The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ Politian Go down, Baldazzar, go! Baldazzar The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits us,— Thy presence is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? Voice (distinctly) "Who have loved thee so long, In wealth and woe among, And is thy heart so strong? Say nay! say nay!" Baldazzar Let us descend!—'tis time. Politian, give These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember! Politian Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.[going]. Let us descend. Believe me I would give, Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice— "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear Once more that silent tongue." Baldazzar Let me beg you, sir, Descend with me—the Duke may be offended. Let us go down, I pray you. Voice (loudly) Say nay!—say nay! Politian (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. Baldazzar Your lordship's pleasure Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. Politian 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 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 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?
Lalage	A deed is to be done— Castiglione lives!
Politian	And he shall die!
	[Exit]
Lalage (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 СКАЧАТЬ В начало < 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 > В конец