“I shall be proud to do it.”

And so with muzzles sunk between their paws, and with their eyes straining down the pilgrims’ road, they wait outside the gate.

Ligeia

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

And the will therein lieth, which dieth not.  Who knoweth the mystery of the will, with its vigor?  For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness.  Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.—­Joseph Glanvill.

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the lady Ligeia.  Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering.  Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive, that they have been unnoticed and unknown.  Yet I believe that I met her first and most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine.  Of her family—­I have surely heard her speak.  That it is of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted.  Ligeia!  Ligeia!  Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone—­by Ligeia—­that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more.  And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my bethrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and finally the wife of my bosom.  Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection, that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own—­a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion?  I but indistinctly recall the fact itself—­what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it?  And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance—­if ever she, the wan misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.

There is one dear topic, however, on which my memory fails me not.  It is the person of Ligeia.  In stature she was tall, somewhat slender, and, in her latter days, even emaciated.  I would in vain attempt to portray the majesty, the quiet ease of her demeanor, or the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity of her footfall.  She came and departed as a shadow.  I was never made aware of her entrance into my closed study, save by the dear music of her low sweet voice, as she placed her marble hand upon my shoulder.