AL AARAAF Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night— Be now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar Bathe me in light I Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty-all the flowers That list our love or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens, where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day; While the silver winds of Circassy On violet couches faint away. Little—oh “little dwells in thee” Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty’s eye is here the bluest In the falsest and untruest—On the sweetest air doth float The most sad and solemn note— If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf! Thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy. 31. The earliest version of “Tamerlane” was included in the suppressed volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at least. 32. “To Helen” first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also “The Valley of Unrest” (as “The Valley Nis”), “Israfel,” and one or two others of the youthful pieces. The poem styled “Romance,” constituted the Preface of the 1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines: Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, through the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth Ring Light on the lightning’s silver wing. For being an idle boy lang syne; Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes— And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain— His naiveté to wild desire— His wit to love-his wine to fire— And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy, And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest— I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath— Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me.