The Complete Poetry. Эдгар Аллан По
you may see Very plainly through the window—it belongs, Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke. The singer is undoubtedly beneath The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke As the betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir.
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 God'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. |
| Lalage | 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? |
| Politian | 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— |
| Lalage | Why dost thou pause, Politian? |
| Politian | And then perchance Arise together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still— |
| Lalage | Why dost thou pause, Politian? |
| Politian | And still together—together. |
| Lalage | Now, Earl of Leicester! Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. |
| Politian | O Lalage! [throwing himself upon his knee.] And lovest thou me? |
| Lalage | Hist! hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure passed— 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! |
| Politian | 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. |
| Lalage | 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 sunshine,— 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? |
| Politian |
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 |