User:Naaman Brown/Tamerlane

This is superceded at Wikisource by Wikisource:Tamerlane (disambiguation page), Wikisource:Tamerlane (1827) and Wikisource:Tamerlane (1845) which will reflect edits and corrections by all collaborators first. The posting here preceded any posting at Wikisource.

some notes:

Poe was noted for his rewrites. Bibliographical and Textual Notes in The Borzoi Poe (The Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe, intro and notes by Arthur Hobson Quinn, texts established w. biblio notes by Edward H. O'neill, Knopf, 1946, 2 vols) notes five versions of "Tamerlane": O'Neill notes that except for line 57, the versions of 1829 and 1845 are the same, but the version of 1831 has "many changes". The Borzoi Poe edition used the 1845 text although the poem itself was dated (1827) based on first publication.
 * Tamerlane and Other Poems, Boston, 1827
 * manuscript version, intermediate between 1827 and 1829
 * Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems, Baltimore, 1829
 * Poems, New York, 1831
 * The Raven and Other Poems, New York, 1845.

Tamerlane by Edgar Allan Poe

version of 1827 with notes, followed by final version of 1845

TAMERLANE (1827) I. I have sent for thee, holy friar;[1] But 'twas not with the drunken hope, Which is but agony of desire To shun the fate, with which to cope Is more than crime may dare to dream, That I have call'd thee at this hour: Such, father, is not my theme--- Nor am I mad, to deem that power Of earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell'd in--- I would not call thee fool, old man, But hope is not a gift of thine; If I can hope (O God! I can) It falls from an eternal shrine. II. The gay wall of this gaudy tower Grows dim around me--death is near. I had not thought, until this hour When passing from the earth, that ear Of any, were it not the shade Of one whom in life I made All mystery but a simple name, Might know the secret of a spirit Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame.-- Shame, said'st thou? Ay, I did inherit That hated portion, with the fame, The worldly glory, which has shown A demon-light around my throne, Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again. III. I have not always been as now-- The fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly-- Ay--the same heritage hath given Rome to the Caesar--this to me; The heirdom of a kingly mind-- And a proud spirit, which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind. In mountain air I first drew life; The mists of the Taglay have shed[2] Nightly their dews on my young head; And my brain drank their venom then, When after day of perilous strife With chamois, I would sieze his den And slumber, in my pride of power, The infant monarch of the hour-- For, with the mountain dew by night, My soul imbibed unhallow'd feeling; And I would feel its essence stealing In dreams upon me--while the light Flashing from cloud that hover'd o'er, Would seem to my half closing eye The pageantry of monarchy! And the deep thunder's echoing roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of war, and tumult, where my voice, My own voice, silly child! was swelling (O how would my wild heart rejoice And leap within me at the cry) The battle cry of victory! *   *    *    *    *                  IV. The rain came down upon my head But barely shelter'd--and the wind Pass'd quickly o'er me--but my mind Was maddening--for 'twas man that shed Laurels upon me--and the rush, The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush Of empires, with the captive's prayer, The hum of suitors, the mix'd tone Of flattery round a sovereign's throne. The storm had ceased--and I awoke-- Its spirit cradled me to sleep, And as it pass'd me by, there broke Strange light upon me, tho' it were My soul in mystery to steep: For I was not as I had been; The child of Nature, without care, Or thought, save of the passing scene.-- V.   My passions, from that hapless hour, Usurp'd a tyranny, which men Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, My innate nature--be it so; But, father, there lived one who, then-- Then, in my boyhood, when their fire Burn'd with a still intenser glow; (For passion must with youth expire) Even then, who deem'd 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 dare attempt to trace The breathing beauty of a face, Which even to my impassion'd mind, Leaves not its memory behind. In spring of life have ye ne'er dwelt Some object of delight upon, With steadfast eye, till ye have felt The earth reel--and the vision gone? And I have held to memory's eye One object--and but one--until Its very form hath pass'd me by, But left its influence with me still. VI. 'Tis not to thee that I should name-- Thou canst not--wouldst not dare to think The magic empire of a flame Which even upon this perilous brink Hath fix'd my soul, tho' unforgiven, By what it lost for passion--Heaven. I loved--and O, how tenderly! Yes! she [was] worthy of all love! Such as in infancy was mine, Tho' then its passion could not be: 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy--her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense--then a goodly gift-- For they were childish, without sin, Pure as her young example taught; Why did I leave it and adrift, Trust to the fickle star within? VII. We grew in age and love together, Roaming the forest and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather, And when the friendly sunshine smiled And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven but in her eyes-- Even childhood knows the human heart; For when, in sunshine and in smiles, From all our little cares apart, Laughing at her half silly wiles, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears, She'd look up in my wilder'd eye-- There was no need to speak the rest-- No need to quiet her kind fears-- She did not ask the reason why. The hallow'd memory of those years Comes o'er me in these lonely hours, And, with sweet loveliness, appears As perfume of strange summer flowers; Of flowers which we have known before In infancy, which seen, recall To mind--not flowers alone--but more, Our earthly life, and love--and all. VIII. Yes! she was worthy of all love! Even such as from the accursed time My spirit with the tempest strove, When on the mountain peak alone, Ambition lent it a new tone, And bade it first to dream of crime, My frenzy to her bosom taught: We still were young; no purer thought Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine;[3] For passionate love is still divine: I loved her as an angel might With ray of all the living light Which blazes upon Edis' shrine.[4] It is not surely sin to name, With such as mine--that mystic flame, I had no being but in thee! The world with all its train of bright And happy beauty (for to me All was an undefined delight), The world--its joy--its share of pain Which I felt not--its bodied forms Of varied being, which contain The bodiless spirits of the storms, The sunshine, and the calm--the ideal And fleeting vanities of dreams, Fearfully beautiful! the real Nothings of mid-day waking life-- Of an enchanted life, which seems, Now as I look back, the strife Of some ill demon, with a power Which left me in an evil hour, All that I felt, or saw, or thought, Crowding, confused became (With thine unearthly beauty fraught) Thou--and the nothing of a name. IX. The passionate spirit which hath known, And deeply felt the silent tone Of its own self supremacy,-- (I speak thus openly to thee, 'Twere folly now to veil a thought With which this aching breast is fraught) The soul which feels its innate right-- The mystic empire and high power Given by the energetic might Of Genius, at its natal hour; Which knows (believe me at this time, When falsehood were a tenfold crime, There is a power in the high spirit To know the fate it will inherit) The soul, which knows such power, will still Find Pride the ruler of its will. Yes! I was proud--and ye who know The magic of that meaning word, So oft perverted, will bestow Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard That the proud spirit had been broken, The proud heart burst in agony At one upbraiding word or token Of her that heart's idolatry-- I was ambitious--have ye known Its fiery passion?--ye have not-- A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world, as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot! But it had pass'd me as a dream Which, of light step, flies with the dew, That kindling thought--did not the beam Of Beauty, which did guide it through The livelong summer day, oppress My mind with double loveliness-- *    *     *     *     *                  X.    We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain, which look'd down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills-- The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers Her own fair hand had rear'd around, Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills, Which as it were, in fairy bound Embraced two hamlets--those our own-- Peacefully happy--yet alone-- *    *     *     *     *    I spoke to her of power and pride-- But mystically, in such guise, That she might deem it nought beside The moment's converse; in her eyes I read (perhaps too carelessly) A mingled feeling with my own; The flush on her bright cheek, to me, Seem'd to become a queenly throne Too well, that I should let it be A light in the dark wild, alone. XI. There--in that hour--a thought came o'er my mind, it had not known before-- To leave her while we both were young,-- To follow my high fate among The strife of nations, and redeem The idle words, which, as a dream Now sounded to her heedless ear-- I held no doubt--I knew no fear Of peril in my wild career; To gain an empire, and throw down As nuptial dowry--a queen's crown, The only feeling which possest, With her own image, my fond breast-- Who, that had known the secret thought Of a young peasant's bosom then, Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught But one, whom fantasy had led Astray from reason--Among men Ambition is chain'd down--nor fed (As in the desert, where the grand, The wild, the beautiful conspire With their own breath to fan its fire) With thoughts such feeling can command; Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn Of those, who hardly will conceive That any should become "great," born[5] In their own sphere--will not believe That they shall stoop in life to one Whom daily they were wont to see Familiarly--whom Fortune's sun Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon, Lowly--and of their own degree-- XII. I pictured to my fancy's eye Her silent, deep astonishment, When, a few fleeting years gone by, (For short the time my high hope lent To its most desperate intent,) She might recall in him, whom Fame Had gilded with a conqueror's name, (With glory--such as might inspire Perforce, a passing thought of one, Whom she had deem'd in his own fire Wither'd and blasted; who had gone A traitor, violate of the truth So plighted in his early youth,) Her own Alexis, who should plight[6] The love he plighted then--again, And raise his infancy's delight, The bride and queen of Tamerlane.-- XIII. One noon of a bright summer's day I pass'd from out the matted bower Where in a deep, still slumber lay My Ada. In that peaceful hour, A silent gaze was my farewell. I had no other solace--then To awake her, and a falsehood tell Of a feign'd journey, were again To trust the weakness of my heart To her soft thrilling voice: To part Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd Of long delight, nor yet had deem'd Awake, that I had held a thought Of parting, were with madness fraught; I knew not woman's heart, alas! Tho' loved, and loving--let it pass.-- XIV I went from out the matted bower, And hurried madly on my way: And felt, with every flying hour, That bore me from my home, more gay; There is of earth an agony Which, ideal, still may be The worst ill of mortality. 'Tis bliss, in its own reality, Too real, to his breast who lives Not within himself but gives A portion of his willing soul To God, and to the great whole-- To him, whose loving spirit will dwell With Nature, in her wild paths; tell Of her wondrous ways, and telling bless Her overpowering loveliness! A more than agony to him Whose failing sight will grow dim With its own living gaze upon That loveliness around: the sun-- The blue sky--the misty light Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue Is grace to its heavenly bed of blue; Dim! tho' looking on all bright! O God! when the thoughts that may not pass Will burst upon him, and alas! For the flight on Earth to Fancy given, There are no words--unless of Heaven. XV. *    *     *     *     *    Look round thee now on Samarcand,[7] Is she not queen of earth? her pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? with all beside Of glory, which the world hath known? Stands she not proudly and alone? And who her sovereign? Timur, he[8] Whom the astonish'd earth hath seen, With victory, on victory, Redoubling age! and more, I ween, The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame.[9] And now what has he? what! a name. The sound of revelry by night Come o'er me, with the mingled voice Of many with a breast as light, As if 'twere not the dying hour Of one, in whom they did rejoice-- As in a leader, haply--Power Its venom secretly imparts; Nothing have I with human hearts. XVI. When Fortune mark'd me for her own, And my proud hopes had reach'd a throne (It boots me not, good friar, to tell A tale the world but knows too well, How by what hidden deeds of might, I clamber'd to the tottering height,) I still was young; and well I ween My spirit what it e'er had been. My eyes were still on pomp and power, My wilder'd heart was far away In valleys of the wild Taglay, In mine own Ada's matted bower. I dwelt not long in Samarcand Ere, in a peasant's lowly guise, I sought my long-abandon'd land; By sunset did its mountains rise In dusky grandeur to my eyes: But as I wander'd on the way My heart sunk with the sun's ray. To him, who still would gaze upon The glory of the summer sun, There comes, when that sun will from him part, A sullen hopelessness of heart. That soul will hate the evening mist So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken)[10] as one Who in a dream of night would fly, But cannot, from a danger nigh. What though the moon--the silvery moon-- Shine on his path, in her high noon; Her smile is chilly, and her beam In that time of dreariness will seem As the portrait of one after death; A likeness taken when the breath Of young life, and the fire o'the eye, Had lately been, but had pass'd by. 'Tis thus when the lovely summer sun Of our boyhood, his course hath run: For all we live to know--is known; And all we seek to keep--hath flown; With the noon-day beauty, which is all. Let life, then, as the day flower, fall-- The transient, passionate day-flower,[11] Withering at the evening hour. XVII. I reach'd my home--my home no more-- For all was flown that made it so-- I pass'd from out its mossy door, In vacant idleness of woe. There met me on its threshold stone A mountain hunter, I had known In childhood, but he knew me not. Something he spoke of the old cot: It had seen better days, he said; There rose a fountain once, and there Full many a fair flower raised its head: But she who rear'd them was long dead, And in such follies had no part, What was there left me now? despair-- A kingdom for a broken--heart.

NOTES

[1] I have sent for thee holy friar.

Of the history of Tamerlane little is known; and with that little, I have taken the full liberty of a poet. -- That he was descended from the family of Zinghis Khan is more than probable -- but he is vulgarly supposed to have been the son of a shepherd, and to have raised himself to the throne by his own address. He died in the year 1405, in the time of Pope Innocent VII.

How I shall account for giving him "a friar," as a death-bed confessor -- I cannot exactly determine. He wanted some one to listen to his tale -- and why not a friar? It does not pass the bounds of possibility -- quite sufficient for my purpose -- and I have at least good authority on my side for such innovations.

[2] The mists of the Taglay have shed, &c.

The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch of the Immaus, in the southern part of Independent Tartary. -- They are celebrated for the singular wildness, and beauty of their vallies.

[3] No purer thought Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine.

I must beg the reader's pardon for making Tamerlane, a Tartar of the fourteenth century, speak in the same language as a Boston gentleman of the nineteenth; but of the Tartar mythology we have little information.

[4] Which blazes upon Edis' shrine.

A deity presiding over virtuous love, upon whose imaginary altar, a sacred fire was continually blazing.

[5]  who hardly will conceive That any should become "great," born In their own sphere.

Although Tamerlane speaks this, it is not the less true. It is a matter of the greatest difficulty to make the generality of mankind believe that one, with whom they are upon terms of intimacy, shall be called, in the world, a "great man." The reason is evident. There are few great men. Their actions are consequently viewed by the mass of the people thro' the medium of distance. -- The prominent parts of their character are alone noted; and those properties, which are minute and common to every one, not being observed, seem to have no connection with a great character.

Who ever read the private memorials, correspondence, &c. which have become so common in our time, without wondering that "great men" should act and think "so abominably?"

[6] Her own Alexis who should plight, &c.

That Tamerlane acquir'd his renown under a feigned name is not entirely a fiction.

[7] Look round thee now on Samarcand.

I believe it was after the battle of Angoria that Tamerlane made Samarcand his residence. It became for a time the seat of learning and the arts.

[8] ''And who her sov'reign? Timur, &c.''

He was called Timur Bek as well as Tamerlane.

[9] The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame.

The conquests of Tamerlane far exceeded those of Zinghis Khan. He boasted to have two thirds of the world at his command.

[10] The sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hark'n.)

I have often fancied that I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness, as it steals over the horizon -- a foolish fancy perhaps, but not more unintelligible than to see music --

"The mind the music breathing from her face."

[11] Let life then, as the day-flow'r, fall.

There is a flower, (I have never known its botanic name,) vulgarly called the day flower. It blooms beautifully in the daylight, but withers towards evening, and by night its leaves appear totally shrivelled and dead. I have forgotten, however, to mention in the text, that it lives again in the morning. If it will not flourish in Tartary, I must be forgiven for carrying it thither. ---

TAMERLANE (1845)

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 revell'd 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--Oh 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 Bow'd 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 fever'd diadem on my brow I claim'd and won usurpingly-- Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Caesar- 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 Unshelter'd--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, Usurp'd a tyranny which men Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, My innate nature--be it so: But father, there liv'd one who, then, Then--in my boyhood--when their fire Burn'd 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, till I have felt The letters--with their meaning--melt To fantasies--with none.

O, she was worthy of all love! Love--as in infancy was mine-- 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense--then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright-- Pure--as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age--and love--together, Roaming the forest, and the wild; My breast her shield in wintry weather-- And when the friendly sunshine smil'd, And she would mark the opening skies, I saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.

Young Love's first lesson is--the heart: For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears-- There was no need to speak the rest-- No need to quiet any fears Of her--who ask'd no reason why, But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love My spirit struggled with, and strove, When, on the mountain peak, alone, Ambition lent it a new tone-- I had no being--but in thee: The world, and all it did contain In the earth--the air--the sea-- Its joy--its little lot of pain That was new pleasure--the ideal, Dim vanities of dreams by night-- And dimmer nothings which were real-- (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!) Parted upon their misty wings, And, so, confusedly, became Thine image, and--a name--a name! Two separate--yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious--have you known The passion, father? You have not: A cottager, I mark'd a throne Of half the world as all my own, And murmur'd at such lowly lot- But, just like any other dream, Upon the vapour of the dew My own had past, did not the beam Of beauty which did while it thro' The minute--the hour--the day--oppress My mind with double loveliness.

We walk'd together on the crown Of a high mountain which look'd down Afar from its proud natural towers Of rock and forest, on the hills- The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers, And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically--in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment's converse; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly-- A mingled feeling with my own-- The flush on her bright cheek, to me   Seem'd to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be   Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, And donn'd a visionary crown-- Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me-- But that, among the rabble--men, Lion ambition is chained down--- And crouches to a keeper's hand-- Not so in deserts where the grand-- The wild--the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look 'round thee now on Samarcand! Is not she queen of Earth? her pride Above all cities? in her hand Their destinies? in all beside Of glory which the world hath known Stands she not nobly and alone? Falling--her veriest stepping-stone Shall form the pedestal of a throne-- And who her sovereign? Timour--he Whom the astonished people saw Striding o'er empires haughtily A diadem'd outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall'st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, And, failing in thy power to bless, But leav'st the heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound, And beauty of so wild a birth-- Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see No cliff beyond him in the sky, His pinions were bent droopingly-- And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 'Twas sunset: when the sun will part There comes a sullenness of heart To him who still would look upon The glory of the summer sun. That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, So often lovely, and will list To the sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hearken) as one Who, in a dream of night, would fly But cannot from a danger nigh.

What tho' the moon--the white moon Shed all the splendour of her noon, Her smile is chilly, and her beam, In that time of dreariness, will seem (So like you gather in your breath) A portrait taken after death.

And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one-- For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown-- Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty--which is all.

I reach'd my home--my home no more For all had flown who made it so. I pass'd from out its mossy door, And, tho' my tread was soft and low, A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known-- O, I defy thee, Hell, to show On beds of fire that burn below, A humbler heart--a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe-- I know--for Death, who comes for me      From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar, And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro' Eternity-- I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path-- Else how, when in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven, No mote may shun--no tiniest fly-- The lightning of his eagle eye-- How was it that Ambition crept, Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love's very hair?

(The endnotes appear only in the original publication of Tamerlane and Other Poems by a Bostonian 1927. "Tamerlane" was rewritten and reprinted in three collections of Poe's poems in his lifetime without the endnotes. The final version of 1845 is virtually identical to the 1829 version. Poe, born in 1809, was about seventeen when he wrote "Tamerlane".)