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AL AARAAF 


AL AARAAF

Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night-- Be now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar Bathe me in light I

Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty-all the flowers That list our love or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens, where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day; While the silver winds of Circassy On violet couches faint away. Little---oh I little dwells in thee11 Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty's eye is here the bluest In the falsest and untruest--On the sweetest air doth float The most sad and solemn note--

If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leafThou! Thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy.

31. The earliest version of "Tamerlane" was included in the suppressed volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at least.

32. "To Helen" first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also "The Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "Israfel," and one or two others of the youthful pieces. The poem styled "Romance," constituted the Preface of the

1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines:

Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, through the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth Ring Light on the lightning's silver wing.

For being an idle boy lang syne; Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes-- And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain-- His naiveté to wild desire-- His wit to love-his wine to fire-- And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy,

And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest-- I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty's breath-- Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me.

But now my soul hath too much room-- Gone are the glory and the gloom-- The black hath mellow'd into gray, And all the fires are fading away.

My draught of passion hath been deep-- I revell'd, and I now would sleep And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away.

But dreams--of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly blown, To break upon Time's monotone, While yet my vapid joy and grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf-- Why not an imp the graybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path-- And e'en the graybeard will o'erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book.

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