Fancy departs: no more invent;
Contract thy firmament

To compass of a tent.

There's not enough for this and that,
Make thy option which of two;
Economize the failing river,
Not the less revere the Giver,
Leave the many and hold the few.
Timely wise accept the terms,
Soften the fall with wary foot;
A little while

Still plan and smile,

And, fault of novel germs,-
Mature the unfallen fruit.
Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires,
Pad husbands of their fires,
Who, when they gave thee breath,
Failed to bequeath

10

20

The needful sinew stark as once,
The Baresark marrow to thy bones,
But left a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nerveless reins,- 30
Amid the Muses, left thee deaf and dumb,
Amid the gladiators, halt and numb."

As the bird trims her to the gale,
I trim myself to the storm of time,
I man the rudder, reef the sail,

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime: "Lowly faithful, banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed."

1866.

40

Atlantic Monthly, Jan., 1867.

FRAGMENTS

The sun set, but set not his hope:Stars rose, his faith was earlier up: Fixed on the enormous galaxy. Deeper and older seemed his eye, And matched his sufferance sublime The taciturnity of Time.

1 Emerson was sixty-three years old when he wrote this poem. His powers of mind began to decline about five years later, although he lived in vigorous health for fifteen years.

Let me go where'er I will

I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.

It is not only in the rose,

It is not only in the bird,

Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.
'Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cups of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.

For what need I of book or priest, Or sibyl from the mummied East, When every star is Bethlehem star? I count as many as there are Cinquefoils or violets in the grass, So many saints and saviours,

10

10

TAMERLANE 1

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-O God! I can-

Its fount is holier-more divineI would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit

10

I claim'd and won usurpinglyHath not the same fierce heirdom given 30 Rome to the Cæsar-this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind, And a proud spirit which hath striven Triumphantly with human kind.

1 "Tamerlane" appeared first in Tamerlane and Other Poems, 1827, but was entirely rewritten for the 1829 volume, Al Aaraf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems. The text here used is practically that of the 1829 volume. A compari son of the two versions is valuable, as showing Poe's growth in poetic power if not in narrative strength.

As Poe conceives the story, Tamerlane is lured from his shepherd home in the mountains and from his early love by ambition. He conquers the entire Eastern world, and returns home to find that his love has died of neglect. The opening lines of the 1827 version give the setting more clearly.

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, 50
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!

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 70 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.

The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch of the Imaus, in the southern part of Independ ent Tartary. They are celebrated for the singu. lar wildness and beauty of their valleys. (PoE, 1827.)