door Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves— Within thy snowy claspeèd hand The purple flowers it bore. Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand, Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land— Enchantress of the flowery wand, Most beauteous Isadore! II And when I bade the dream Upon thy spirit flee, Thy violet eyes to me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight Of Love’s serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight, Enthralled my soul to thee! III Ah I ever I behold Thy dreamy, passionate eyes, Blue as the languid skies Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold; Now strangely clear thine image grows, And olden memories Are startled from their long repose Like shadows on the silent snows When suddenly the night-wind blows Where quiet moonlight ties. IV Like music heard in dreams, Like strains of harps unknown, Of birds forever flown Audible as the voice of streams That murmur in some leafy dell, I hear thy gentlest tone, And Silence cometh with her spell Like that which on my tongue doth dwell, When tremulous in dreams I tell My love to thee alone! V In every valley heard, Floating from tree to tree, Less beautiful to, me, The music of the radiant bird, Than artless accents such as thine Whose echoes never flee! Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:— For uttered in thy tones benign (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine Doth seem a melody!

THE VILLAGE STREET

In these rapid, restless shadows, Once I walked at eventide, When a gentle, silent maiden, Wal ked in beauty at my side She alone there walked beside me All in beauty, like a bride. Pallidly the moon was shining On the dewy meadows nigh; On the silvery, silent rivers, On the mountains far and high On the ocean’s star-lit waters, Where the winds a-weary die. Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door, Underneath the elm’s long branches To the pavement bending o’er; Underneath the mossy willow And the dying sycamore. With the myriad stars in beauty All bedight, the heavens were seen, Radiant hopes were bright around me, Like the light of stars serene; Like the mellow midnight splendor Of the Night’s irradiate queen. Audibly the elm-leaves whispered Peaceful, pleasant melodies, Like the distant murmured music Of unquiet, lovely seas: While the winds were hushed in slumber In the fragrant flowers and trees. Wondrous and unwonted beauty Still adorning all did seem, While I told my love in fables ‘Neath the willows by the stream; Would the he