The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe Part 18

Let us go down, I pray you.

_Voice (loudly_). _Say nay_!--_say nay_!

_Pol_. (_aside_). 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought the voice Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!

(_Approaching the window_) Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.

Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate, Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make Apology unto the Duke for me; I go not down to-night.

_Bal_. Your lords.h.i.+p's pleasure Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.

_Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV.

The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN.

_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love To Lalage?--ah woe--ah woe is me!

This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!

_Politian_. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage-- Be comforted! I know--I know it all, And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!

Thou askest me if I could speak of love, Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee-- Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.) Sweet Lalage, _I love thee_--_love thee_--_love thee_; Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and woe, _I love thee_.

Not mother, with her first-born on her knee, Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.

Not on G.o.d's altar, in any time or clime, Burned there a holier fire than burneth now Within my spirit for _thee_. And do I love?

(_arising_.) Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes-- Thy beauty and thy woes.

_Lal_. Alas, proud Earl, Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!

How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonored Lalage abide?

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory-- My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honors of thy house, And with thy glory?

_Pol_. Speak not to me of glory!

I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.

Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?

Do I not love--art thou not beautiful-- What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it: By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-- By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter-- By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-- There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it under foot. What matters it-- What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonored and forgotten Into the dust--so we descend together?

Descend together--and then--and then perchance--

_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Pol_. And then perchance _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still--

_Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Pol_. And still _together_--_together_.

_Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester!

Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly.

_Pol_. O Lalage!

(_throwing himself upon his knee_.) And lovest thou _me_?

_Lal_. Hist! hus.h.!.+ within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure pa.s.sed-- A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-- Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(_walks across and returns_.) I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

_Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?

Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom.

_Lal_. Politian!

Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land With which all tongues are busy--a land new found-- Miraculously found by one of Genoa-- A thousand leagues within the golden west?

A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and suns.h.i.+ne,-- And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter In days that are to come?

_Pol_. Oh, wilt thou--wilt thou Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.

And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee And wors.h.i.+p thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me?

_Lal_. A deed is to be done-- Castiglione lives!

_Pol_. And he shall die!

(_Exit_.)

_Lal_.

(_after a pause_). And--he--shall--die!--alas!

Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?

Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!

Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!

I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not--thou _couldst_ not go With those words upon thy lips--oh, speak to me!

And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word, To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone-- Oh, speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, _durst_ not go.

Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!

And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone-- Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!

So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure, 'Tis well, 'tis _very_ well--alas! alas!

V.

The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone.

_Politian_. This weakness grows upon me. I am fain And much I fear me ill--it will not do To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand, O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me!

Oh, pity me! let me not perish now, In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!

Give me to live yet--yet a little while: 'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late Demanded but to die!--What sayeth the Count?

_Enter Baldazzar_.

_Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself, He doth decline your cartel.