This is superceded at Wikisource by Wikisource:Tamerlane (disambiguation page), Wikisource:Tamerlane (1827) and Wikisource:Tamerlane (1845) which will reflect edits and corrections by all collaborators first. The posting here preceded any posting at Wikisource.
some notes:
Poe was noted for his rewrites. Bibliographical and Textual Notes in The Borzoi Poe (The Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe, intro and notes by Arthur Hobson Quinn, texts established w. biblio notes by Edward H. O'neill, Knopf, 1946, 2 vols) notes five versions of "Tamerlane":
- Tamerlane and Other Poems, Boston, 1827
- manuscript version, intermediate between 1827 and 1829
- Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems, Baltimore, 1829
- Poems, New York, 1831
- The Raven and Other Poems, New York, 1845.
O'Neill notes that except for line 57, the versions of 1829 and 1845 are the same, but the version of 1831 has "many changes". The Borzoi Poe edition used the 1845 text although the poem itself was dated (1827) based on first publication.
Tamerlane by Edgar Allan Poe
version of 1827 with notes, followed by final version of 1845
TAMERLANE (1827)
I.
I have sent for thee, holy friar;[1]
But 'twas not with the drunken hope,
Which is but agony of desire
To shun the fate, with which to cope
Is more than crime may dare to dream,
That I have call'd thee at this hour:
Such, father, is not my theme---
Nor am I mad, to deem that power
Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in---
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But hope is not a gift of thine;
If I can hope (O God! I can)
It falls from an eternal shrine.
II.
The gay wall of this gaudy tower
Grows dim around me--death is near.
I had not thought, until this hour
When passing from the earth, that ear
Of any, were it not the shade
Of one whom in life I made
All mystery but a simple name,
Might know the secret of a spirit
Bow'd down in sorrow, and in shame.--
Shame, said'st thou?
Ay, I did inherit
That hated portion, with the fame,
The worldly glory, which has shown
A demon-light around my throne,
Scorching my sear'd heart with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again.
III.
I have not always been as now--
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly--
Ay--the same heritage hath given
Rome to the Caesar--this to me;
The heirdom of a kingly mind--
And a proud spirit, which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
In mountain air I first drew life;
The mists of the Taglay have shed[2]
Nightly their dews on my young head;
And my brain drank their venom then,
When after day of perilous strife
With chamois, I would sieze his den
And slumber, in my pride of power,
The infant monarch of the hour--
For, with the mountain dew by night,
My soul imbibed unhallow'd feeling;
And I would feel its essence stealing
In dreams upon me--while the light
Flashing from cloud that hover'd o'er,
Would seem to my half closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy!
And the deep thunder's echoing roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of war, and tumult, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child! was swelling
(O how would my wild heart rejoice
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle cry of victory!
* * * * *
IV.
The rain came down upon my head
But barely shelter'd--and the wind
Pass'd quickly o'er me--but my mind
Was maddening--for 'twas man that shed
Laurels upon me--and the rush,
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled in my pleased ear the crush
Of empires, with the captive's prayer,
The hum of suitors, the mix'd tone
Of flattery round a sovereign's throne.
The storm had ceased--and I awoke--
Its spirit cradled me to sleep,
And as it pass'd me by, there broke
Strange light upon me, tho' it were
My soul in mystery to steep:
For I was not as I had been;
The child of Nature, without care,
Or thought, save of the passing scene.--
V.
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 lived one who, then--
Then, in my boyhood, when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow;
(For passion must with youth expire)
Even then, who deem'd 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 dare attempt to trace
The breathing beauty of a face,
Which even to my impassion'd mind,
Leaves not its memory behind.
In spring of life have ye ne'er dwelt
Some object of delight upon,
With steadfast eye, till ye have felt
The earth reel--and the vision gone?
And I have held to memory's eye
One object--and but one--until
Its very form hath pass'd me by,
But left its influence with me still.
VI.
'Tis not to thee that I should name--
Thou canst not--wouldst not dare to think
The magic empire of a flame
Which even upon this perilous brink
Hath fix'd my soul, tho' unforgiven,
By what it lost for passion--Heaven.
I loved--and O, how tenderly!
Yes! she [was] worthy of all love!
Such as in infancy was mine,
Tho' then its passion could not be:
'Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy--her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense--then a goodly gift--
For they were childish, without sin,
Pure as her young example taught;
Why did I leave it and adrift,
Trust to the fickle star within?
VII.
We grew in age and love together,
Roaming the forest and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather,
And when the friendly sunshine smiled
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven but in her eyes--
Even childhood knows the human heart;
For when, in sunshine and in smiles,
From all our little cares apart,
Laughing at her half silly wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears,
She'd look up in my wilder'd eye--
There was no need to speak the rest--
No need to quiet her kind fears--
She did not ask the reason why.
The hallow'd memory of those years
Comes o'er me in these lonely hours,
And, with sweet loveliness, appears
As perfume of strange summer flowers;
Of flowers which we have known before
In infancy, which seen, recall
To mind--not flowers alone--but more,
Our earthly life, and love--and all.
VIII.
Yes! she was worthy of all love!
Even such as from the accursed time
My spirit with the tempest strove,
When on the mountain peak alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone,
And bade it first to dream of crime,
My frenzy to her bosom taught:
We still were young; no purer thought
Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine;[3]
For passionate love is still divine:
I loved her as an angel might
With ray of all the living light
Which blazes upon Edis' shrine.[4]
It is not surely sin to name,
With such as mine--that mystic flame,
I had no being but in thee!
The world with all its train of bright
And happy beauty (for to me
All was an undefined delight),
The world--its joy--its share of pain
Which I felt not--its bodied forms
Of varied being, which contain
The bodiless spirits of the storms,
The sunshine, and the calm--the ideal
And fleeting vanities of dreams,
Fearfully beautiful! the real
Nothings of mid-day waking life--
Of an enchanted life, which seems,
Now as I look back, the strife
Of some ill demon, with a power
Which left me in an evil hour,
All that I felt, or saw, or thought,
Crowding, confused became
(With thine unearthly beauty fraught)
Thou--and the nothing of a name.
IX.
The passionate spirit which hath known,
And deeply felt the silent tone
Of its own self supremacy,--
(I speak thus openly to thee,
'Twere folly now to veil a thought
With which this aching breast is fraught)
The soul which feels its innate right--
The mystic empire and high power
Given by the energetic might
Of Genius, at its natal hour;
Which knows (believe me at this time,
When falsehood were a tenfold crime,
There is a power in the high spirit
To know the fate it will inherit)
The soul, which knows such power, will still
Find Pride the ruler of its will.
Yes! I was proud--and ye who know
The magic of that meaning word,
So oft perverted, will bestow
Your scorn, perhaps, when ye have heard
That the proud spirit had been broken,
The proud heart burst in agony
At one upbraiding word or token
Of her that heart's idolatry--
I was ambitious--have ye known
Its fiery passion?--ye have not--
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world, as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lot!
But it had pass'd me as a dream
Which, of light step, flies with the dew,
That kindling thought--did not the beam
Of Beauty, which did guide it through
The livelong summer day, oppress
My mind with double loveliness--
* * * * *
X.
We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain, which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills--
The dwindled hills, whence amid bowers
Her own fair hand had rear'd around,
Gush'd shoutingly a thousand rills,
Which as it were, in fairy bound
Embraced two hamlets--those our own--
Peacefully happy--yet alone--
* * * * *
I spoke to her of power and pride--
But mystically, in such guise,
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read (perhaps too carelessly)
A mingled feeling with my own;
The flush on her bright cheek, to me,
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well, that I should let it be
A light in the dark wild, alone.
XI.
There--in that hour--a thought came o'er
my mind, it had not known before--
To leave her while we both were young,--
To follow my high fate among
The strife of nations, and redeem
The idle words, which, as a dream
Now sounded to her heedless ear--
I held no doubt--I knew no fear
Of peril in my wild career;
To gain an empire, and throw down
As nuptial dowry--a queen's crown,
The only feeling which possest,
With her own image, my fond breast--
Who, that had known the secret thought
Of a young peasant's bosom then,
Had deem'd him, in compassion, aught
But one, whom fantasy had led
Astray from reason--Among men
Ambition is chain'd down--nor fed
(As in the desert, where the grand,
The wild, the beautiful conspire
With their own breath to fan its fire)
With thoughts such feeling can command;
Uncheck'd by sarcasm, and scorn
Of those, who hardly will conceive
That any should become "great," born[5]
In their own sphere--will not believe
That they shall stoop in life to one
Whom daily they were wont to see
Familiarly--whom Fortune's sun
Hath ne'er shone dazzlingly upon,
Lowly--and of their own degree--
XII.
I pictured to my fancy's eye
Her silent, deep astonishment,
When, a few fleeting years gone by,
(For short the time my high hope lent
To its most desperate intent,)
She might recall in him, whom Fame
Had gilded with a conqueror's name,
(With glory--such as might inspire
Perforce, a passing thought of one,
Whom she had deem'd in his own fire
Wither'd and blasted; who had gone
A traitor, violate of the truth
So plighted in his early youth,)
Her own Alexis, who should plight[6]
The love he plighted then--again,
And raise his infancy's delight,
The bride and queen of Tamerlane.--
XIII.
One noon of a bright summer's day
I pass'd from out the matted bower
Where in a deep, still slumber lay
My Ada. In that peaceful hour,
A silent gaze was my farewell.
I had no other solace--then
To awake her, and a falsehood tell
Of a feign'd journey, were again
To trust the weakness of my heart
To her soft thrilling voice: To part
Thus, haply, while in sleep she dream'd
Of long delight, nor yet had deem'd
Awake, that I had held a thought
Of parting, were with madness fraught;
I knew not woman's heart, alas!
Tho' loved, and loving--let it pass.--
XIV
I went from out the matted bower,
And hurried madly on my way:
And felt, with every flying hour,
That bore me from my home, more gay;
There is of earth an agony
Which, ideal, still may be
The worst ill of mortality.
'Tis bliss, in its own reality,
Too real, to his breast who lives
Not within himself but gives
A portion of his willing soul
To God, and to the great whole--
To him, whose loving spirit will dwell
With Nature, in her wild paths; tell
Of her wondrous ways, and telling bless
Her overpowering loveliness!
A more than agony to him
Whose failing sight will grow dim
With its own living gaze upon
That loveliness around: the sun--
The blue sky--the misty light
Of the pale cloud therein, whose hue
Is grace to its heavenly bed of blue;
Dim! tho' looking on all bright!
O God! when the thoughts that may not pass
Will burst upon him, and alas!
For the flight on Earth to Fancy given,
There are no words--unless of Heaven.
XV.
* * * * *
Look round thee now on Samarcand,[7]
Is she not queen of earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? with all beside
Of glory, which the world hath known?
Stands she not proudly and alone?
And who her sovereign? Timur, he[8]
Whom the astonish'd earth hath seen,
With victory, on victory,
Redoubling age! and more, I ween,
The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame.[9]
And now what has he? what! a name.
The sound of revelry by night
Come o'er me, with the mingled voice
Of many with a breast as light,
As if 'twere not the dying hour
Of one, in whom they did rejoice--
As in a leader, haply--Power
Its venom secretly imparts;
Nothing have I with human hearts.
XVI.
When Fortune mark'd me for her own,
And my proud hopes had reach'd a throne
(It boots me not, good friar, to tell
A tale the world but knows too well,
How by what hidden deeds of might,
I clamber'd to the tottering height,)
I still was young; and well I ween
My spirit what it e'er had been.
My eyes were still on pomp and power,
My wilder'd heart was far away
In valleys of the wild Taglay,
In mine own Ada's matted bower.
I dwelt not long in Samarcand
Ere, in a peasant's lowly guise,
I sought my long-abandon'd land;
By sunset did its mountains rise
In dusky grandeur to my eyes:
But as I wander'd on the way
My heart sunk with the sun's ray.
To him, who still would gaze upon
The glory of the summer sun,
There comes, when that sun will from him part,
A sullen hopelessness of heart.
That soul will hate the evening mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken)[10] as one
Who in a dream of night would fly,
But cannot, from a danger nigh.
What though the moon--the silvery moon--
Shine on his path, in her high noon;
Her smile is chilly, and her beam
In that time of dreariness will seem
As the portrait of one after death;
A likeness taken when the breath
Of young life, and the fire o'the eye,
Had lately been, but had pass'd by.
'Tis thus when the lovely summer sun
Of our boyhood, his course hath run:
For all we live to know--is known;
And all we seek to keep--hath flown;
With the noon-day beauty, which is all.
Let life, then, as the day flower, fall--
The transient, passionate day-flower,[11]
Withering at the evening hour.
XVII.
I reach'd my home--my home no more--
For all was flown that made it so--
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
In vacant idleness of woe.
There met me on its threshold stone
A mountain hunter, I had known
In childhood, but he knew me not.
Something he spoke of the old cot:
It had seen better days, he said;
There rose a fountain once, and there
Full many a fair flower raised its head:
But she who rear'd them was long dead,
And in such follies had no part,
What was there left me now? despair--
A kingdom for a broken--heart.
NOTES
[1] I have sent for thee holy friar.
Of the history of Tamerlane little is known; and with that little, I have taken the full liberty of a poet. -- That he was descended from the family of Zinghis Khan is more than probable -- but he is vulgarly supposed to have been the son of a shepherd, and to have raised himself to the throne by his own address. He died in the year 1405, in the time of Pope Innocent VII.
How I shall account for giving him "a friar," as a death-bed confessor -- I cannot exactly determine. He wanted some one to listen to his tale -- and why not a friar? It does not pass the bounds of possibility -- quite sufficient for my purpose -- and I have at least good authority on my side for such innovations.
[2] The mists of the Taglay have shed, &c.
The mountains of Belur Taglay are a branch of the Immaus, in the southern part of Independent Tartary. -- They are celebrated for the singular wildness, and beauty of their vallies.
[3] No purer thought Dwelt in a seraph's breast than thine.
I must beg the reader's pardon for making Tamerlane, a Tartar of the fourteenth century, speak in the same language as a Boston gentleman of the nineteenth; but of the Tartar mythology we have little information.
[4] Which blazes upon Edis' shrine.
A deity presiding over virtuous love, upon whose imaginary altar, a sacred fire was continually blazing.
[5] ---- who hardly will conceive That any should become "great," born In their own sphere.
Although Tamerlane speaks this, it is not the less true. It is a matter of the greatest difficulty to make the generality of mankind believe that one, with whom they are upon terms of intimacy, shall be called, in the world, a "great man." The reason is evident. There are few great men. Their actions are consequently viewed by the mass of the people thro' the medium of distance. -- The prominent parts of their character are alone noted; and those properties, which are minute and common to every one, not being observed, seem to have no connection with a great character.
Who ever read the private memorials, correspondence, &c. which have become so common in our time, without wondering that "great men" should act and think "so abominably?"
[6] Her own Alexis who should plight, &c.
That Tamerlane acquir'd his renown under a feigned name is not entirely a fiction.
[7] Look round thee now on Samarcand.
I believe it was after the battle of Angoria that Tamerlane made Samarcand his residence. It became for a time the seat of learning and the arts.
[8] And who her sov'reign? Timur, &c.
He was called Timur Bek as well as Tamerlane.
[9] The Zinghis' yet re-echoing fame.
The conquests of Tamerlane far exceeded those of Zinghis Khan. He boasted to have two thirds of the world at his command.
[10] The sound of the coming darkness (known To those whose spirits hark'n.)
I have often fancied that I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness, as it steals over the horizon -- a foolish fancy perhaps, but not more unintelligible than to see music --
"The mind the music breathing from her face."
[11] Let life then, as the day-flow'r, fall.
There is a flower, (I have never known its botanic name,) vulgarly called the day flower. It blooms beautifully in the daylight, but withers towards evening, and by night its leaves appear totally shrivelled and dead. I have forgotten, however, to mention in the text, that it lives again in the morning. If it will not flourish in Tartary, I must be forgiven for carrying it thither.
TAMERLANE (1845)
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!
The 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
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
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 suitors--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 every 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 friendly sunshine smil'd,
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.
Young Love's first lesson is--the heart:
For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears--
There was no need to speak the rest--
No need to quiet any fears
Of her--who ask'd no reason why,
But turn'd on me her quiet eye!
Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove,
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone--
I had no being--but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth--the air--the sea--
Its joy--its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure--the ideal,
Dim vanities of dreams by night--
And dimmer nothings which were real--
(Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image, and--a name--a name!
Two separate--yet most intimate things.
I was ambitious--have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I mark'd a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmur'd at such lowly lot-
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapour of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro'
The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
My mind with double loveliness.
We walk'd together on the crown
Of a high mountain which look'd down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills-
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,
And shouting with a thousand rills.
I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically--in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment's converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly--
A mingled feeling with my own--
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seem'd to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.
I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,
And donn'd a visionary crown--
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me--
But that, among the rabble--men,
Lion ambition is chained down---
And crouches to a keeper's hand--
Not so in deserts where the grand--
The wild--the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.
Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!
Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
And who her sovereign? Timour--he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o'er empires haughtily
A diadem'd outlaw!
O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth--
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.
When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly--
And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly
But cannot from a danger nigh.
What tho' the moon--the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one--
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown--
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty--which is all.
I reach'd my home--my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known--
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart--a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believe--
I know--for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity--
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path--
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
The lightning of his eagle eye--
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?
(The endnotes appear only in the original publication of Tamerlane and Other Poems by a Bostonian 1927. "Tamerlane" was rewritten and reprinted in three collections of Poe's poems in his lifetime without the endnotes. The final version of 1845 is virtually identical to the 1829 version. Poe, born in 1809, was about seventeen when he wrote "Tamerlane".)