volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from

these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment

of physical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a

sense of the sublime—but no man is impressed after _this _fashion

by the material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies

have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have

not _insisted _on our estimating “Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or

Pollock by the pound—but what else are we to _infer _from their

continual plating about “sustained effort”? If, by “sustained effort,” any

little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for

the effort—if this indeed be a thing conk mendable—but let us

forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. It is to be hoped that

common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art

rather by the impression it makes—by the effect it produces—than

by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of “sustained

effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The

fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another—nor

can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this

proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as

self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities,

they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue

brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now

and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or

enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon

the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and

spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp

themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers

of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem,

in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following

exquisite little Serenade—

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me—who knows how?—

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark the silent stream—

The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale’s complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on shine,

O, beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast:

O, press it close to shine again,

Where it will break at last.

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines—yet no less a poet

than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal

imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by

him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in

the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.

One of the finest poems by Willis—the very best in my opinion which

he has ever written—has no doubt, through this same defect of undue

brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the

The shadows lay along Broadway,

’Twas near the twilight-tide—

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walk’d she; but, viewlessly,

Walk’d spirits at her side.

Peace charm’d the street beneath her feet,

And Honor charm’d the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good as fair—

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true—

For heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to won,

But honor’d well her charms to sell.

If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair—

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail—

’Twixt Want and Scorn she walk’d forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

From this world’s peace to pray

For as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman’s heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven

By man is cursed alway!

In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has

written so many mere “verses of society.” The lines are not only richly

ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident

sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other

works of this author.

While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is

indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the

public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a

heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the

brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more

in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies

combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic. _It has been

assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate

object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a

morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged.

We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians

very especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads

that to write a poem simply for the poem’s sake, and to acknowledge such

to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting

in the true poetic dignity and force:—but the simple fact is that

would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should

immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor _can

_exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than

this very poem, this poem _per se, _this poem which is a poem and

nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem’s sake.

With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I

would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I

would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The

demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All _that

_which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that _with

which _she _has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a

flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth

we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple,

precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must

be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the

poetical. _He _must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical

and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of

inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of

these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the

obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious

distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I

place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the

mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but

from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle

has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues

themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices _of the trio marked

with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with

Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is

regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the

obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with

displaying the charms:—waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of

her deformity—her disproportion—her animosity to the fitting,

to the appropriate, to the harmonious—in a word, to Beauty.

An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense

of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the

manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists.

And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in

the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and

sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the

light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing,

with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of

description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and

sentiments which greet _him _in common with all mankind—he, I

say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something

in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst

unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This

thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and

an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for

the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild

effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of

the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among

the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness

whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by

Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find

ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina

supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,

impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at

once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which _through’

_the poem, or _through _the music, we attain to but brief and

indeterminate glimpses.

The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on

the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all

_that _which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to

understand and _to feel _as poetic.

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes—in

Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance—very

especially in Music—and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in

the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has

regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly

on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music,

in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment

in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected—is so vitally important an

adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not

now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps

that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired

by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of supernal

Beauty. It _may _be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and

then, attained in _fact. _We are often made to feel, with a shivering

delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot _have

been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in

the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the

widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers

had advantages which we do not possess—and Thomas Moore, singing his

own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.

To recapitulate then:—I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words

as _The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. _Its sole arbiter is Taste.

With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral

relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with

Duty or with Truth.

A few words, however, in explanation. _That _pleasure which is at

once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived,

I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation

of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation,

or excitement _of the soul, _which we recognize as the Poetic

Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the

satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of

the heart. I make Beauty, therefore—using the word as inclusive of

the sublime—I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because

it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as

directly as possible from their causes:—no one as yet having been

weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most

readily _attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that

the incitements of Passion’ or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons

of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they

may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the

work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper

subjection to that _Beauty _which is the atmosphere and the real

essence of the poem.

I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your

consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow’s “Waif”:—

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an Eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,

That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life’s endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired

for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.

Nothing can be better than—

———————the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the

whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance

_of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the

sentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the general manner. This

“ease” or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion

to regard as ease in appearance alone—as a point of really difficult

attainment. But not so:—a natural manner is difficult only to him

who should never meddle with it—to the unnatural. It is but the

result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the

tone, _in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind

would adopt—and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.

The author who, after the fashion of “The North American Review,” should

be upon _all _occasions merely “quiet,” must necessarily upon _many

_occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be

considered “easy” or “natural” than a Cockney exquisite, or than the

sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one

which he entitles “June.” I quote only a portion of it:—

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale, close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife-bee and humming bird.

And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,

Come, from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light,

Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season’s glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me;

Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.

Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften’d hearts should bear

The thoughts of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

Whose part in all the pomp that fills

The circuit of the summer hills,

Is—that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice

To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous—nothing could be more

melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The

intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all

the poet’s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the

soul—while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The

impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining

compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a

similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know

not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the

higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,

A feeling of sadness and longing

That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full

of brilliancy and spirit as “The Health” of Edward Coate Pinckney:—

I fill this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;

To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given

A form so fair that, like the air,

’Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music’s own,

Like those of morning birds,

And something more than melody

Dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips each flows

As one may see the burden’d bee

Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,

The measures of her hours;

Her feelings have the flagrancy,

The freshness of young flowers;

And lovely passions, changing oft,

So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,—

The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;

But memory, such as mine of her,

So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life’s, but hers.

I fill’d this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon—

Her health! and would on earth there stood,

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south. Had

he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as

the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long

controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing

called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is especially

beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly

to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the

evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits

_of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for

themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us

that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very

admirable book:—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the

work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing

this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all

the chaff _for his reward.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by

no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that

the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.

Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an

axiom, which need only be properly _put, _to become self-evident. It

is _not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and

thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to

admit that they are _not _merits altogether.

Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character

as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude

to his lines beginning—“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense

energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There

are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the _all

in all _of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, perhaps,

has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any

other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,—

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while

granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than

whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact

is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other

faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very

naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there a

greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.

In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more

profoundly—more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than

the lines commencing—“I would I were by that dim lake”—which

are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to

remember them.

One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy—one of the most

singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had

always for me an inexpressible charm:—

O saw ye not fair Ines?

She’s gone into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down,

And rob the world of rest;

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalltd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whisper’d thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,

With bands of noble gentlemen,

And banners waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And snowy plumes they wore;

It would have been a beauteous dream,

If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With music waiting on her steps,

And shootings of the throng;

But some were sad and felt no mirth,

But only Music’s wrong,

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

To her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,—

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shorel

The smile that blest one lover’s heart

Has broken many more!

“The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever

written,—one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of

the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It

is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length

renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it

permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;—

Fashion’d so slenderly,

Young and so fair!

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,

Loving not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;

Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;

Not of the stains of her,

All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver,

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life’s history,

Glad to death’s mystery,

Swift to be hurl’d—

Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,—

Over the brink of it,

Picture it,—think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve’s family—

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily,

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God’s providence

Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly;

Lift her with care;

Fashion’d so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently,—kindly,—

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.

Perhishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest,—

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The

versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the

fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is

the thesis of the poem.

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from

the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:—

Though the day of my destiny’s over,

And the star of my fate bath declined

Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit bath painted

It never bath found but in _thee._

Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,

I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of shine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,

If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from _thee._

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Though I feel that my soul is delivered

To pain—it shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn—

They may torture, but shall not subdue me—

’Tis of _thee _that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,—

Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly,

Though watchful, ’twas not to defame me,

Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with one—

If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

’Twas folly not sooner to shun:

And if dearly that error bath cost me,

And more than I once could foresee,

I have found that whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of _thee._

From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,

Thus much I at least may recall,

It bath taught me that which I most cherished

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._

Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification

could scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever engaged the pen of

poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself

entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the

unwavering love of woman.

From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the

noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very

brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the noblest of poets, _not

_because the impressions he produces are at _all _times the most

profound—_not _because the poetical excitement which he induces

is at _all _times the most intense—but because it is at all

times the most ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and most

pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read

is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:—

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember’d kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored

to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my

purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and

simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the

Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul, _quite

independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of

that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard to

passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul.

Love, on the contrary—Love—the true, the divine Eros—the

Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus—is unquestionably

the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if,

to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a

harmony where none was apparent before, we experience at once the true

poetical effect; but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and

not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the

harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what

the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements

which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the

ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven—in

the volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies—in

the waving of the grain-fields—in the slanting of tall eastern trees—in

the blue distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in

the twinkling of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in

the repose of sequestered lakes—in the star-mirroring depths of

lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds—in the harp of

Bolos—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the repining voice

of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the

fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the

voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odour that

comes to him at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim

oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts—in

all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses—in all chivalrous,

generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman—in

the grace of her step—in the lustre of her eye—in the melody

of her voice—in her soft laughter, in her sigh—in the harmony

of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning

endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities—in

her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah, far above

all, he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in

the strength, in the altogether divine majesty—of her love.

Let me conclude by—the recitation of yet another brief poem—one

very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by

Motherwell, and is called “The Song of the Cavalier.” With our modern and

altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are

not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the

sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do

this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old

cavalier:—

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine:

Deathe’s couriers. Fame and Honor call

No shrewish teares shall fill your eye

When the sword-hilt’s in our hand,—

Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and poling crye,

Our business is like men to fight.

OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)

It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with

which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to

what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love

of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic

sentiment inspired_by their writings should be ascribed to a fact

which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and

with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a

merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout

admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,

would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,

wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on being

required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be

apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. This

quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the

case in question it arises independently of the author’s will, and is

altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied.

Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in

many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have

worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,

of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against

the poets _thew. _There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old

English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,

still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough

confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley

metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With

the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet

of the “Creation” wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he

supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the “Ancient Mariner” to infuse the

Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished

by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the

other, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a

triumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane

eyes of the multitude. But in this view even the “metaphysical verse” of

Cowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the

man. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well

designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up

in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very

perceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Their

writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of that

soul’s nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this _abandon-to

elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle

the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the

lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a

matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a school will be

found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris _paribus) more

artificial.

We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the “Book of

Gems” are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible

idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to

show the school’s character, the attempt might have been considered

successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of

the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their

antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us.

His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,

for example, of Sir Henry Wotton’s “Verses on the Queen of Bohemia”—that

“there are few finer things in our language,” is untenable and absurd.

In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy

which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here

every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession

for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other

prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,

a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,

apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without

even an attempt at adaptation.

In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with “The

Shepherd’s Hunting” by Withers—a poem partaking, in a remarkable

degree, of the peculiarities of “Il Penseroso.” Speaking of Poesy the

author says:

“By the murmur of a spring,

Or the least boughs rustleling,

By a daisy whose leaves spread,

Shut when Titan goes to bed,

Or a shady bush or tree,

She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature’s beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Something that may sweeten gladness

In the very gall of sadness—

The dull loneness, the black shade,

That these hanging vaults have made

The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den which rocks emboss,

Overgrown with eldest moss,

The rude portals that give light

More to terror than delight,

This my chamber of neglect

Walled about with disrespect;

From all these and this dull air

A fit object for despair,

She hath taught me by her might

To draw comfort and delight.”

But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general

character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in

Corbet’s “Farewell to the Fairies!” We copy a portion of Marvell’s “Maiden

lamenting for her Fawn,” which we prefer-not only as a specimen of the

elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,

exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its

species:

“It is a wondrous thing how fleet

’Twas on those little silver feet,

With what a pretty skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race,

And when’t had left me far away

’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown,

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes.

For in the flaxen lilies’ shade

It like a bank of lilies laid;

Upon the roses it would feed

Until its lips even seemed to bleed,

And then to me ’twould boldly trip,

And print those roses on my lip,

But all its chief delight was still

With roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been

Lilies without, roses within.”

How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It

pervades all. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over the

gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even over

the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the beauties

and good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloud

over a bed of lilies and violets, “and all sweet flowers.” The whole is

redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an idea

conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the

artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,

or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness _of the little

nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon

them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy

little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on her

face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in the

few lines we have quoted the _wonder _of the little maiden at the

fleetness of her favorite-the “little silver feet”—the fawn

challenging his mistress to a race with “a pretty skipping grace,” running

on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach only to

fly from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all these things? How

exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,

“And trod as if on the four winds!”

A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the

speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then

consider the garden of “my own,” so overgrown, entangled with roses and

lilies, as to be “a little wilderness”—the fawn loving to be there,

and there “only”—the maiden seeking it “where it _should _lie”—and

not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until “itself would

rise”—the lying among the lilies “like a bank of lilies”—the

loving to “fill itself with roses,”

“And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold,”

and these things being its “chief” delights-and then the pre-eminent

beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only

renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the

artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate

admiration of the bereaved child—

“Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.”

* “Book of Gems,” Edited by S. C. Hall

POEMS

TO

THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX

THE AUTHOR OF

“THE DRAMA OF EXILE”—

TO

MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

OF ENGLAND

_I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME_

WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH

THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM

1845 E.A.P.

PREFACE

These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their

redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected

while going at random the “rounds of the press.” I am naturally anxious

that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate

at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me

to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or

very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me

from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier

circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has

been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in

reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, with an eye to

the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of man-kind.

E. A. P.

1845

POEMS OF LATER LIFE

THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door:——

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,

_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent

thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—_is_ there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Published 1845.

THE BELLS.

I.

Hear the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!—

From the molten golden-notes,

And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future!—how it tells

Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells—

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor

Now—now to sit, or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells

Of Despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet, the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

Of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.

Hear the tolling of the bells—

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy meaning of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people—ah, the people—

They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,

And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone—

They are neither man nor woman—

They are neither brute nor human—

They are Ghouls:—

And their king it is who tolls:—

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls

A pæan from the bells!

And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells!

And he dances, and he yells;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the pæan of the bells—

Of the bells:—

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells—

To the sobbing of the bells:—

Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells:—

To the tolling of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

1849.

ULALUME

The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crispèd and sere—

The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year:

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir:—

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

There were days when my heart was volcanic

As the scoriac rivers that roll—

As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,

In the ultimate climes of the Pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

Our memories were treacherous and sere;

For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year—

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber,

(Though once we had journeyed down here)

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,

And star-dials pointed to morn—

As the star-dials hinted of morn—

At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn—

Astarte’s bediamonded crescent,

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—“She is warmer than Dian:

She rolls through an ether of sighs—

She revels in a region of sighs.

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion,

To point us the path to the skies—

To the Lethean peace of the skies—

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes—

Come up, through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust—

Her pallor I strangely mistrust—

Ah, hasten!—ah, let us not linger!

Ah, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”

In terror she spoke; letting sink her

Wings till they trailed in the dust—

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust—

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming.

Let us on, by this tremulous light!

Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybillic splendor is beaming

With Hope and in Beauty to-night—

See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us aright—

We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of her gloom—

And conquered her scruples and gloom;

And we passed to the end of the vista—

But were stopped by the door of a tomb—

By the door of a legended tomb:—

And I said—“What is written, sweet sister,

On the door of this legended tomb?”

She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume—

’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—

As the leaves that were withering and sere—

And I cried—“It was surely October

On _this_ very night of last year,

That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!—

That I brought a dread burden down here—

On this night, of all nights in the year,

Ah, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

This misty mid region of Weir:—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”

1847.

TO HELEN

I saw thee once—once only—years ago:

I must not say _how_ many—but _not_ many.

It was a July midnight; and from out

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,

Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—

Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—

Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses

That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank

I saw thee half reclining; while the moon

Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,

And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—

Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)

That bade me pause before that garden-gate,

To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?

No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,

Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God!

How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)

Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—

And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out:

The mossy banks and the meandering paths,

The happy flowers and the repining trees,

Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors

Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:

Save only the divine light in thine eyes—

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them—they were the world to me!

I saw but them—saw only them for hours,

Saw only them until the moon went down.

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!

How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!

How silently serene a sea of pride!

How daring an ambition; yet how deep—

How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,

Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;

And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees

Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained;_

They _would not_ go—they never yet have gone;

Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,

_They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since;

They follow me—they lead me through the years.

They are my ministers—yet I their slave.

Their office is to illumine and enkindle—

My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light,

And purified in their electric fire,

And sanctified in their elysian fire.

They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),

And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to

In the sad, silent watches of my night;

While even in the meridian glare of day

I see them still—two sweetly scintillant

Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE;—

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

_I_ was a child and _She_ was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my ANNABEL LEE—

With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud by night

Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;

So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up, in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me;

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling

And killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:—

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the side of the sea.

1849.

A VALENTINE.

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure

Divine—a talisman—an amulet

That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure—

The words—the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too.

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—

Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.

1846.

[To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first

letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the

second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth

and so on to the end.]

AN ENIGMA

“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,

“Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.

Through all the flimsy things we see at once

As easily as through a Naples bonnet—

Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it?

Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—

Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff

Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.”

And, veritably, Sol is right enough.

The general tuckermanities are arrant

Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent—

But _this_ is, now,—you may depend upon it—

Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint

Of the dear names that lie concealed within ‘t.

1847. TO MY MOTHER

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

The angels, whispering to one another,

Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of “Mother,”

Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—

You who are more than mother unto me,

And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.

My mother—my own mother, who died early,

Was but the mother of myself; but you

Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

1849.

[The above was addressed to the poet’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm—Ed.]

FOR ANNIE

Thank Heaven! the crisis—

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last—

And the fever called “Living”

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length—

But no matter!—I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:—ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—

The pitiless pain—

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain—

With the fever called “Living”

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

_That_ torture the worst

Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:—

I have drank of a water

That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground—

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed—

And, to _sleep_, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses—

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies—

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies—

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie—

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm—

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,

Now in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead—

And I rest so contentedly,

Now in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead—

That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead:—

But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie—

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie—

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

1849.

TO F——.

Beloved! amid the earnest woes

That crowd around my earthly path—

(Drear path, alas! where grows

Not even one lonely rose)—

My soul at least a solace hath

In dreams of thee, and therein knows

An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far-off isle

In some tumultuous sea—

Some ocean throbbing far and free

With storms—but where meanwhile

Serenest skies continually

Just o’er that one bright island smile.

1845.

TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD

Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart

From its present pathway part not!

Being everything which now thou art,

Be nothing which thou art not.

So with the world thy gentle ways,

Thy grace, thy more than beauty,

Shall be an endless theme of praise,

And love—a simple duty.

1845.

ELDORADO.

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—

This knight so bold—

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell, as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow—

“Shadow,” said he,

“Where can it be—

This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,”

The shade replied,—

“If you seek for Eldorado!”

1849.

EULALIE

I DWELT alone

In a world of moan,

And my soul was a stagnant tide,

Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less—less bright

The stars of the night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake

That the vapour can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.

Now Doubt—now Pain

Come never again,

For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,

And all day long

Shines, bright and strong,

Astarté within the sky,

While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—

While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

1845.

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow—

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less _gone_?

_All_ that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand—

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep—while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

_One_ from the pitiless wave?

Is _all_ that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?.

1849

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—

Of all to whom thine absence is the night—

The blotting utterly from out high heaven

The sacred sun—of all who, weeping, bless thee

Hourly for hope—for life—ah! above all,

For the resurrection of deep-buried faith

In Truth—in Virtue—in Humanity—

Of all who, on Despair’s unhallowed bed

Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen

At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”

At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled

In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes—

Of all who owe thee most—whose gratitude

Nearest resembles worship—oh, remember

The truest—the most fervently devoted,

And think that these weak lines are written by him—

By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think

His spirit is communing with an angel’s.

1847.

TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,

In the mad pride of intellectuality,

Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever

A thought arose within the human brain

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:

And now, as if in mockery of that boast,

Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—

Italian tones, made only to be murmured

By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—

Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,

Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,

Richer, far wider, far diviner visions

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures”)

Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.

The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.

With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,

I can not write—I can not speak or think—

Alas, I can not feel; for ’tis not feeling,

This standing motionless upon the golden

Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,

Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,

And thrilling as I see, upon the right,

Upon the left, and all the way along,

Amid empurpled vapors, far away

To where the prospect terminates—_thee only!_

1848.

THE CITY IN THE SEA.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Wherethe good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently—

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—

Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—

Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye—

Not the gaily-jewelled dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea—

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave—there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy Heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow—

The hours are breathing faint and low—

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

1845.

THE SLEEPER.

At midnight in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top.

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;

The lily lolls upon the wave;

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin moulders into rest;

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake.

All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies

(Her casement open to the skies)

Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop—

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully—so fearfully—

Above the closed and fringèd lid

‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,

That o’er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,

A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!

Strange, above all, thy length of tress,

And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie

Forever with unopened eye,

While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold—

Some vault that oft hath flung its black

And wingèd panels fluttering back,

Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,

Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Against whose portal she hath thrown,

In childhood, many an idle stone—

Some tomb from out whose sounding door

She ne’er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!

It was the dead who groaned within.

1845.

BRIDAL BALLAD.

THE ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;

Satins and jewels grand

Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell—

For the words rang as a knell,

And the voice seemed _his_ who fell

In the battle down the dell,

And who is happy now.

But he spoke to reasure me,

And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o’er me,

And to the church-yard bore me,

And I sighed to him before me,

Thinking him dead D’Elormie,

“Oh, I am happy now!”

And thus the words were spoken,

And thus the plighted vow,

And, though my faith be broken,

And, though my heart be broken,

Behold the golden token

That _proves_ me happy now!

Would to God I could awaken!

For I dream I know not how,

And my soul is sorely shaken

Lest an evil step be taken,—

Lest the dead who is forsaken

May not be happy now.

1845.

NOTES

1. “The Raven” was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New

York “Evening Mirror”-a paper its author was then assistant editor of. It

was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written by N.

P. Willis: “We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the

second number of the “American Review,” the following remarkable poem by

Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of

‘fugitive poetry’ ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in

English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification,

and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and ‘pokerishness.’ It is

one of those ‘dainties bred in a book’ which we feed on. It will stick to

the memory of everybody who reads it.” In the February number of the

“American Review” the poem was published as by “Quarles,” and it was

introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not written by

Poe himself.

[“The following lines from a correspondent-besides the deep, quaint strain

of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches

amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the

author-appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique

rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English

rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing

corresponding diversities of effect, having been thoroughly studied, much

more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic

tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several

advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater

abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and very great advantages of

sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect

of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen

that much of the melody of ‘The Raven’ arises from alliteration, and the

studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its

measure, it may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they

might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon

form; but the presence in all the others of one line-mostly the second in

the verse” (stanza?)—“which flows continuously, with only an

aspirate pause in the middle, like that before the short line in the

Sapphic Adonic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of

sound with any part besides, gives the versification an entirely different

effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were

better understood.”—ED. “Am. Rev.”]

2. The bibliographical history of “The Bells” is curious. The subject, and

some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet’s

friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,

headed it, “The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew.” This draft, now the editor’s

property, consists of only seventeen lines, and read thus:

I.

The bells!-ah, the bells!

The little silver bells!

How fairy-like a melody there floats

From their throats—

From their merry little throats—

From the silver, tinkling throats

Of the bells, bells, bells—

Of the bells!

II.

The bells!-ah, the bells!

The heavy iron bells!

How horrible a monody there floats

From their throats—

From their deep-toned throats—

From their melancholy throats!

How I shudder at the notes Of the bells, bells, bells—

Of the bells!

In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it to

the editor of the “Union Magazine.” It was not published. So, in the

following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much

enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without

publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current version,

was sent, and in the following October was published in the “Union

Magazine.”

3. This poem was first published in Colton’s “American Review” for

December, 1847, as “To—Ulalume: a Ballad.” Being reprinted

immediately in the “Home Journal,” it was copied into various publications

with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to

him. When first published, it contained the following additional stanza

which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely

suppressed:

Said we then—we two, then—“Ah, can it

Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—

The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—

To bar up our path and to ban it

From the secret that lies in these wolds—

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet

From the limbo of lunary souls—

This sinfully scintillant planet

From the Hell of the planetary souls?”

4. “To Helen” (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until November,

1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the

“Union Magazine,” and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or

desire of Poe, of the line, “Oh, God! oh, Heaven—how my heart beats

in coupling those two words.”

5. “Annabel Lee” was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression

of the poet’s undying love for his deceased bride, although at least one

of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a

copy of the ballad to the “Union Magazine,” in which publication it

appeared in January, 1850, three months after the author’s death. While

suffering from “hope deferred” as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of

“Annabel Lee” to the editor of the “Southern Literary Messenger,” who

published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe’s

death. In the meantime the poet’s own copy, left among his papers, passed

into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the

poem in an obituary of Poe, in the New York “Tribune,” before any one else

had an opportunity of publishing it.

6. “A Valentine,” one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to

have been written early in 1846.

7. “An Enigma,” addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis (“Stella”), was sent to

that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the following March appeared

in Sartain’s “Union Magazine.”

8. The sonnet, “To My Mother” (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to

the short-lived “Flag of our Union,” early in 1849, but does not appear

to have been issued until after its author’s death, when it appeared in

the “Leaflets of Memory” for 1850.

9. “For Annie” was first published in the “Flag of our Union,” in the

spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly

afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the “Home Journal.”

10. “To F——” (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the

“Broadway Journal” for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied

from those inscribed “To Mary,” in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for

July, 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed,

in “Graham’s Magazine” for March, 1842, as “To One Departed.”

11. “To F——s S. O—d,” a portion of the poet’s triune

tribute to Mrs. Osgood, was published in the “Broadway Journal” for

September, 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in the

“Southern Literary Messenger” for September, 1835, as “Lines written in an

Album,” and was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor’s daughter.

Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in Burton’s “Gentleman’s Magazine”

for August, 1839, as “To——.”

12. Although “Eldorado” was published during Poe’s lifetime, in 1849, in

the “Flag of our Union,” it does not appear to have ever received the

author’s finishing touches.

POEMS OF MANHOOD

LENORE

Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!

Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?—weep now or never more!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!

Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung

By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue

That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?”

_Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!

The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—

For her, the fair and _debonair_, that now so lowly lies,

The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—

The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.

“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!

Let _no_ bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,

Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned Earth.

To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—

From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—

From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”

TO ONE IN PARADISE.

Thou wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine,

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

“On! on!”—but o’er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of Life is o’er!

No more—no more—no more—

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

1835.

THE COLISEUM.

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

Of lofty contemplation left to Time

By buried centuries of pomp and power!

At length—at length—after so many days

Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,

(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

Amid thy shadows, and so drink within

My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!

Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!

I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—

O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king

Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!

O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee

Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wanlight—wan light of the horned moon,

The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—

These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—

These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—

These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—

These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—

All of the famed, and the colossal left

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!

Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

As melody from Memnon to the Sun.

We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule

With a despotic sway all giant minds.

We are not impotent—we pallid stones.

Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—

Not all the magic of our high renown—

Not all the wonder that encircles us—

Not all the mysteries that in us lie—

Not all the memories that hang upon

And cling around about us as a garment,

Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

1833.

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace—

Radiant palace—reared its head.

In the monarch Thought’s dominion—

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow,

(This—all this—was in the olden

Time long ago,)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute’s well-tunèd law,

Round about a throne where, sitting

(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch’s high estate.

(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed,

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,

While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh—but smile no more.

1838.

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

Lo! ’tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly—

Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!

That motley drama—oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,

And the angels sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

1838.

SILENCE

There are some qualities—some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.

There is a two-fold _Silence_—sea and shore—

Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,

Newly with grass o’ergrown; some solemn graces,

Some human memories and tearful lore,

Render him terrorless: his name’s “No More.”

He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!

No power hath he of evil in himself;

But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,

That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod

No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!

1840.

DREAM-LAND

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of SPACE—out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the dews that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters—lone and dead,—

Their still waters—still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,—

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—

By the grey woods,—by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp,—

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,—

By each spot the most unholy—

In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past—

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by—

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion

’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—

For the spirit that walks in shadow

’Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,

May not—dare not openly view it;

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak human eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringèd lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

1844.

HYMN

At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—

Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!

In joy and woe—in good and ill—

Mother of God, be with me still!

When the Hours flew brightly by

And not a cloud obscured the sky,

My soul, lest it should truant be,

Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;

Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past,

Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

1835.

TO ZANTE

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take

How many memories of what radiant hours

At sight of thee and thine at once awake!

How many scenes of what departed bliss!

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!

How many visions of a maiden that is

No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!

No _more!_ alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_—

Thy memory _no more! _Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!

“Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”

1837.

SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

I.

Rome.—A Hall in a Palace Alessandra and Castiglione.

Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione. Sad!—not I.

Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!

A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,

Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing

Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine?

Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas. Did I sign?

I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,

A silly—a most silly fashion I have

When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.)

Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged

Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.

Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these

Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—

Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away

The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep

sorrow—

Wears it away like evil hours and wine.

I will amend.

Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop

Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born—

Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir

And Alessandra’s husband.

Cas. I will drop them.

Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more

To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain

For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends

Upon appearances.

Cas. I’ll see to it.

Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,

To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest

In dignity.

Cas. Much, much, oh! much I want

In proper dignity.

Aless.(haughtily) Thou mockest me, sir!

Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless. Heard I aright?

I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!

Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming?

he’s not well!

What ails thee, sir?

Cas. (startling.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!

I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—

Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.

This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!

Enter Di Broglio.

Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the

matter? (observing Alessandra)

I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,

You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!

I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected

Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!

We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit

To the imperial city.

Aless. What! Politian

Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog. The same, my love.

We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young

In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,

But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy

Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,

And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.

Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.

Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not?

And little given to thinking.

Di Brog. Far from it, love.

No branch, they say, of all philosophy

So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.

Learned as few are learned.

Aless. ’Tis very strange!

I have known men have seen Politian

And sought his company. They speak of him

As of one who entered madly into life,

Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian

And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.

He is a dreamer and a man shut out

From common passions.

Di Brog. Children, we disagree.

Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air

Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear

Politian was a melancholy man? (exeunt.)

II

ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.

Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a

hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly

upon a chair.

Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou?

Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here.

Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.

Sit down!—Let not my presence trouble you—

Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.

Jac. (aside.) ’Tis time.

(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her

elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look.

Lalage continues to read. )

Lal. “It in another climate, so he said,

Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”

(pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes)

No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—

But Ocean ever to refresh mankind

Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”

O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like

To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!

O happy land (pauses) She died!—the maiden died!

A still more happy maiden who couldst die!

Jacinta!

(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)

Again!—a similar tale

Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!

Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—

“She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—

“I think not so—her infelicity

Seemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless lady!

Jacinta! (still no answer)

Here ’s a far sterner story,

But like—oh, very like in its despair—

Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily

A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.

She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids

Lean over and weep—two gentle maids

With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!

Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta!

Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?

Lal. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind

As go down in the library and bring me

The Holy Evangelists.

Jac. Pshaw! (exit.)

Lal. If there be balm

For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!

Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble

Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that

Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”

(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)

There, ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome. (aside.)

Lal. (astonished.) What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught

To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.

For thou hast served me long and ever been

Trust-worthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.)

Jac. I can’t believe

She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. (aside.)

Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me

Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.

How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?

Can I do aught?—is there no farther aid

Thou needest, Jacinta?

Jac. Is there no farther aid!

That’s meant for me. (aside) I’m sure, madam, you need not

Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,

I thought not of the jewels.

Jac. Oh! perhaps not!

But then I might have sworn it. After all,

There ’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,

For he ’s sure the Count Castiglione never

Would have given a real diamond to such as you;

And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannot

Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (exit.)

(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a

short pause raises it.)

Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?

Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper

Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!

(taking up the mirror)

Ha! here at least ’s a friend—too much a friend

In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.

Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)

A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not

Though it be rife with woe: It answers me.

It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,

And Beauty long deceased—remembers me

Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,

Inurned and entombed:—now, in a tone

Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,

Whispers of early grave untimely yawning

For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true—thou liest not!

Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—

Castiglione lied who said he loved—

Thou true—he false!—false!—false!

(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches

unobserved.)

Monk. Refuge thou hast,

Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!

Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

Lal. (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!—My soul is at war

with God!

The frightful sounds of merriment below

Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—

The sweet airs from the garden worry me!

Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment

Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix

With horror and awe!

Monk. Think of thy precious soul!

Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father

And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,

And the rivulet that ran before the door!

Think of my little sisters!—think of them!

And think of me!—think of my trusting love

And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think

Of my unspeakable misery!—begone!

Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer

And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith

And vows before the throne?

Monk. I did.

Lal. Lal. ’Tis well.

There is a vow were fitting should be made—

A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,

A solemn vow!

Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!

Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well!

Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?

A crucifix whereon to register

This sacred vow? (he hands her his own)

Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering)

Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,

Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!

Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—

I have a crucifix Methinks ’twere fitting

The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—

And the deed’s register should tally, father!

(draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high)

Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine

Is written in Heaven!

Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,

And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—

Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!

Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!

Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!

Lal. ’Tis sworn!

III.

An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.

Baldazzar.—Arouse thee now, Politian!

Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, shalt not

Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!

Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,

And live, for now thou diest!

Politian. Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.

Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me

To see thee thus.

Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me

To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.

Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?

At thy behest I will shake off that nature

Which from my forefathers I did inherit,

Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,

And be no more Politian, but some other.

Command me, sir!

Bal. To the field, then—to the field—

To the senate or the field.

Pol. Alas! Alas!

There is an imp would follow me even there!

There is an imp hath followed me even there!

There is—what voice was that?

Bal. I heard it not.

I heard not any voice except thine own,

And the echo of thine own.

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!—Baldazaar, 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—schoolfellows—

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 further 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—

And with a holier lustre the quiet moon

Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say

Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?

Bal. Indeed I hear not.

Pol. Not hear it!—listen now!—listen!—the faintest sound

And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!

A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone!

Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!

Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls

Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice

Surely I never heard—yet it were well

Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones

In earlier days!

Bal. I myself hear it now.

Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,

Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see

Very plainly through the window—it belongs,

Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.

The singer is undoubtedly beneath

The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps

Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke

As the betrothed of Castiglione,

His son and heir.

Pol. Be still!—it comes again!

Voice “And is thy heart so strong

(very faintly) As for to leave me thus

Who hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among?

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?

Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it

In merry England—never so plaintively—

Hist! hist! it comes again!

Voice “Is it so strong

(more loudly) As for to leave me thus

Who hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among?

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?

Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still!

Pol. All is not still!

Bal. Let us go down.

Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go!

Bal. The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits use—

Thy presence is expected in the hall

Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

Voice “Who hath loved thee so long

(distinctly) In wealth and woe among,

And is thy heart so strong?

Say nay—say nay!”

Bal. Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give

These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,

Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness

Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember

Pol. Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.

(going.)

Let us descend. Believe me I would give,

Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom

To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—

“To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear

Once more that silent tongue.”

Bal. Let me beg you, sir,

Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.

Let us go down, I pray you.

(Voice loudly) Say nay!—say nay!

Pol. (aside) ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the

voice

Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay!

(approaching the window.)

Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.

Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,

Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make

Apology unto the Duke for me;

I go not down to-night.

Bal. Your lordship’s pleasure

Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.

Pol. Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV.

The gardens of a Palace—Moonlight Lalage and Politian.

Lalge. And dost thou speak of love

To me, Politian?—dost thou speak of love

To Lalage?—ah, woe—ah, woe is me!

This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed!

Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears

Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—

Be comforted! I know—I know it all,

And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest

And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes!

Thou askest me if I could speak of love,

Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.

Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee—

Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (kneeling.)

Sweet Lalage, I love thee—love thee—love thee;

Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and wo I love thee.

Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,

Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.

Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,

Burned there a holier fire than burneth now

Within my spirit for thee. And do I love? (arising.)

Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes—

Thy beauty and thy woes.

Lal. Alas, proud Earl,

Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!

How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens

Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,

Could the dishonored Lalage abide?

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory—

MY seared and blighted name, how would it tally

With the ancestral honors of thy house,

And with thy glory?

Pol. Speak not to me of glory!

I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor

The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.

Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?

Do I not love—art thou not beautiful—

What need we more? Ha! glory!—now speak not of it.

By all I hold most sacred and most solemn—

By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter—

By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven—

There is no deed I would more glory in,

Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory

And trample it under foot. What matters it—

What matters it, my fairest, and my best,

That we go down unhonored and forgotten

Into the dust—so we descend together.

Descend together—and then—and then, perchance—

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And then, perchance

Arise together, Lalage, and roam

The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,

And still—

Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol. And still together—together.

Lal. Now Earl of Leicester!

Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts

I feel thou lovest me truly.

Pol. Oh, Lalage!

(throwing himself upon his knee.)

And lovest thou me?

Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom

Of yonder trees methought a figure passed—

A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—

Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(walks across and returns.)

I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough

Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?

Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self,

Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,

Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind

Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs

Throw over all things a gloom.

Lal. Politian!

Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land

With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—

Miraculously found by one of Genoa—

A thousand leagues within the golden west?

A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,

And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,

And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds

Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe

Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter

In days that are to come?

Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou

Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou

Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,

And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.

And life shall then be mine, for I will live

For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be

No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys

Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope

Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee

And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,

My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,

My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage,

Fly thither with me?

Lal. A deed is to be done—

Castiglione lives!

Pol. And he shall die! (exit)

Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas!

Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?

Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian!

Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian!

I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look,

Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go

With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me!

And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word,

To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence,

To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate

My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone—

O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!

I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.

Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me!

And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone

Gone—gone. Where am I?—’tis well—’tis very well!

So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure,

’Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas!

V.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,

And much I fear me ill—it will not do

To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand,

O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers

Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!

O pity me! let me not perish now,

In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!

Give me to live yet—yet a little while:

’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late

Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud

Between the Earl Politian and himself.

He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?

What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?

With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes

Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day,

Or one more worthy Italy, methinks

No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione’ not being aware

Of any feud existing, or any cause

Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,

Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol. It is most true—

All this is very true. When saw you, sir,

When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid

Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,

A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free

From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say?

Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:

The Count Castiglione will not fight,

Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol. Now this is true—

All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,

And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me

A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say

Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,

Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say

Unto the Count—it is exceeding just

He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal. My lord!—my friend!—

Pol. (aside.) ’Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest

well.

I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message—

Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it.

Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person

With whom affairs of a most private nature

I would adjust.

Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet,

Do we not?—at the Vatican.

Pol. At the Vatican. (exit

Bal.)

Enter Castigilone.

Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,

Dost thou not? that I am here.

Cas. My lord, some strange,

Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—

Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged

Thereby, in heat of anger, to address

Some words most unaccountable, in writing,

To me, Castiglione; the bearer being

Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware

Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,

Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?

’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all

Do err at times.

Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas. Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,

Proud Earl! (draws.)

Pol. (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,

Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee

In the name of Lalage!

Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the

stage)

Of Lalage!

Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!

Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?

Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;

Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

Cas. I dare not—dare not—

Hold off thy hand—with that beloved name

So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—

I cannot—dare not.

Pol. Now by my halidom

I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!

Cas. Ha!—coward!—this may not be!

(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose

is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of

the Earl)

Alas! my lord,

It is—it is—most true. In such a cause

I am the veriest coward. O pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened.) Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage—

Pol. Scoundrel!—arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be—thus—thus—O let me die

Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting

That in this deep humiliation I perish.

For in the fight I will not raise a hand

Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—

(baring his bosom.)

Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—

Strike home. I will not fight thee.

Pol. Now, s’ Death and Hell!

Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted

To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,

Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare

For public insult in the streets—before

The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee

Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee

Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—

Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,

Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?

Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit.)

Cas. Now this indeed is just!

Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.

—ED}

NOTE

29. Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the

light of publicity in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for December,

1835, and January, 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian: an

unpublished drama.” These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845

collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft

subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not

considered just to the poet’s memory to publish it. The work is a hasty

and unrevised production of its author’s earlier days of literary labor;

and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his

reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the

following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The

Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of

Castiglione her betrothed.

Duke. Why do you laugh?

Castiglione. Indeed

I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not

On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?

Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.

Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!

We were walking in the garden.

Duke, Perfectly.

I do remember it-what of it-what then?

Cas. O nothing-nothing at all.

Duke. Nothing at all!

It is most singular that you should laugh

‘At nothing at all!

Cas. Most singular-singular!

Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind

As tell me, sir, at once what ’tis you mean.

What are you talking of?

Cas. Was it not so?

We differed in opinion touching him.

Duke. Him!—Whom?

Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!—is it he you mean?

We differed, indeed. If I now recollect

The words you used were that the Earl you knew

Was neither learned nor mirthful.

Cas. Ha! ha!—now did I?

Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time

You were wrong, it being not the character

Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be

A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,

Too positive again.

Cas. ’Tis singular!

Most singular! I could not think it possible

So little time could so much alter one!

To say the truth about an hour ago,

As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,

All arm in arm, we met this very man

The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,

Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!

Such an account he gave me of his journey!

’Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told

Of his caprices and his merry freaks

Along the road-such oddity-such humor—

Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment

Set off too in such full relief by the grave

Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,

Was gravity itself—

Duke. Did I not tell you?

Cas. You did-and yet ’tis strange! but true as strange,

How much I was mistaken! I always thought

The Earl a gloomy man.

Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?

It can not be the Earl?

Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ’Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning

Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

(Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)

My lord, a second welcome let me give you

To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.

Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl

Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]

That, his friend

Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,

So please you, for Your Grace.

Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome

To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!

And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!

I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.

Castiglione! call your cousin hither,

And let me make the noble Earl acquainted

With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time

Most seasonable. The wedding—

Politian. Touching those letters, sir,

Your son made mention of—your son, is he not?

Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.

If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—

Baldazzar! ah!—my friend Baldazzar here

Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

Duke. Retire!—So soon?

Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!

His lordship’s chambers-show his lordship to them!

His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito.)

Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)

Duke. Retire! Unwell!

Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me

’Tis as you say—his lordship is unwell.

The damp air of the evening-the fatigue

Of a long journey—the—indeed I had better

Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.

I will return anon.

Duke. Return anon!

Now this is very strange! Castiglione!

This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.

You surely were mistaken in what you said

Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said

Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.)

POEMS OF YOUTH

INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831

_LETTER TO MR. B—._

“WEST POINT, 1831.

“Dear B...... Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy

a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the

present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined

‘Al Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have

I hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines,

and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the

trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some

chance of being seen by posterity.

“It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who

is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _of

poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the

critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few

B-’s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion

as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe,

‘Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet

Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge

correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?’ The

difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’

The opinion is the world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man

would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it

is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for

example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read

Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of

the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far

above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean

his everyday actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means

of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never

have been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great

poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion.

_This neighbor’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one

above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel

around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands

upon the pinnacle.

“You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He

is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of

the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or

empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in

possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,

improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a

distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops

glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic

characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many

letters of recommendation.

“I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the

notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is

another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would

be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I

grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his

little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not,

I think, fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be deducted on

the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate

acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false

criticism than of just where one’s own writings are the test, simply

because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many

objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but

his opinion with respect to the ‘Paradise Regained’ is by no means fairly

ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert

what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended

to posterity. But, in fact, the ‘Paradise Regained’ is little, if at all,

inferior to the ‘Paradise Lost,’ and is only supposed so to be because men

do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading

those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the

first to derive any pleasure from the second.

“I dare say Milton preferred ‘Comus’ to either-. if so-justly.

“As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon

the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is

called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been

induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation

of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The

wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but,

being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplifled.

“Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most

philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce

it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or

should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence

is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence,

everything connected with our existence, should be still happiness.

Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is

another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be

pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the

reverse.

“To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance

to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and

pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means

of obtaining.

“I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves

so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to

instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for

their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment;

contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are

professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in

need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of

the devil in ‘Melmoth.’ who labors indefatigably, through three octavo

volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any

common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.

“Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-it

becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.

Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in

contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and

learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their

authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my

heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellect

with the passions-or age with poetry.

“‘Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;

He who would search for pearls must dive below,’

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,

men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies

in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces

where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding—the

goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon

philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith—that moral

mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of

a man.

“We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his ‘Biographia

Literaria’—professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact,

a treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by

reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in

the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely

sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who

surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is

useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

“As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the

feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in

his writings-(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom-his _El Dorado)-but

they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at

best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few

straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.

“He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end

of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light

which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is

too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany would

have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their

State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might

not be deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of

vigor.

“The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration

of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such

assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random)—‘Of

genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done,

and what was never done before;’-indeed? then it follows that in doing

what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _been done before, no

genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act,

pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket,

in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William

Wordsworth, the poet.

“Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian’s

or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to

prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the

controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to such

absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor

of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his

abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the

beginning of the epic poem ‘Temora.’ ‘The blue waves of Ullin roll in

light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads

in the breeze.’ And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is

alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of

‘Peter Bell,’ has _selected _for his contempt. We shall see what

better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

“‘And now she’s at the pony’s tail,

And now she’s at the pony’s head,

On that side now, and now on this;

And, almost stifled with her bliss,

A few sad tears does Betty shed....

She pats the pony, where or when

She knows not.... happy Betty Foy!

Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!’

Secondly:

“‘The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;

I heard a voice: it said-“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”

And, looking o’er the hedge, be-fore me I espied

A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side.

No other sheep was near,—the lamb was all alone,

And by a slender cord was-tether’d to a stone.’

“Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed we

will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a

sheep from the bottom of my heart.

“But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even

Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,

and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an

extract from his preface:—

“‘Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if

they persist in reading this book to a conclusion _(impossible!) will,

_no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!)

they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to

inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to

assume that title.’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

“Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the

bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a

tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

“Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering intellect!

his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, _‘Tai trouvé

souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce

qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles nient,’ and _to employ

his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he

has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a

mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its

perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like

one who stands upon a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting

from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.

“What is poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many

appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,’ I demanded of a

scholar some time ago, ‘give me a definition of poetry.’ _‘Trèsvolontiers;’

_and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and

overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I

imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of

that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and

then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and

fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his

huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the ‘Tempest’—the

‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’—Prospero Oberon—and Titania!

“A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its

_immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for

its object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure,

being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting

perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to

which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweet

sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a

pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the

idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

“What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul?

“To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B—, what you, no doubt,

perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign

contempt. That they have followers proves nothing—

“‘No Indian prince has to his palace

More followers than a thief to the gallows.

SONNET—TO SCIENCE

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.

Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?

How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,

Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering

To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?

Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood

To seek a shelter in some happier star?

Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,

The Elfin from the green grass, and from me

The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

AL AARAAF (*)