1840, 1843, 1845, refer to the editions of those dates.
The earliest form, being widely different from the text, is given below. See also Appendix, "Poe and John Neal."
I HAVE sent for thee, holy friar; (')
But 't was 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.
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.
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 Cæsar - 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 (*)
Nightly their dews on my young head;
And my brain drank their venom then,
When after day of perilous strife
With chamois, I would seize 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!
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
Laurels upon me
- for 't was man that shed
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-
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. —
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