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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe – Volume 5
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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. Oh, Lalage!
(throwing himself upon his knee.)
And lovest thou me?
Lal. 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!
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 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?
Pol. O, 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 worship 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 are not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone – yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
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. Oh, Lalage!
(throwing himself upon his knee.)
And lovest thou me?
Lal. 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!
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 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?
Pol. O, 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 worship 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 are not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone – yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
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