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Ah, yes! his little foot and ankle trim,

'Tis there the seat of reason lies in him,

A wise philosopher would shake his head,

He then, of course, must shake his foot instead.

At me, in vengeance, shall that foot be shaken —

Another proof of thought, I'm not mistaken —

Because to his cat's eyes I hold a glass,

And let him see himself, a proper ass!

I think he'll take this likeness to himself,

But if he won't, he shall, a stupid elf,

And, lest the guessing throw the fool in fits,

I close the portrait with the name of PITTS.

Poe's mother

TAMERLANE

The very rare first edition cover of Poe’s first book of poetry

TAMERLANE

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—Oh God! I can—

Its fount is holier—more divine—

I would not call thee fool, old man,

But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

O! yearning heart! I did inherit

Thy withering portion with the fame,

The searing glory which hath shone

Amid the jewels of my throne,

Halo of Hell! and with a pain

Not Hell shall make me fear again—

O! craving heart, for the lost flowers

And sunshine of my summer hours!

Th' undying voice of that dead time,

With its interminable chime,

Rings, in the spirit of a spell,

Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

I have not always been as now:

The fever'd diadem on my brow

I claim'd and won usurpingly—

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given

Rome to the Caesar—this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind,

And a proud spirit which hath striven

Triumphantly with human kind.

On mountain soil I first drew life:

The mists of the Taglay have shed

Nightly their dews upon my head,

And, I believe, the winged strife

And tumult of the headlong air

Have nestled in my very hair.

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,

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!

The rain came down upon my head

Unshelter'd—and the heavy wind

Was giantlike—so thou, my mind!—

It was but man, I thought, who shed

Laurels upon me: and the rush—

The torrent of the chilly air

Gurgled within my ear the crush

Of empires—with the captive's prayer—

The hum of suiters—and the tone

Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

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

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.

I have no words—alas!—to tell

The loveliness of loving well!

Nor would I now attempt to trace

The more than beauty of a face

Whose lineaments, upon my mind,

Are—shadows on th' unstable wind:

Thus I remember having dwelt

Some page of early lore upon,

With loitering eye, till I have felt

The letters—with their meaning—melt

To fantasies—with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!

Love—as in infancy was mine—

'Twas such as angel minds above

Might envy; her young heart the shrine

On which my ev'ry hope and thought

Were incense—then a goodly gift,

For they were childish—and upright—

Pure—as her young example taught:

Why did I leave it, and, adrift,

Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age—and love—together,

Roaming the forest, and the wild;

My breast her shield in wintry weather—

And, when the