Page:The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (Volume II).djvu/90

Rh Pol. Then I but dreamed. Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls— And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices. Pol. It is a phantom voice! Didst thou not hear it then? Bal. I heard it not. Pol. Thou heardst it not!——Baldazzar, speak no more To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile! We have been boys together—school-fellows— And now are friends—yet shall not be so long— For in the eternal city thou shalt do me A kind and gentle office, and a Power— A Power august, benignant and supreme— Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties Unto thy friend. Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle I will not understand. Pol. Yet now as Fate Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! I cannot die, having within my heart So keen a relish for the beautiful As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air Is balmier now than it was wont to be— Rich melodies are floating in the winds— A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—