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Text: “The Portrait,” Old and New (Boston, MA), vol. 2, no. 1, July 1870, pp. 29-30
THE PORTRAIT.
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
SLOWLY I raised the purple folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam;
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his marble dream.
Again I saw the brow's translucent pallor,
The dark hair floating o’er it like a plume;
The sweet, imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
Eyes planet calm, with something in their vision
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born, —
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn;”
Unfathomable eyes, that held the sorrow
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Oft has that pale, poetic presence haunted
My lonely musings at the twilight hour,
Transforming the dull earth-life it enchanted,
With marvel and with mystery and with power.
Oft have I heard the sullen sea-wind moaning
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listened to the autumn woods intoning
The wild, sweet legend of the lost Lenore. [page 30:]
Oft in some ashen evening of October
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb,
Hard by that visionary Lake of Auber
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume.
Oft in chill, star-lit nights have heard the chiming
Of far-off, mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing,
To the heart's pulses answering unaware.
Sweet, mournful eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow,
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam.
Though cloud and sorrow rest upon thy story,
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Text: S. H. Whitman, “The Portrait,” Providence Journal (Providence, RI), about July 1870
From “Old and New.” for July.
THE PORTRAIT.
———
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
———
Slowly I raised the purple folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam;
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his marble dream.
Again I saw the brow's translucent pallor,
The dark hair floating o’er it like a plume;
The sweet imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
Eyes planet calm, with something in their vision
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born,
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn.”
Unfathomable eyes that held the sorrow
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Oft has that pale, poetic presence haunted
My lonely musings at the twilight hour,
Transforming the dull earth-life it enchanted,
With marvel and with mystery and with power.
Oft have I heard the sullen sea-wind moaning
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listened to the autumn woods intoning
The wild, sweet legend of the lost Lenore.
Oft in some ashen evening of October
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb,
Hard by that visionary Lake of Auber
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume.
Oft in chill, star-lit nights have heard the chiming
Of far-off, mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing,
To the heart's pulses, answering unaware.
Sweet, mournful eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow,
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam.
Though cloud and shadow rest upon thy story,
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Text: “The Portrait of Poe,” clipping from an unidentified source, probably 1871
The Portrait of Poe.
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
Slowly I raised the purple folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam;
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon waking from his marble dream.
Again I saw the brow's translucent pallor,
The dark hair floating o’er it like a plume;
The sweet imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
Eyes planet calm, with something in their vision
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born;
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn.”
Unfathomable eyes that held the sorrow
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Oft has that pale, poetic presence haunted
My lonely musings at the twilight hour,
Transforming the dull earth-life it enchanted,
With marvel, and with mystery, and with power.
Oft have I heard the sullen sea-wind moaning
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listened to the autumn woods intoning
The wild sweet legend of the lost Lenore.
Oft in some ashen evening in [[of]] October,
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb
Hard by that visionary Lake [[tarn]] of Auber,
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume.
Oft in still [[chill]], starlit nights have heard the chiming
Of far-off mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing
To the heart's pulses answering unaware.
Sweet, mournful eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam
Though cloud and sorrow [[shadow]] rest upon thy story,
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Text: S. H. Whitman, “The Portrait,” from Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman, 1879, pp. 195-197
THE PORTRAIT.
AFTER long years I raised the folds concealing
That face, magnetic as the morning's beam:
While slumbering memory thrilled at its revealing,
Like Memnon wakening from his marble dream.
Again I saw the brow's translucent pallor,
The dark hair floating o’er it like a plume;
The sweet, imperious mouth, whose haughty valor
Defied all portents of impending doom.
Eyes planet calm, with something in their vision
That seemed not of earth's mortal mixture born;
Strange mythic faiths and fantasies Elysian,
And far, sweet dreams of “fairy lands forlorn.”
Unfathomable eyes that held the sorrow
Of vanished ages in their shadowy deeps,
Lit by that prescience of a heavenly morrow
Which in high hearts the immortal spirit keeps.
Oft have I heard the sullen sea-wind moaning
Its dirge-like requiems on the lonely shore,
Or listening to the Autumn woods intoning
The wild, sweet legend of the lost Lenore;
Oft in some ashen evening of October,
Have stood entranced beside a moldering tomb
Hard by that visionary Lake of Auber,
Where sleeps the shrouded form of Ulalume;
Oft in chill, star-lit nights have heard the chiming
Of far-off mellow bells on the keen air,
And felt their molten-golden music timing
To the heart's pulses, answering unaware.
Sweet, mournful eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow
Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream!
Sleep, wayward heart! till on some cool, bright morrow,
Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam
Though cloud and sorrow rest upon thy story,
And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall,
Time, as a birthright, shall restore the glory,
And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall.
1870.
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Notes:
Old and New was edited by Edward Everett Hale.
The same text from the unidentified clipping, with the same title (“The Portrait of Poe”), appeared in Leavenworth Times (Leavenworth, Kansas), March 12, 1871 p. 3, and Urbana Union (Urbana, OH), June 14, 1871, p. 1.) The changes, noted above in double-square brackets, appear in a copy of the clipping that belonged to E. L. Didier, pasted in his personal copy of Edgar Poe and His Critics. All but the word “tarn” are marked in ink, while that one word is marked in pencil.
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[S:0 - various, 1870 and 1879] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - A Poe Bookshelf - The Portrait (S. H. Whitman, 1870 and 1879)