"What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul? "To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B----, what you, no doubt, perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign contempt. That they have followers proves nothing: "'No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.'" * * * * * SONNET--TO SCIENCE. SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing! Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? 1829. * * * * * Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems [1]--have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed 'verbatim'--without alteration from the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged.--E. A. P. (1845). [Footnote 1: This refers to the accusation brought against Edgar Poe that he was a copyist of Tennyson.--Ed.] * * * * * AL AARAAF. [1] PART I. O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy-- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill-- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-- O! nothing of the dross of ours-- Yet all the beauty--all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers-- Adorn yon world afar, afar-- The wandering star. 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns--a temporary rest-- An oasis in desert of the blest. Away away--'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul-- The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin'd eminence-- To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour'd one of God-- But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.