Tamerlane - Edgar Allan Poe
The Rise and Fall of a Prideful Conqueror
Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell’d in—
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope—Oh God! I can—
Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow’d from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again—
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
Th’ undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever’d diadem on my brow
I claim’d and won usurpingly—
Hath not the same fierce heirdom giv’n
Rome to the Cæsar—this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striv’n
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life;
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head;
And, while a child, ’mid clods of stone,
Among whole dark eyes of the wild brood,
I roam’d a young Tartar—alone—
With naught of terror in my mood.
I loved—oh, no—I have not lov’d—
But what have I to do with pride?
The turban snatch’d from the turban’d head—
Her fairy hands in taming, tried
No fury deeper—no—
But that the storm’s own heavy wrath,
(Quite calm within my soul,) might show
How scorn hath taught my soul to grow—
All love, all hate, all memory
One moment in a flood from me—
That sever’d the monotony
Of passion in the deep hush’d sea
Of silence round me, mighty gloom!
And oh, the half-forgotten bloom
Of that first love—how strange—it seem’d
With blossoms that so near me beam’d,
All—and so bright!
But pride—O ruin! who can write
Aright about that blight and gloom?
If pride be not a sacred doom,
Yet it kills the holiest bloom,
And tears the bosom, when ’t is rife,
Before the better joys of life.
I’ll spare no words—no phases now—
But haste to trace my course below:
Much have I said in earlier days,
Than these—
Of passions that—
Sure, though not written of in vain—
Had not the same fervour or fire—
And so in them the pen may tire—
Yet, all unbreathed—
Dark—yet how full of gloom!
We spoke of many a hope that died,
We spoke of many a dream that flew—
All flitting o’er a shadowy tide—
That, in an hour of gloom, I knew
And may again—
The ghosts of all that once so dear
Fled from me, each an inky tear!
But let me on—for all is hush’d—
No breath from heaven or of earth—
No stir from glen or rivulet—
No music from the phantom hearth—
No laugh, no murmur, not a sigh
Caught from our parted infancy—
Thus far have I in language wove
My record of Tamerlane’s soul—
My story—but soon have I told
Of certain moments in his love,
And how he rose, and how he fell,
And how a demon in his heart
Bade him despise the better part—
That—
Oh, how idle is all speech!
He who has sought that demon’s lair
Knows that no words of man can reach
Into the magic circle there!
But if he has had the power,
To gather from the passing hour
Its fleeting passion—’t is enough!
But, oh, the agony, the strife
Of that fierce demon-wrested life!
All idle words—
Yet, not in vain,
For I would teach the world again—
In truth, at last I, Tamerlane,
So taught the nations—
There was one who might have told—
And in her glance was happiness—
But that one’s heart hath now grown cold.
And, though so gentle was her life,
Yet—like that pining lily’s leaf—
It was but blossoming in grief.
Thus died she in her springtime!
But better thus!—the spring now gone—
She was a flower the storms have torn—
Like a blossom midnight-blown!
Oh, sweet was the fated life—
Now ended in that quiet tomb—
She was too pure for mortal doom—
And parted—where no storms can come.
Thus Tamerlane’s ambition’s done—
And shadows gather one by one—
Darkness enfolds his starry sphere—
And he who rose in glory here
Hath found a sad and silent rest—
His conquests vanish’d from his breast;
No more the midnight clarions ring,
No more the war-horse pawing springs;—
The empire that he sway’d so long
Is hush’d in night without a song;
And he alone is left, whose pride
Could never share a mortal bride.
Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Tamerlane” (in its later, more recognized version) re-imagines the life of the 14th-century conqueror Timur, also known as Tamerlane, through a deeply introspective lens. Rather than solely chronicling battles or conquests, Poe focuses on the inner torment of an ambitious soul who, in seeking dominion, forfeits the love and peace that might have elevated his existence.
From the poem’s start, we sense Tamerlane’s spiritual conflict. He acknowledges an unearthly pride—a trait he believes isolates him from ordinary human emotions. Poe introduces us to a man who seizes power “usurpingly,” reminiscent of how Rome passed to the Cæsars. This sets the tone for a grand drama of ambition, stoked by personal discontent. The stirring backdrop of mountain mists and wild Tartar lands underscores Tamerlane’s early life, hinting at how nature’s stark grandeur molded his fierce independence.
Crucially, Poe interweaves the theme of lost or forsaken love. Tamerlane speaks of a first love he did not truly allow himself to feel—a missed opportunity for emotional fulfillment that remains an open wound in his memory. Throughout his meteoric rise, that love lingers as both a haunting regret and a point of tension: it represents a world of emotional unity that conflicts with his thirst for unquestioned power. His pride, symbolized by the “fever’d diadem” on his brow, acts as a destructive force, overshadowing tenderness and vulnerability.
Stylistically, Poe’s language in “Tamerlane” combines Romantic-era flourishes with a confessional, almost intimate tone. This duality invites the reader into Tamerlane’s psyche, revealing that behind the conqueror’s exterior lies a turbulent inner realm shaped by remorse, longing, and existential questioning. Instead of glorifying Tamerlane’s might, the poem underscores the moral and personal cost of his ambition.
In the final stanzas, Tamerlane admits that his achievements have not satisfied his deeper desires. The world he once ruled, including the memory of love, slips away into shadows. This ending underscores Poe’s belief that ambition divorced from empathy and connection can become a hollow victory. Tamerlane’s solitary reflection, framed by the hush of silent clarions and vanished war-horses, serves as a cautionary tale: no empire can fill the void left by forsaken love or quell the internal demons of pride.
Overall, “Tamerlane” offers a rich tapestry where historical legend merges with Poe’s signature preoccupation: the tragic interplay between the human heart’s yearning and the forces that isolate it—whether pride, ambition, or fate. The poem’s lingering impression is one of mournful grandeur. It suggests that the grandest achievements can crumble into quiet regret if one’s true emotional needs and vulnerabilities are disregarded in the pursuit of power. Modern readers, like Tamerlane himself, are left to ponder what is gained—and, more importantly, what is lost—when we cast aside our capacity to love in favor of personal dominion.
Key points
• Poe’s Tamerlane is a portrait of ambition overshadowed by regret.
• The poem intertwines historical legend with introspective drama.
• Lost love becomes a powerful counterpoint to the conqueror’s worldly success.
• Poe illustrates how unchecked pride can sever emotional connections and lead to profound isolation.
