T U F ; . A V E N EDGAR POE WITH COMMEMTARY BY JOHN H. TNGRAiVi \ /ns- Qlnrttell Unittetattg BIthtarg Stlfara, Kctn 'garb FROM THE BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY COLLECTED BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell University Library PS 2609.A1 1885 The raven.Wlth literary and historical c 3 1924 022 002 947 All books are subject to recall after two weeks Olin/Kroch Library DATE DUE nrr.-l £ojaef% yrO'** GAYLORD PRINTED IN U.S.A. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022002947 THE RAVE N BY EDGAR POE W,ITH COMMENTARY BY ' John H. Ingram THE RAVEN BY EDGAR ALLAN POE WITH litcrargf anb '%Maxicai €amvixttAav^ BY J'OHN H. INGRAM LONDON GEORGE REDWAY York Street Covent Garden 1885 DRYDEN PRESS : J. DAVY AND SONS, 1^7, LONG ACRE, LONDON. To , STfePHANE MaLLARM^;, Paris, Eduard Engel, Beriin, AND Edmund Clarence Stedman, New York, SCrattalator nl aittr domtnentatara ott "%\sz Haliun," This Volume is Inscribed by John H. Ingram. PREFACE. DGAR Poe's Raven may safely be termed the most popular lyrical poem in the world. It has appeared in all shapes and styles, from the little penny Glasgow edition to the magnificent folios of Mallarmd in Paris, and Stedman in New York. The journals of America and Europe are never weary of quoting it, either piece-meal or in extenso, and no collection of modern poetry would be deemed complete without it. It has been translated and commented upon by the leading literati of two continents, and an entire literature has been founded upon it. To make khown that litera- ture, and to present the cream of it in a com- prehensive and available form, is the object of this little volume. John H. Ingram. April, 1885. CONTENTS. Genesis PAGE I The Raven, with Variorum Readings • 17 History 24 ISADORE ■ 35 Translations: French 40 „ German ■ S8 „ Hungarian 74 „ Latin 79 Fabrications . 84 Parodies ■ 94 Bibliography ■ 123 Index / 124 GENESIS. HELLEY'S exclamation about Shakespeare, " What a number of ideas must have been afloat before such an author could arise ! " is equally applicable to the completion of a great poem. How many fleeting fancies must have passed through the poet's brain ! How many crude ideas must have arisen, only to be rejected one after another for fairer and fitter thoughts, before the thinker could have fixed upon the fairest and fittest for his purpose ! , Could we tinveil the various phases of thought which culminated in The Sensitive Plants or trace the gradations which grew into The Ancient Mariner, the pleasure of the results would even rival the delight derived from a perusal of the poems themselves. "A history of how and where works of imagination have been produced," remarked L. E. L., "would often be more extraordinary than the works, themselves.'' The " where " seldom imports much, but the " how " frequently signifies everything. Rarely has an attempt been made, and still more rarely with success, to in- vestigate the germination of any poetic ckef d'muvre : Edgar Poe's most famous ^otvci-^The Raven — has, how- ever, been a constant object of such research. Could B 2 ' Genesis. the poet's own elaborate and positive analysis of the poem — his so styled Philosophy of Composition — ^be ' accepted as a record of fact, there would be nothing more to say in the matter, but there are few willing to accept its statements, at least unreservedly. Whether Edgar Poe did— as alleged — or did not profess that his famed recipe for manufacturing such a poem as The Raven was an afterthought — a hoax — our opinion will not be shaken that his essay embodies, at the most, but a modicum of fact. The germs of The Raven, its pri- mitive inception, arid the processes by which it grew into a " thing of beauty," are to be sought elsewhere. " I have often thought," says Poe, "how interesting a magazine paper might.be written by any author who would — that is to say, who could — ^.ddtail, step by step, the processes by which any. one of his compositions attained, its ultimate point of completion . . . Most writers— poets in.especial — prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy— an ecstatic intuition — and would positively shudder at letting the pubHc take a peep behind the scenes at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought — at the true purposes seized only at the last moment — at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view — at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable — at the cautious selections and rejections — at the painful erasures and interpolations — in a word, at the wheels and pinions — the tackle for scene-shifting — the step- ladders and demon-traps — the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary ^M/r/b." Genesis. 3 Besides the unwillingness there is, also, as Poe acknowledges, frequently an inability to retrace the steps by which conclusions have been arrived at : the gradations by which his work arrived at maturity are but too often forgotten by the worker. " For my own part," declares Poe, " I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions." Having ijiade so positive a declaration the poet attempts to prove its trustworthiness by assuming to ' show the modus operandi by which The Raven was put together. The author of The Balloon Hoax ; of Von Kempelen and Ms Discovery ; of The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, and of other immortal hoaxes, confidingly assures us that it is his design to render manifest that no one point in the composition of his poetic master-piece The Raven, "is referrible either to accident or intuition" and "that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem." From the premises thus precisely laid down, Edgar Poe proceeds to trace step by step — phase by phase — to their logical conclusion, the processes by which his famous poem was manufactured. We not only doubt, we feel assured that The Raven was not built entirely upon the lines thus laid down. Some commentators — notably Mr. William Minto, in a remarkably thought- ful and original essay* — have elected to place entire reliance upon Poe's statements, as given in The Philo- sophy of Composition ; we, for reasons to be given, can * The Fortnightly Review, July 1st, 1880, B 2 4 Genesis. only regard them as the result of an afterthought, as the outcome of a desire^or perhaps of a necessity — to produce an effect ; to create another sensation. Those unable or unwilling to accept the poet's theory for The Haven's composition have diligently sought foi; the source of its inspiration — for the germ out of which it grew. To satisfy this desire for in- formation many fraudulent statements and clumsy forgeries have been foisted on the public : these things will be referred to later on, for the present they are beside our purpose. Among the few suggestions worth noticing, one which appeared in the Athenceum* re- quires examination. In The Gem for 1831, it is pointed out, appeared two poems l?y Tennyson, " in- cluded, we believe, in no collection of the poet's works. The first poem is entitled No More, and seems worthy, in all respects," says the writer, "of preservation." It reads thus :— " Oh sad No More ! oh sweet No More ! Oh strange No More ! By a mossed brook bank on a stone I smelt a wildweed-flower alone ; There was a ringing in my ears, And both my eyes gushed out with tears. Surely all pleasant things had gone before, Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee. No More ! " The other poem, entitled Anacreontic, contains the name of Lenora. "It is not suggested," says the writer, "that Poe took from these verses more thaii the name Lenora or Lenore, and the burden ' Never More.' The connection of the two in The Raven * No. 2473, page 395, March 20th, 1875. Genesis. 5 renders all but certain that the author had come across the book in which the poems appear." Whether or no Poe ever saw The Gem for 1831, is almost immaterial to inquire, but that so common a poetic phrase as " No More" supplied him, fourteen years later, with his melancholy burden of " Never More " no one can believe. In truth, for many years " No More " had been a favorite refrain with Poe : in his poem To One in Paradise, the publication of which is traceable back to July, 1835, is the line, " No more — no more — ^no more ! " In the sonnet To Zante, published in January, 1837, the sorrowful words occur five times, ■' No MORE ! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all ! " whilst in the sonnet To Silence, published in April, 1840, "No More" again plays a, leading part. The first at least of these three poems there is good reason to believe had been written as early as 1832 or 1833. As regards Poe's favorite name of Lenore, an early use of it may be pointed out in his poem entitled "Lenore," published in the Pioneer for 1842, the germ of the said poem having been first published in 1831. We are now about to touch more solid ground. In 1843 Edgar Poe appears to have been writing for The New Mirror, a New York periodical edited by his two acquaintances, G. P. Morris and N. P. Willis. In the number for October the 14th appeared some verses entitled Isadore : they were by Albert Pike, the author of an Ode to The Mocking Bird sxiA other pieces once well-known. In an editorial note by Willis, it was stated that Isadore had been written by its author 6 Genesis. " after sitting up late at study, — the thought of losing her who slept near him at his toil- having suddenly crossed his mind in the stillness of midnight." Here we have a statement which must have met Poe's gaze, and which establishes the first coincidence between the poems of Pike and of TAe Raveris author r both write a poem lamenting a lost love when, in fact, neither the'one has lost his " Isadore " nor the other his " Lenore " : — the grief is fictitious. In The PhilO' sofihy of Composition Poe states that he selected for , the theme of his projected poem, "a lover lament- ing his deceased mistress." Pike, we are told by Willis, in the statement certainly seen by Poe, wrote his lines " in the stillness of midnight" " after sitting up late at study," and the initial stanza of The Raven begins, — " Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume.'' The key-note has been struck, and all that follows is in due sequence. Poe, in his Philosophy of Compo- sition, says that when he had determined upon writing his poem, " with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy" in its construction, "some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn," he did not fail to at once notice that of all the usual effects, or points, adopted by writers of verse, "no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality of its employment," he declared " sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis." Now it may be noticed in passing that the refrain was neither uni- versal — nor common, save with ballad makers — up to Genesis.. j Foe's days, and that either of those attributes would have sufiSced to repel him — whose search was ever after the outfd — the bizarre. But' the truth was Foe found as the most distinctive — the only salient- feature in his contemporary's poem the refrain, " Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore." Naturally, Foe's genius impelled him to improve upon the simple repetend : "I considered it," he says, "with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and £oon saw it to be in a primitive condition. , As com- ' monly used the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone — both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity — of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by adhering in general to. the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought : that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain — the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, un- varied. "These points being i settled," contirjues Foe, "I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its (application was to be repeatedly varied it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an ihsurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would of course be the facility of the variation. , This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. "The question now aros?," pursues the poet, "as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas 8 Genesis. was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considera- tions inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most pro- / ducible consonant. / " The sound of the refrain being thus determined it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetet- mined as the tone of the poem. In such a search," avers Poe, " it would have been absolutely impossiWe to overlook the word ' Nevermore.' In fact it was tne very first which presented itself." ' Thus the author oi The Raven would lead his readers to believe that he was irresistibly impelled to select for his refrain the. word "Nevermore," but, evidently, there are plenty of eligible words in the English language both embodying the long sonorous o in con- nection with r as the most producible consonant, anc of sorrowful import. A perusal of Pike's poem, how ever, rendered it needless for Poe to seek, far for th« needed word, for, not only does the refrain to Isador contain the antithetic word to never, and end with the ore syllable, but in one line of the poem are " never '| and "more," and in others the words "no more,'! "evermore," and " for ever more " ; quite sufficient, ali must admit, to have supphed the analytic mind of o\a poet with what he needed. Thus far the theme, the refrain, and the word se- lected for the refrain, have been somewhat closely paralleled in the poem by Pike, whilst over the trans- Genesis. g mutation of the , heroine's name from Isadore into, Lenore no words need be wasted. But the ballad of " Isadore " contains no allusion to the " ghastly grim and ancient Raven" — the ominous bird whose croaking voice and melancholy "never- more " has found an echo in so many hearts. Where then did Poe obtain this sable, sombre auxiliary, the pretext, at he tells us, for the natural and continuous repetition of the refrain ? Observing the difficulty of inventing a plausible reason for this continuous repeti- tion, he did not fail to perceive, is his declaration, " that this difficulty arose solely from the presumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being. I did not fail to perceive, in short," is his remark, "that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non- reasoning creature capable of speech, and, very natur- ally, a parrot in the first instance suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a raven as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the in- ' tended tone." Now it will be recalled to mind that Pike was not only the author of a well-known Ode to The Mocking Bird, but that in his poem of Isadore, which has already served us so well, is the line — " The mocking-bird sits still and sings a melancholy strain." Poe would naturally desire to ayoid introducing any direct allusion to the mocking-bird of his contempo- rary — which, indeed he had already noticed in print — even if that creature had been capable of enacting the 10 Genesis. needful r61e; so for a while, it is possible, he may have deemed the, parrot suitable for his purpose. Cresset's Fer-Viri—t\\aX most amusing of birds ! — with whose history he was famiUar, may indeed have been recalled to mind, but that he' would speedily discard all idea of such a creature as out of all keeping with the tone of his projected poem is evident. To us it appears clear that it was in-Barnaby Rudge he finally found the needed biird. In a review which he wrote of that story "Poe drew attention to certain points he deemed , Dickens had failed to make : the Raven in it, the well- known "Grip," he considered, "might have been mademorethan we now see it, a portion of the con- ception of the fantastic Barnaby. ■ Its croaking might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama. Its character might hive performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as does, in music, the - accompaniment in respect to the air." Here would seem to be, beyond question, shadowed forth the poet's own Raven and its duty. It has been seen that Poe found much of what he wanted in Isadore, and it might not be investigating too nicely to question whether the "melancholy strain" of its " mocking bird " may not have suggested the " melancholy burden " of the Raven ; but more pal- pable similarities are apparent. In order to justify the following portion of our argument it ^ff^\\ be necessary to cite some specimens of Pike's work, this stanza of it shall, therefore, be given : — " Thou art lost to me forever — I have lost thee Isa- dore, — Thy head wUl never rest upon my loyal bosom more, Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Genesis. 1 1 Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine — Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore."* As might be expected Pike's metre and rhythm are very much less dexterously inanaged than are Poe's, but, to some extent the intention ■via.s to produce an effect similar to that carried out afterwards in the Raven, and this is the greatest proof of all that the author of the latter poem derived the germ thought of it froni Isadore. The irregularities of the prototype poerii, however, are so manifold and so eccentric, it is easy to perceive that its author was unable to get beyond the intention, and that his acquaintance with the laws of versification was limited. " Of course," remarks Poe, 1^1 preteijd to no origin- 'ality in either the rhythm or metre of the Raven,'' adding, " what originality the Raven has, is in their (the forms of verse employed) combination into stanza, nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted.'^ / In concluding this section of our analysis it will not be superfluous to reiterate the points in which we have endeavoured to demonstrate the- various similarities between the poems of Pike and of Poe. Firstly, the theme : upon a dreary midnight a toilworn student is sitting in his sti^dy, lamenting his lost love. Secondly, with a view of giving some originality to his ballad the poet adopts a refrain. Thirdly, the refrains, which are of melancholy import, conclude with the similarly sounding words "forever," and "nevermore," whilst fourthly, Poe's stanzas have the appearance of being * For the satisfaction of the reader the whole of this poem is given at pp. 35—39. 12 Genesis. formed upon the basis of Pike's, though it is true, so improved and expanded by extra feet, and the addition of another long Hne, that they need a very careful and crucial examination ere the appearance becomes manifest. Minor, or less salient points of resem- blance, such as " the melancholy strain " of the mock- ing bird, and the " melancholy burden " of the raven need no further c'omment, as the reader will be able to detect them for himself. It is now necessary to examine the claims of another poem to having been an important factor in the in- ception and composition of The Raven. A few months previous to the publication of Poe's poetic master- work he read and reviewed the newly published Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Barrett (Mrs. Browning). From amid the contents of the volumes he selected for most marked commendation Zady GeraMtne's Courtship, strongly animadverting, however, upon its paucity of rhymes and deficiencies of rhythm. The constructive ability of the authoress he remarks "is either not very remarkable, or has never been properly brought into play : — in truth her genius is too impetuous for the minuter technicalities of that elaborate art so need- ful in the building-up of pyramids for immortality." It has been hastily assumed that the author of the JRaven drew his conception of it from Lady Geraldini s Courtship. The late Buchanan Read even informed Mr. Robert Browning that Poe had described to him the whole construction of his poem and had stated the suggestion of it lay wholly in this line of Mrs. Brown- ing's poem — "With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain." Genesis. 13 There was necessarily a misunderstanding in this : as- suredly, Poe did derive useful hints from ^dy Geral- dinis Courtship but not to the extent surmised : he has one line too close a parallel to that just cited to admit of accidental resemblance : — " And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain," together with other points to be noted. We know by experience how greatly Poe revised, and, how differently from the original drafts, he re-wrote his poems. The Bells, for instance, was originally only an unimportant colourless piece of seventeen lines, and underwent numerous transformations before it reached its present form. It is fairly safe to assume, therefore, that upon the strength of the suggestions given by Pike's Isadore, Poe had devised if, indeed, he had not already written the Raven in its original form when he met with Lady Geraldine's Courtship. Here was something instinct with genius and replete with that Beauty which he worshipped. Do we go beyond probability, in deeming he returned to his unpublished poem, already, there is reason to believe, the rejected of several editors, and, fired by Mrs. Browning's attempt, determined to make his poem one of those " pyramids for immortality " of which he had spoken ? It msty be further assumed that by the hght of this new pharos he revised and rewrote his poem, as he did so reflecting, amid its original beauties, some stray gleams from his new beacon. Besides the line already pointed out there are several lesser points of likeness, as between, — " And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes tlie perfumed air," 14 Genesis. and the lines, — "Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."* Again, not only are there resemblances in thought, but a marked resemblance in rhythm and metre, to Poe's words and work in this stanza of Mrs. Browning's poem : — " Eyes, he said,- now throbbing through me ! are ye "eyies that did undo me.? Shining eyes like aintique. jewels set in Parian statue- ■ stone! ■ Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burn- ing torrid ■ O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life un- done?" Here is, veritably, a stanza, to parallel in versiiica- tion-and ideas -Poe's lines, — " 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;" This stanza far more likely than that containing the first cited line of Mrs. Browning, would have suggested the metrical method, the rhythm, and the additional rhymes in the first and third lines. But there the sug- gestion ends ; all beyond that is apparently Poe's own. It is, of course, possible that other sources of the inspiration of the Raven are discoverable although not yet discovered, but, when all the germs have been * First published versioij. Genesis. 1 5 analyzed and.^l the suggested sources scrutinized what a wealth of\imagination and a power of words remain the unalienable property of Poe — this builder of " pyramids for immortality." Every poem must have been suggested by something, but how rarely do suggestions— whence-so-ever drawn — from Nature or Art — culminate in works so magnifi- cent as this — the melodious apotheosis of Melancholy ! This splendid consecration of unforgetful, undying sorrow! As has already been pointed out Poe made no claim to originality as regarded either the rhythm' or the metre of the Raven : the measures of each of the lines composing the stanzas of his . poem had been often used before, but. to cite his own words with respect to this feature of the work, " what originality the Raven has, is in their combination into stanza, nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of com- bination is," as he' justly claims, "aided by other un- usual and some altogether novel eifects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration." This is, indeed, a, modest method of placing before his public the markedly original variations from known and , well-worn forms of versification. "The possible varieties of metre and stanza are,'' as Poe re- inarks, " absolutely infinite, and yet, for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The fact is " asserts the poet " that originality (unless in minds of very imusual force) is by no means a mattel-, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be _i6 Genesis. elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment less of in- vention than of negation.'' / In proof of Poe himself having possessed this " merit of the highest class," it is but necessary to refer to the Raven. Not only is the whole conception and con- struction of the poem evidence of his inventive ori- ginality, not only are the artistic alliteration, the pro- fusion of open vowel sounds and the melodious metre, testimony to his sense of beauty, but, by the intrq duc- tion_ of the third rh-yme-iiLtQ— the fourth line of the stanza, ani by the new, the novel, insertion oL.a_fi£th lija£jj£tsffierUJiat4&urthJ}a€--andJJig_xefra,uiJ]£_^ really do, what,-as,he p£iinted,-©&tyHO man had- done for centuries, an .originaLthing-in'Vera£-L THE RAVEN. NCE upon a midnight, dreary, while I i pondered, weak and weary^^" Over many a quainf and curious volume oif 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," 1 muttered, "tapping ait my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." II. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak 7 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. c 1 8 The Raven. III. 13 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.'' IV. 19 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 cham- ber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you " — ^here I opened wide the door ; — Darkness there, and nothing more. V. 25 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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. The Raven. 19 ' VI. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 31 burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice j Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery ex- plore — Let myheart be still a moment and this my stery explore; — 'Tis the wind and nothing more ! " VII. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 37 and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore • ' Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 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. VIII. Then this ebony bird beguilingmysadfancy into smiling, 43 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 Plu- tonian shore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." c 2 20 The Raven. IX. 49 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plaiilly, 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." X. 55 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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 inore 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." 6 1 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.' " The Raven. 21 XII. But the Raven still beguilingall my sad soul into smiling, 67 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." XIII. This I sateiigaged in guessing, butnosyllable expressing 73 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 hning with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore. XIV. Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 79 an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose 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,nepenthd from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthd and forget this lost Lenore !" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 2,2 The Raven. XV. 8s "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 en- chanted — 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." XVI. 91 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil I 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." XVII. 97 "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." The Raven. 23 XVIII. And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 103 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 hfted — nevermore ! Variations in 1845. Line 9. Tried ^?- sought. Line 27. DarknessyJw stillness. Line 31. Then _/o>- back. Line 32. Soon I heard again, &c. Line 39. Instant ^>" minat'e. Line 51. Sublunary j/?'?' living human. Line 55. The/cr that. Line 60. Quoth the raven, " Nevermore.'' Line 61. Wondering^r Startled. Lines 64-66, Followed fast and followed faster: — so, when Hope he would adjure, Stem Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure, That sad answer, Nevermore. Line 80. Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. Line 84. Let me quaff, &c. Line 105. Demon _/5!r demon's. HISTORY. N the autumn of 1844 Poe removed from Philadelphia to New York. Doubtless, he bore with hitn the rough draft of The Raven. If the account furnished by The South for November 1875 t>^ correct — and there would not appear to be any reason to doubt its accuracy — the original poem had been offered to and' rejected by several editors ere it was accepted, through the inter- vention of the late David W. HoUey, by The American Review. Mr. HoUey, it is stated, was a near relative of the editor of that review, and .being " a gentleman of education, literary tastes, and safe and fearless in judgment, was a trusted attachh of the" publishing establishment. One day, so runs the narration, Poe, being in pecuniary difficulty, presented himself, with his nlanuscript poem, to Mr. HoUey, and related his perplexities. Mr. Holley, says The South, " with characteristic indifference to the adverse opinion of others, after having an equal chance to form an opinion for himself, expressed his decided admiration of the poem. And after listening to the poet's need, and the story of his endeayours to dispose of his weird pet, expressing his regret and even chagrin that he could do no better, he said to Poe, in a most unpoetically business way, the better to conceal his History. 25 real sensibility in the matter, ' If five dollars be of any use to you, I will give you that for your poem and take the chances of its publication ' ; for his own judgment might yet be overruled." And so, according to the account given by The South, Poe's poem of The Raven became the property of Mr. HoUey, and through his intervention found its way into print. The Raven was published in the second number of The American Review, which was issued in February 1845, but its first appearance in print was in the New York Evening Mirror for the 29th of January of that year. It was thus editorially introduced by N. P. Willis ;— " We are permitted to copy [in advance of publica- tion] from the second INo. of The American Review, the following remarkable poem by Edgar Poe. In our opinion it is the most efiective single example of 'fugitive poetry' ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in EngUsh poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification and consistent sus- taining 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.'' It has been surmised, with much probabihty, that Poe had intended to publish The Raven anonymously, and retain the secret of its authorship until he had had time to note its effect upon the public. It was, doubtless, due to the persuasion of Willis that he allowed the poem to appear in the Evening Mirror, with the author's name affixed to it ; nevertheless it was published in The American Review as by " Quarles," and with the following note, evidently written or in- spired by Poe himself, prefixed : — 26 History. " [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 — appear 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, have been tho- roughly 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 un- comnion form ; but the presence in all the others of one hne — mostly the second in the verse — 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 beside, gives the versification an entirely different effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language, in prosody, were better under- stood.]— Ed. Am. Rev." Had Poe really thought to conceal the authorship History. 27 of Th& Raven, the publication of it with his name attached, and the immediate reproduction of the poem in the journals of nearly every town in the United States, rendered any attempt at concealment impos- sible. No single " fugitive " poem ever aroused such immediate and extensive excitement ; in the course of a few weeks it was known all over the United States ; it called into existence parodies and imitations innu- merable; afforded occasion for multitudinous para- graphs, and, in fact, created quite a literature of its own. The RaverHs reputation rapidly spread into other countries ; it carried its author's name and fame from shore to shore, inducing again and again the poets of various peoples to attempt to transmute its magical music into their own tongues. Among his fellow literati it made Poe the lion of the season, and drew admiring testimony from some of the finest spirits of the age. His society was sought by the 'elite of literary circles, and the best houses of New York were ready to open their doors to the poor, desperately poor, poet. "Although he had been connected with some of the leading magazines of the day,'' remarks Mrs. Whit- man, " and had edited for a time with great ability several successful periodicals, his literary reputation at the North had been comparatively limited until his removal to New York, when he became personally known to a large circle of authors and literary people, whose interest in his writings was manifestly enhanced by the perplexing anomalies of his character, and by the singular magnetism of his presence." But it was not until the publication of his famous poem that he became a society lion. When The Raven appeared, 28 ' History. as this same lady records, Poe one evening electrified the company assembled at the house oif an accom- plished poetess in Waverley Place — where a weekly meeting of artists and men of letters was held — by the recitation, at the request of his hostess, of the wonderful poem. Poe's reading of The Raven is stated by many who heard him to have been a wonderful elocutionary triumph : after his notorious recitation of Al Aaraaf at the Boston Lyceum, he complied with a request to recite his most popular poem, and repeated it, says one who was present, with thrilUng effect. " It was something well worth treasuring in memory," is the testimony of this authority, corroborated by the evi- dence of many, others. A copy of the poem was sent to Mrs. Browning (then Miss Barrett), apparently by R. H. Home, for writing to him soon after its appearance, the poetess says : "As to The Raven, tell me what you shall say about it ! There is certainly a power — ibut it does not appear to me the natural expression of a sane intellect in whatever mood; and I think that this should be specified in the title of the poem. There is a fantasticalness about the 'Sir or Madam,' and things of the sort which is ludicrous, unless there is a specified insanity to justify the straws. Probably he — the author — intended it to be read in the poem, and he ought to have intended it. The rhythm acts excellently upon the imagination, and the 'never- more' has a solemn chime with it Don't get me into a scrape. The ' pokerishness ' * (just gods ! * AUuding to the ' ' editorial " of WiUis. History. ' 29 what Mohawk English !) might be found fatal, perad- venture. Besides — ^just because I have been criti- cised, I would not criticise.* And I am of opinion that there is an uncommon force and effect in the poem." With regard to one item in Mrs. Browning's critique, it may be pointed out that Poe, in his Philosophy of Composition — ^perhaps aifter having read a copy of the lady's remarks — expressly states that " about the middle " of The Raven, with a view of deepening, by force of contrast, the ultimate impres- sion of intense melancholy, he had given " an air of the fantastic, approaching as nearly to the, ludicrous as was admissible "-^to his poem. Guided by the opinions of others, or by her own more matured judg- ment, Mrs. Browning thought fit, kt a later period, to speak in terms of stronger admiration of Foe's poem. Writing to an American correspondent she said : " The Raven has produced a sensation— a ' fit horror,' here in England. Some of my friends are taken, by the fear of it, and some by the music. I hear of persons haunted by the Nevermore, and one acquaintance of mine, who has the misfortune of possessing ' a bust of Pallas,' never can bear to look at it in the twilight. Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of Paracelsus, &c., is enthusiastic in his admiration of the rhythm.'' As with nearly all Poe's hterary workmanship, both prose and verse. The Raven underwent several altera- tions and revisions after publication. The more minute of these changes do not call for notice here, * Poe had just reviewed her poems in the Broadway Journai, 30 History. as they are shown in the variorum readings at the end of the poem itself;* but the improvement made in the latter portion of the eleventh stanza, from the original version of — " So, when Hope he would adjure, Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure, That sad answer, ' Nevermore ' " — to its present masterly roll of melancholy music, is too radical to be passed by in silence. Although his pride could not but be deeply grati- fied by the profound impression The Raven had made on the public, Poe himself far preferred many of his less generally appreciated poems, and, as all true poets at heart must feel, with justice. Some of his juvenile pieces appeared to him to manifest more faithfully the true poetic intuition ; they, he could not but feel, were the legitimate offspring of inspira- tion, whilst The Raven was, to a great extent, the product of art— although, it is true, of art controlling and controlled by genius. Writing to a correspondent upon this subject, Poe remarked, — " What you say about the blundering criticism of ' the Hartford Review man ' is just. For the pur- poses of poetry it, is quite sufficient that a thing is possible, or at least that the improbability be not offensively glaring. It is true that in several ways, as you say, the lamp might have thrown the bird's shadow on the floor. My conception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the * Vide page 23. History. 31 English palaces, and even in some of the better houses of New York. " Your objection to the tinkling of the footfalls is far more pointed, and in the course of composition occurred so forcibly to myself that I hesitated to use the term. I finally used it, because I saw that it had, in its first conception, been suggested to my mind by the sense of the supernatural with which it was, at the moment, filled. No human or physical foot could tinkle on a soft carpet, therefore the tinkling of feet would vividly convey the supernatural impression. This was the idea, and it is good within itself ; but if it fails [as I fear it does] to make itself immediately and generally felt, according to my intention, then in so much is it badly conveyed or expressed. " Your appreciation of The Sleeper delights me. In the higher qualities of poetry it is, better than The Raven ; but there is not one man in a million who could be brought to agree with me in this .opinion. The Haven, of course, is far the better as a work of art ; but in the true basis of all art. The Sleeper is the superior. I wrote the latter when quite a boy." Mr. E. C. Stedman who, as a poet even more than as a critic, has been better enabled to gauge Poe's poetic powers than so many who have ventured to ad- judicate upon them, appropriately remarks , — " Poe could not have written The Raven in youth. It exhibits a method so positive as almost to compel us to accept, against the denial of his associates, his own account of its building. The maker does keep a firm hand on it throughout, and for once seems to set his purpose above his passion. This appears in the gravely quaint diction, and in the contrast between 32 History. the reality of everyday manners and the profounder reality of a spiritual shadow upon the human heart. The grimness of fate is suggested by phrases which it requires a masterly hand to subdue to the meaning of the poem. ' " Sir," said I, or " Madam," ' ' this ungainly fowl,' and the like, sustain the air of grotesqueness, and become a foil to the pathos, an approach to the tragical climax, of this unique pro- duction. Only genius can deal so closely with the grotesque, and make it add to the solemn beauty of structure an effect hke that of the gargoyles seen by moonlight on the facade of Notre Dame. " In no other lyric is Poe so self-possessed. No other is so determinate in its repetends and allitera- tions. Hence I am far from deeming it his most poetical poem. Its artificial qualities are those which catch the fancy of the general reader ; and it is of all his ballads, if not the most imaginative, the most peculiar. His more ethereal productions seem to me those in which there is the appearance, at least, of spontaneity, — in which he yields to his feelings, while dying falls and cadences most musical, most melan- choly, come from him unawares. Literal criticisms of The Raven are of small account. If the shadow of the bird could not fall upon the mourner, the shadows of its evil presence could brood upon his soul Poe's Raven is the very genius of the Night's Plutonian shore, different from other ravens, entirely his own, and none other can take its place. It is an emblem of the Irreparable, the guardian of pitiless memories, whose burden ever recalls to us the days that are no more." Baudelaire, who has made Poe a popular French History. 33 author, in his Essay— the most famed if not the most discriminative critique on Poe's genius — would almost appear to have accepted the Philosophy of Composition as a veritable exposition of the poet's method of work- manship. "Bien des gens," he remarks, " de ceux sur- tout qui ont lu le singulier poeme inUtul'e le Corbeau, seraient scandalis'es sij'analysais Particle oil notre poete a inginument en apparence, mais avec une Ughre imper- tinence queje ne puis bl&mer, minutieusement expliqui le mode de construction qu'il a employi, l' adaptation du rythme, le choix d'un refrain, — le plus bref possible et leplus susceptible d'' application variies, et en mime temps le plus reprisentatif de m'elancolie et de d'esespoir, orni d'une rime la plus sonore de toutes (Nevermore), — le choix d'un oiseau capable d'imiter la voix humaine, mais d'un oiseau — le corbeau — marquk dans Vimagination populaire d'un caracthre funeste et fatal, — le choix d'un ton le plus po'etique de tous, le ton mklancolique, — du sentiment le plus poitique, I' amour pour une morte. . . . "f'ai dit que cet article,'' continues Baudelaire, in further reference to The Philosophy of Composition, " me paraissait entachk d'une Itglre impertinence. Les partisans de I'inspiration quand mtme ne manqueraient pas d'y trouver un blaspheme et une profanation; maisje crois que d est pour eux que Particle a Hk spkcialement icrit. Autant certains 'ecrivains affectent P abandon, visant au chef-d'oeuvre les yeux ferm'es, pleins de confiance dans le disordre, et attendant que les caracteres jetes au plafond retombent en poeme sur le parquet, autant Edgar Poe — Pun des hommes les plus inspir'es queje connaisse — a mis d'affectation d, cacher la spontaneity, d, simuler le sang- froid et la dilibtration. ' Je croix pouvoir me vanter ' — dit-il avec un orgueil amusant et que je ne trouvepas de D 34 Historj. mauvais go&t — ' QtHaucun point de ma composUion n'a Hi ahandonni au hasard, et que Vmuvreentilrea marchi pas d, pas vers son but avec la precision et la logique rigoureuse d'un prohllme mathimatique.' II ' n'y a, dis-je, que les amateurs de hasard, les fatalistes de P in- spiration et les fanatiques du vers blanc qui puissent irouver bizarres ces minuties. // riy a pas des minuties en matitre d'art." ISADORE. HOU art lost to me forever, — I have lost thee, Isadore,^ Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more. Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine : Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! Thou art dead and gone, dear, loving wife, — thy heart is still and cold, — And I at one stride havje become most comfortless and old. Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah ! me, how dark a night ! Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Vide pages 5-12. D 2 36 Isadore. The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care, And yet they droop and fade away, as tho' they wanted air ; They cannot live without thine eyes, to glad them' with their hght, Since ihy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright. Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore. Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,— What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone ; For if I say, to Heaven— then the poor things wish to learn. How far is it, and where, and when their mother will return. Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore. Our. happy home has now become a lonely, silent place ; Like Heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face. Our little ones are still and sad — none love them now but I, Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Isadore. 37 Their merry laugh is heard np more — they neither run nor play, But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer's day. The spider weaves his web across the windows at his willj The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore ; The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor; The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain. For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in spring, When first thy love for me was told, and thou didst to me cling, Thy sweet eyes radiant through thy tears, pressing; thy lips to mine, In that old arbour, dear, beneath the overarching vine. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. 38 ' Isadore. The moonlight struggled through the vines, and fell upon thy face, Which thou didst lovingly upturn with pure and trust- ful gaze. The' southern breezes, murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair, As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Thy love and faith thou plighted'st then, with smile and mingled tear. Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here. Nor angry word nor angry look thou ever gavest me. But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health ; So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth ; Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each despond- ing hour. As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and brpken flower. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Isadore. 39 Thou art gone from me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore 1 And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore. If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay, But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away, — And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore. Albert Pike. TRANSLATIONS. FRENCH. O foreign writer is so popular, and has been so thoroughly acclimatised in France, as Edgar Poe. This popularity and power is largely due to the translations and influence of Charles Baudelaire who has made his transatlantic idol a veritable French classic. Edgar Poe's in- fluence upon literature, declares de Banville, is ceaseless and spreading, and as powerful as that of Balzac. The Raven, despite the' almost insurmountable diffi- culty of making anything like a faithful rendering of it into French, is a favourite poem in France. Again and again have well known French writers attempted to translate Poe's chef d'ceuvre into their own tongue, but with varying success. They have as a rule to discard the rhymes, abandon the aUiteration, and lose all the sonorous music produced by artistic use of the open vowel sounds; in fact, attempt to reconstruct the wonderful house of dreams without having any of the original materials out of which it was formed. To give a prose rendering of The Raven is, in every sense, to despoil it of its poetry. Translations. 41 Baudelaire, who has so deftly reproduced Poe's prose, has failed to render justice to his poetry ; take, for example, his attempt to render French those mag- nificent lines of the eleventh stanza : — ' 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, never more." ' Translated thus : — 'Quelque maitre malheureux \ qui I'inexorable Fatalitd a donnd une chasse acharnde, toujours plus acharnde, jusqu'k ce que ses chants n'aient plus qu'un unique refrain, jusqu'k ce que les chants funebres de son Espdrance aient adopts ce melancolique refrain : " Jamais ! Jamais plus ! " ' A very early rendering into French of The Raven was made by Monsieur WiUiam Hughes, and pub- hshed by him in a volume entitled " Contes inddits d'Edgard Poe," in 1862. As, probably, the first translation of the poem into any language it is in- teresting, but, for the present purpose it will only be necessary to cite the first and the two last stanzas : — Un soir, par un triste minuit, tandis que faible et fatigud, j'allais revant k plus d'un vieux et bizarre volume d'une science oublide, tandis que sommeillant \ moitid, je laissais pencher ma t^te de 9a, de Ik, j'entendis quelqu'un frapper, frapper doucement k la porte de ma chambre. " C'est un visiteur," murmurai- je, " qui frappe k la porte de ma chambre — Ce n'est que cela et rien de plus." 42 Translations. XVII. " Que ce mot, soit le signal de ton depart, oiseau ou ddmon!" criai-je en me redressant d'un bond. " Reprends ton vol \ travers I'orage, regagne la rive plutonienne ! Ne laisse pas ici une plume noire pour me rappeler le mensonge que tu viens de profdrer ! Abandonne-moi k ma solitude, quitte ce buste au- dessus de ma porte; retire ton bee de mon coeur, retire ton spectre de mon seuil." Le corbeau r^p^ta : "Jamais plus ! " XVIII. Et le corbeau, immobile, demeure percM, toujours perch^ sur le buste blanc de Pallas, juste au-dessus de ma porte ; son regard est celui d'un ddmon qui rSve, et la lumifere de la lampe, qui I'inonde, dessine, son ombre sur le parquet ; de cette ombre qui tremble sur le parquet, mon ime Ne sortira jamais plus ! Another of the numerous translations into French of 77ie Haven, and one which, for many reasons, deserves citation in full is that made by Stbphane Mallarm^, the poet, the translator of several of Poe's works. The magnificent foho form in which Monsieur Mallarm^ introduced Le Corbeau to his countrymen, in 1875,' was illustrated by Manet with several characteristic drawings. This rendering reads thus — Translations. 43 Une fois, par un minuit lugubre, tandis que je m'appesantissais, faible et fatigu^, sur maint curieux et bizarre volume de savoir oublid — tandis que je dodelinais la tete, somnolant presque : soudain se fit un heurt, comme de quelqu'uiti frappant doucement, frappant k la porte de ma chainbre — cela seul et rien de plus. II. Ah ! distinctement je me souviens que c'dtait en le glacial D^cembre : et chaque tison, mourant isoM, ouvrageait son spectre sur le sol. Ardemment je souhaitais le jour — vainement j'avais cherch^ d'em- prunter ^ mes livres un sursis au chagrin— au chagrin de la Ldnore perdue— de la rare et rayonnante jeune fiUe que les anges nomment Ldnore: de nom pour elle ici, non, jamais plus ! III. Et de la sole I'incertain et triste bruissement en chaque rideau purpural me traversait — m'emplissait de fantastiques terreurs pas senties encore : si bien que, pour calmer le battement de mon coeur, je demeurais maintenant k rdp^ter "C'est quelque visiteur qui soUicite I'entrfe, \ la porte de ma chambre — quelque visiteur qui sollicite I'entrde, k la porte de ma chambre ; c'est cela et rien de plus." 44 Translations. IV. Mon ime devint subitement plus forte et, n'hdsitant davantage " Monsieur," dis-je, " ou Madame, j'implore v&itablement votre pardon j mais le fait est que je somnolais et vous vintes si doucement frapper, et si faiblement vous vintes heurter, heurter 'k la porte de ma chambre, que j'dtais S, peine sAr de vous avoir entendu." Ici j'ouvris, grande, la porte : les tdnfebres et rien de plus. Loin dans I'ombre regardant, je me tins longtemps k douter, m'^tonner et craindre, \ r^ver des rgves qu'aucun mortel n'avait ose r^ver encore ; mais le silence ne se rompit point et la quietude ne donna de signe : et le seul mot qui se dit, fut le mot chuchot^ " Ldnore ! " Je le chuchotai — et un dcho murmura de retour le mot "Ldnore!" — purement cela et rien de plus. VI. Rentrant dans la chambre, toute mon ime en feu, j'entendis bientot un heurt en quelque sorte plus forte qu'auparavant. "Surement," dis-je, "surement c'est quelque chose k la persienne de ma fen^tre. Voyons done ce qu'il y a et explorons ce mystfere — que mon cceur se calme un moment et explore ce mystfere ; c'est le vent et rien de plus." Translations. 45 VII. Au large je poussai le volet; quand, avec maints enjouement et agitation d'ailes, antra un majestueux Corbeau des saints jours de jadis. II ne fit pas la moindre r^v^rence, il ne s'arr^ta ni n'h^sita un instant: mais, avec une mine de lord ou de lady, se percha au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre — se percha sur un buste de Pallas juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre — se percha, sidgea et rien de plus. VIII. Alors cet oiseau d'dbbne induisant ma triste imagin- ation au sourire, par la grave et sdvbre decorum de la contenance qu'il eut : "Quoique ta crete soit chue et rase, non ! " dis-je, " tu n'es pas pour sfir un poltron, spectral, lugubre et ancien Corbeau, errant loin du rivage de Nuit — dis-moi quel est ton nom seigneurial au rivage plutonien de Nuit?" Le Corbeau dit: " Jamais plus." IX. Je mMmerveillai fort d'entendre ce disgracieux volatile s'^noncer aussi clairement, quoique sa rdponse n'efit que peu de sens et peu d'k-propos ; car on ne peut s'emp^cher de convenir que nul homme vivant n'eflt encore I'heur de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre — un oiseau ou toute autre b^te sur la buste sculptd, au-dessus de la porte de sa chambre, avec un nom tel que : " Jamais plus." 46 Translations. Mais le Corbeau, perch^ solitairement sur ce buste placide, parla ce seul njot comme si, son flme, en ce seul mot, il la rdpandait. Je ne prof^rai done rien de plus : il n'agita done pas de plume — ^jusqu'k ce que je fis &. peine davantage que marmotter "D'autres amis d^jk ont pris leur vol — demain il me laigsera comme mes Esp^rances ddjS, ont pris leur vol." Alors I'oiseau dit : " Jamais plus." XI. Tressaillant au calme rompu par une r^plique si bien parl^e : " Sans doute," dis-je, " ce qu'il proffere est tout son fonds et son bagage, pris \ quelque malheu- reux maltre que I'impitoyable Ddsastre suivit de prfes et de trfes prfes suivit jusqu'k ce que ses chansons com- portassent un unique refrain; jusqu'k ce que les chants funfebres de son Esperance comportassement le m^lan- colique refrain de "Jamais — ^jamais plus." XII. Le Corbeau induisante toute ma triste ime encore au sourire, je roulai soudain un sidge \ coussins en face de I'oiseau et du buste et de la porte ; et m'enfon- 9ant dans le velours, je me pris \ enchatner songerie S, songerie, pensant k ce que cet augural oiseau de jadis — 'k ce que ce sombre, disgracjeux, sinistre, maigre et augural oiseau de jadis signifiait en croassant : " Jamais plus." Translations. 47 XIII. Cela, je m'assis occup^ k le • conjecturer, mais n'adressant pas une syllabe k I'oiseau dont les yeux de feu brfUaient, maintenant, au fond de mon sein ; cela at plus encore, je m'assis pour le deviner, iha tSte reposant k I'aise sur la housse de velours des coussins que ddvorait la lumibre de la lampe, housse violette de velours d^vord par la lumibre de la lampe qu' Elle ne pressera plus, ah ! jamais plus. XIV. ■ L'air, me sembla-t-il, deviht alors plus dense, pari- fume selon un encensoij: invisible balance par les Sdraphins dont le pied, dans sa chute, tintait sur I'etoffe du' parquet. " Miserable," m'^criai-je, "tonDieu t'a pr^t^ — il t'a envoy^, par ces anges, le rdpit — le ' rdpit et le n^penthfes dans,, ta mdmoire de Ldnore 1 Bois! oh! bois ce bon n^penthbs et oublie cette L^nore perdue ! " Le Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! " XV. " Prophfete," dis-je, " etre de malheur ! prophfete, •oui, oiseau ou de'irion ! Que si le Tentateur t'envoya ou la tempgte t'^choua vers ces bords, de'sold et encore tout indomptd, vers cette d^serte terre enchant^e — : vers ce logis par I'horreur hantd: dis-moi v^ritable- ment, je t'implore ! y a-t-il du baume en Judde ? — dis-moi, je t'implore." Le Corbeau dit: "Jamais plus ! " 48 Translations. XVI. "Prophfete," dis-je, " etre de malheur! prophfete, oui, oiseau ou d^mon ! Par les Cieux sur nous dpars — et le Dieu que nous adorons tous deux — dis k cette dme de chagrin chargde si, dans le distant Eden, elle doit embrasser une jeune fille sanctifide que les anges nomment L^nore — embrasser une rare et rayonnante jeune fille que les anges nomment Ldnore." Le Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! " XVII. "Que ce mot soit le signal de notre separation, oiseau ou malin esprit," hurlai-je, en me dressant. "Recule en la tempSte et le rivage plutonien de Nuit ! Ne laisse pas une plume noire ici comme un gage du mensonge qu'a profdrd ton ame. Laisse invioie mon abandon ! quitte le buste au-dessus de ma porte ! ote ton bee de mon coeur et jette ta forme loin de ma porte ! " Le Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! " XVIII. Et le Corbeau, sans voleter, sidge encore — si^ge encore sur le buste pallide de Pallas, juste au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre, et ses yeux ont toute la semblance de's yeux d'un ddmon qui reve, et la lii- mifere de la lampe, ruisselant sur lui, projette son ombre k terre : et mon ^me, de cette ombre qui git flottante k terre, ne s'dlfevera — jamais plus ! STfePHANE MaLLARm£ Translations. 49 Many other translations, more or less interesting, have been made into French of The Raven, notably- one by Monsieur Blfemont, and another, which shall be quoted from, by Monsieur Quesnel. The most curious, however, in many respects, of these many renderings is an elegant one by Monsieur Maurice RoUinat, and as, probably, the only published attempt to place a rhymed translation of Le Corbeau h&lox& his countrymen should be given in full : — Vers le sombre minuit, tandis que fatigud J'dtais \ m^diter sur maint volume rare Pour tout autre que moi dans I'oubli reldgu^. Pendant que je plongeais dans un r^ve bizarre, II se fit tout "k coup comme un tapotement De quelqu'un qui viendrait frapper tout doucement Chez moi. Je dis alors, b^illant, d'une voix morte : " C'est quelque visiteur — oui — qui frappe k ma porta ; C'est cela seul et rien de plus ! " Ah ! trbs distincteraent je m'en souviens ! C'dtait Par un apre ddcembre — au fond du foyer pile, Chaque braise k son tour lentement s'emiettait En brodant le plancher du reflet de son rale. Avide du matin, le regard inddcis, J'avais lu, sans que ma tristesse eiit un sursis,' Ma tristesse pour I'ange enfui dans le mystbre. Que I'on nomme Ik-haut Ldnore, et que sur terre On ne nommera jamais plus ! E 50 Translations. Lors, j'ouvris la fenetre et yoila qu'k grand bruit, Un corbeau de la plus merveilleuse apparence Entra, majestueux et noir comme la nuit. ' II ne s'arr^ta pas, mais plein d'irrdvdrence, Brusque, d'un air de lord ou de lady, s'en vint S'abattre et se percher sur le buste divin De Pallas, sur le buste k couleur pale, en sorte Qu'il se jucha tout juste au-dessus de ma porte, II s'installa, puis rien de plus ! Et comme il induisait men pauvre coeur amer A sourire, I'oiseau de si mauvais augure, Par I'apre gravite de sa poste et par I'air Profondement rigide empreint.sur la figure, • Alors, me decidant k parler le premier : " Tu n'es pas un poltron, bien que sans nul cimier Sur la t6te, lui dis-je, 6 rodeur des tdnfebres, Comment t'appelle-t-on sur les rives funfebres ? " L'oiseau r^pondit : " Jamais plus ! " J'admirai qu'il comprit la parole aussi bien Majgr^ cette rdponse a peine intelligible Et de peu de secours, car mon esprit convient Que jamais aucun homme existant et tangible , Ne put voir au-dessus de sa porte un corbeau, Non, jamais ne put voir une bete, un oiseau, Par un sombre minuit, dans sa chambre, tout juste Au-dessus de sa porte install^ sur un bustej Se nommant ainsi : Jamais plus ! Translations. S i Mais ce mot fut le seul qui I'oiseau profdra Comme s'il y versait son ame tout entifere, Puis sans rien ajouter de plus, il demeura Inertement fig^ dans sa roideur altifere, Jusqu'k ce que j'en vinsse "k murmurer ceci : — Comme tant d'autres, lui va me quitter aussi, Comme mes vieux espoirs que Je croyais fidHes Vers le matin il va s'enfuir k tire d'ailes ! L'oiseau dit alors : Jamais plus ! Et les rideaux pourprds sortaient de la torpeur, Et leur soyeuse voix si triste et si menue Me faisait tressailler, m'emplissait d'une peur Fantastique et pour moi jusqu'alors inconnue : Si bien que pour calmer enfin le battement De mon coeur, je redis debout : " Evidemment C'est quelqu'un attardd qui par ce noir ddcembre Est venu frapperk la porte de ma chambre; C'est cela m^me et rien de plus." Pourtant, je me remis bientot de mon dirioi, Et sans temporiser: "Monsieur," dis-je; "ou Madame, Madame ou bien Monsieur,' de grace, excusez-moi De vous laisser ainsi dehors, mais, sur mon ame, Je sommeillais, et vou?, vous avez tapot^ Si doucement k ma porte, qu'en v€x\t€ A peine ^tait-ce un bruit humain que Ton entende ! Et cela dit, j'ouvris la porte toute grande : Les t^nfebres et rien de plus ! E 2 52 Translations. Longuement k pleins yeux, je restai 1&., scrutant Les t^nfebres ! r6vant des r^ves qu'aucun homme N'osa jamais rever ! confondu, hesitant, Stiip^fait et rempli d'angoisse — mais, en somme, Pas un bruit ne troubla le silence enchant^ Et rien ne frissonna dans Timmobilitd ; Un seul nom fut souffle par une voix : " Lenore ! "' C'^tait ma propre voix! — L'echo, plus bas encore Redit ce mot et rien de plus ! Je rentrai dans ma chambre k pas lents, et, tandis Que mon dme au milieu d'un flamboyant vertige Se sentait d^faillir et rouler, — ^j'entendis Un second coup plus fort que le premier. — Tiens 1' dis-je On cogne k mon volet ! Diable ! Je vais y voir ! Qu'est-ce que mon volet pourrait done bien avoir ? Car 11 a quelque chose ! allons \ la fenetre Et sachons, sans trembler, ce que cela peut ^tre ! C'est la rafale et rien de plus ! Sa reponse jet^e avac tant d'k-propos. Me fit tressaillir, " C'est tout ce qu'il doit connaitre. Me dis-je, sans nul doute il aura pris ces mots Chez quelque infortund, chez quelque pajivre maitre Que le deuil implacable a poursuivi sans frein, Jusqu'a ce que ses chants n'eussent plus qu'un refrain Jusqu'k ce que sa plainte k jamais ddsolde, Comme un de frofundis de sa joie envolde, Eut pris ce refrain : Jamais plus I Translations. 5 3 Ainsi je me parlais, mais le grave corbeau, Induisant derechef tout mon cceur k sourire, Je roulai vita un si^ge en face de I'oiseau, Me demandant ce que tout cela voulait dire, J'y rdfldchis, et, dans mon fauteuil de velours, - Je cherchai ce que cet oiseau des anciens jours, Ce que ce triste oiseau, sombre, augural et maigre, Voulait me faire entendre en croassant cet aigre ■Et lamentable : Jamais plus ! Et j'dtais \\ plong6 dans un reve obs^dant, Laissant la conjecture en moi filer sa trame, Mais n'interrogeant plus I'oiseau dont I'ceil ardent Me brfllait maintenant jusques au fond de Fame. Je creusais tout cela comme un mauvais dessein, Bdant, la t^te sur le velours du coussin, Ce velours violet caress^ par la lampe, Et que sa tSte, k ma Ldnore, que sa tempe Ne pressera plus, jamais plus ! Alors I'air me semble lourd, parfum^ par un Invisible encensior que balangaient des anges Dont les pas effleuraient le tapis rouge et brun, Et glissaient avec des bruissements dtranges. Malheureux ! m'dcriai-je, il t'arrive du ciel Un peu de n^penthfes pour adoucir ton fiel, Trends-le done ce rdpit qu'un s^raphin t'apporte, Bois ce bon ndpenthfes, oublie enfin la morte ! Le corbeau gringa : Jamais plus ! 54 Translations. Prophbte de malheur ! oiseau noir ou ddmon, Cirai-je, que tu sois un messager du diable Ov bien que la temp^te, ainsi qu'un gpemon T'ait simplement jetd dans ce lieu pitoya.ble, , Dans ce logis hantd par I'horreur et I'effroi, Valeureux naufragd, sincferement, dis-moi S'il.est, s'il est sur terra un baume de Jud^e Qui puisse encor gu^rir mon S.me corrodde ? Le corbeau glapit : Jamais plus I Prophfete de malheur, oiseau nofr ou d^mon, Par ce grand ciel tendu sur nous, sorcier d'dbfene Par ce Dieu que benit notre meme limon, Dis k ce malheureux damnd chargd de peine, Si dans le paradis qui ne doit pas cesser, Oh ! dis lui s'il pourra quelque jour embrasser La prdcieuse enfant que tout son cceur adore, La sainte enfant que les anges nomnjent Ldnore ! Le corbeau g^mit : Jamais plus \ Aloirs, s^parons-nous ! puisqu'il en est ainsi, Hurlai-je en me dressant ! Rentre aux enfers! replonge Dans la tempete affreuse ! Oh ! pars ! ne laisse ici Pas une seule plume evoquant ton mensonge ! — Monstre ! Puis pour toujours mon gite inviold ; Ddsaccroche ton bee de mon cceur desold ! Va-t'en bSte, maudite, et que ton spectre sorte Et soit prdcipite loin, bien loin de ma porte ! Le corbeau r§,la : Jamais plus I •Translations. 55 Et sur le buste austbre et pale de Pallas, L'immuable corbeau reste installe sans trfeve ; Au-dessus de ma porte il est toujours, hdlas ! Et ses yeux sont en tout ceux d'un ddmon qui r^ve ; Et I'&lair de la lampe, en ricochant sur lui, Projette sa grande ombre au parquet chaque nuit ; Et ma pauvre ame, hors du cercle de cette ombre Qui git en vacillant — 1&, — sur le plancher sombre, Ne montera plus, jamais plus ! Maurice Rollinat. Another of the many attempts to transfer to the French language Poe's poetic chef d'ceuvre was made by Monsieur Leo Quesnel. This attempt, the trans- lator did not claim any higher title for it, was pub- lished in la Revue Politique et Litt'eraire, and runs as follows : — \A pofete est, pendant une sombre nuit de dd- cembre, assis dans bibliothfeque, au ^ milieu de ses livres, auxquels il demande vainement I'oubli de sa douleur. Une vague somnolence appesantit ses yeux rougis par les larmes. Un Idger bruit le reveille. C'est quelqu'un qui frappe a la porte, sans doute ? Que lui importe ? Sa t^te retombe. Un autre bruit se fait entendre. C'est la tapisserie que, du dehors ; quelqu'un soul^e peut-etre ? Que lui importe ? II se rendort. $6 Translations. On frappe encore : " En^rez ! " dit-il ; mais per- sonne n'entre. II se Ibve enfin et va voir k la porta. II n'y a rien que la silence. II se rassied, anxieux et surpris. Nouvel appel du visiteur myst^rieux et invisible ! Imposant silence k son cceur, tout rempli de I'image de Ldnore : "II faut," dit-il, " Que je de'couvre ce mystfere ! Ah ! c'est le vent qui gdmissait, je pense ! " Et il ouvre la porte toute grande pour lui livrer passage. Un gros corbeau, battant des ailes, entre aussitot, comme le maltre du lieu, et va se percher sur un buste de Minerve. Son air grave arrache un sourire au jeune homme mdancolique : "Oiseau d'dbfene," lui dit-il, " quel est ton nom sur le rivage de Pluton ? " Et le corbeau r^pond : " Nevermore." Etonn^ d'une rdponse si sage, le pofete lui dit : "Ami inconnu, tu me quitteras demain comme les autres, peut-etre ? " Mais le corbeau r^pond : " Nevermore." " Ah ! " sans doute, oiseau, tu ignores le sens du mot que tu pronpnces ? Et c'est de quelque maltre afflige comme moi, qui avait, lui aussi, perdu k jamais son bonheur, qui t'a appris kdire: "Nevermore?" Ah! Lenore, toi qui foulais ce tapis que je foule, qui touchais ces coussins que je touche, qui animals ces lieux de ta presence, n'y reviendras-tu plus ? " Et le corbeau rdpond : " Nevermore." Translations. S7 Une furtive d'encens r^pand dans la chambre, ■sortie d'un encensoir qu'un s^raphin balance. "C'est ton Dieu qui I'envoie, sans doute, pour endormir par ■ce parfum, dans ma m6moire, la nom douloureux de L^nore ? " Et le corbeau rdpond : " Nevermore." " Prophfete de malheur, ange ou ddmon, que la tempete a secoud sur ces rives, dis-mois, je t'en sup- ,plie, si Ton trouve en enfer le baume de I'oubli ? " Et le corbeau r^pond : " Nevermore.'' " Oh ! dis-moi si dans le ciel I'ime d'un amant d6sol6 peut-^tre unie un jour h. I'lune d'une vierge ^ainte que les anges appellant L6nore ? " Et le corbeau r^pond : " Nevermore." Et jamais le corbeau n'est descendu de ce buste de Minerve, dont il couronne le front pensif. Ses yeux •de d6mon s'enfoncent sans cesse dans les yeux du pobte. Son spectre, agrandi chaque nuit par la lu- mibre des lampes, couvre les murs et les planchers, et I'amant infortund ne lui ^chappera plus ! Nevermore. Leo Quesnel. 58 Translations. GERMAN. The German language has a capability of reproduc- ing English thought possessed by no other national speech. Even poetry may be transferred, from the one tongue to the other without, in many cases, any very great loss of beauty or power. The German language is richer in rhymes than the English, and in it finer shades of thought may be expressed ; more- over, its capacity of combination — its wealth of com- pound words — ^is greater. These advantages are, how- ever, to some extent, counterbalanced by -various difficulties, such as the greater length of its words and their different grammatical positions. Of the many English poems which have been effectively rendered into German by translators The Raven is one of the most remarkable examples of success. Among those who have overcome the diffi- culty of transferring the weird ballad from the one language to the other no one has, to our thinking, displayed greater skill than Herr Carl Theodor Eben, whose translation, Der Rabe, was published, with illustrations, in Philadelphia, in i869>* Fraulein Betty Jacobson contributed a careful and cleverly executed translation of the Raven to the Magazin fur die Liter atur des Auslandes for 28 Feb- ruary, 1880. Herr Eben's and Fraulein JacobsOn's. translations we give in full. Herr Niclas Miiller, though a German by birth, a resident in the United Translations. 59 States, has, also, published a translation that has been warmly commended in his adopted country, and from his skilful manipulation of Poe's poem the two first stanzas may be cited : — " Einst in einer Mittnacht schaurig, als ich miide sass und traurig Ueber manchem sonderbaren Buche langst-yergessner Lehr', Wahrend ich halb traumend nickte, Etwas plotzlich leise pickte, Als ob Jemand sachte tickte, tickte an die Thiire her, ' Ein Besuch,' so sprach ich leise, ' tickend an die Thiire her. Das allein und sonst nichts mehr.' " O, genau Kann ich's noch sehen ; kalt blies des Dezember's Wehen ; Jeder Funke malte seinen Schein mir an dem Boden her — Sehnlich wiinscht'ich nah den Mongen, und umsonst sucht'ich zu borgen End' in Biichern meiner Sorgen, um das Madchen sorgenschwer, Um die strahlende Lenore, so genannt in Engelsherr — Hier wir^i sie genannt nicht mehr." Carl Eben's translation of TJie Raven, which poem he truthfully described as, from an artistic point of view, the most important and perfect in the English language, is as follows : — 6o Translations. DER RABE. Mitternacht umgab mich schaurig, als ich einsam, triib und traurig, Sinnend sasz und las von mancher langstverkung'nen Mahr' und Lehr' — Als ich schon mit matten Blicken im Begiriff, in Schlaf • zu niqken, Horte plotzlich ich ein Ticken an die Zimmerthiire her ; " Ein Besuch wohl noch," so dacht' ich, "den der Zufall fuhret her — ■ Ein Besuch und sonst Nichts mehr." Wohl hab' ich's im Sinn behalten, im Dezember war's, im kalten, Und gespenstige Gestalten warf des Feuers Schein umher. Sehnlich wiinscht' ich mir den Morgen, keine Lin4'rung war zu borgen Aus den Biichern fur die Sorgen — fiir die Sorgen tief und schwer Um die Sel'ge, die Lenoren nennt der Engel heilig Heer — Hier, ach, nennt sie Niemand mehr ! Jedes Rauschen der Gardinen, die mir wie Gespenster schienen, Fiillte nun mein Herz mit Schrecken — Schrecken nie gefiihlt vorher ; Wie es bebte, wie es sagte, bis ich endlich wieder sagte : " Ein Besuch wohl, der es wagte, in der Nacht zu kommen her — Ein Besuch, der spat es wagte, in der Nacht zu kommen her; Dies allein und sonst Nichts mehr." Translations. 6i Und ermannt nach diesen Worten offnete ich stracks die Pforten : " Dame oder Herr," so sprach, ich, " bitte urn Verzei- hung sehr ! Doch ich war mit matten Blicken im Begriff, in Schlaf zu nicken, Und so leis scholl Euer Ticken an die Zimmerthiire her, Dasz ich kaum es recht vernommen ; doch nun seid willkommen sehr ! " — Dunkel da und sonst Nichts mehr. Blister in das Dunkel schauend stand ich lange starr und grauend, Traume traumend, die hienieden nie ein Mensch getraumt vorher ; Zweifel schwarz den Sinn bethorte, Nichts die Stille drauszen storte, Nur das eine Wort man horte, nur " Lenore ? " klang es her ; Selber haucht' ich's, und " Lenore ! " trug das Echo trauernd her^ Einzig dies und sonst Nichts mehr. Als ich nun mit tiefem Bangen wieder in's Gemajph gegangen, Hort' ich bald ein neues Pochen, etwas lauter als vorher. " Sicher," sprach ich da mit Beben, " an das Fenster pocht' es eben, Nun wohlan, so lasz mich streben, dasz ich mir das Ding erklar' — Still, mein Herz, dasz ich mit Ruhe dies Geheimnisz mir erklar' — Wohl der Wind und sonst Nichts mehr." 62 Translations. Risz das Fenster, auf jetzunder, und herein stolzirt* — o Wunder ! , Ein gewalt'ger, hochbejahrter Rabe schwirrend zu mir her ; Flog mit macht'gen Fliigelstreichen, ohtie Grusz und Dankeszeichen, Stolz und stattlich sender Gleichen, nach der Thiire hoch und hehr — Flog nach einer Pallasbiiste ob der Thiire hoch und hehr — . Setzte sich und sonst Nichts mehr. Und trotz meiner Trauer brachte der dahin mich, datz ich lachte, So gesetzt und gravitatisch herrscht' auf meiner Biiste er. "Ob auch alt und nah dem Grabe,'' sprach ich, " bist kein feiger Knabe, Grimmer, glattgeschor'ner Rabe, der Du kamst vom Schattenheer — Sprich, welch* stolzen Namen fiihrst Du in der Nacht pluton'schem Heer ? " Sprach der Rabe :' " Nimmermehr." Ganz erstaunt war ich, zu horen dies Geschopf mich so belehren, Schien auch wenig Sinn zu liegen in dem Wort bedeutungsleer ; Denn wohl Keiner konnte sagen, dasz ihm je in seinen Tagen Sonder Zier und sond'er Zager so ein Thier erschienen war', Das auf seiner Marmobiiste ob der Thiir gesessen war' Mit dem Namen " Nimmermehr." Translations. 63 Dieses Wort nur sprach der Rabe dumpf und hohl, wie aus dem Grabe, Als ob seine ganze Seele in dem einen Worte war". Weiter nichts ward dann gesprochen, nur mein Herz noch hort' ich pochen, Bis das Schweigen ich gebrochen : " Andre Freunde floh'n seither — Morgen wird auch er mich, fliehen, wie die Hoffnung floh seither." Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! '' Immer hoher stieg mein Staunen bei das Raben dunklem Raunen, Doch ich dachte : " Ohne Zweifel weisz er dies und sonst Nichts mehr ; Hat's von seinem armen Meister, dem des Ungliicks sinstre Geister Drohten dreist und drohten dreigter, bis er triib und trauerschwer — Bis ihm schwand der Hoffnung Schimmer, und er fortan seufzte schwer : ' O nimmer— nimmermehr ! ' " Trotz der Trauer wieder Jjrachte er dahin mich, dasz ich lachte ; Einen Armstuhl endlich rollt^ ich zu Thiir und Vogel her. In den sammt'nen Kissen Hegend, in die Hand die Wange schmiegend, Sann ich, hin und her mich wiegend, was des Wortes Deutung war' — Was der grimme, sinst're Vogel aus dem nacht'gen Schattenheer WoUt' mit seinem " Nimmermehr." 64 Translations. Dieses sasz ich still ermessend, doch des Vogels nicht vergessend, DessenFeueraugen jetzo mir das Herz beklemmten sehr; Und mit schmerzlichen Gefiihlen liesz mein Haupt ich lange wiihlen In den veilchenfarb'nen Pfuhlen, iiberstrahlt vom Lichte hehr — Ach, in diesen sammtnen Pfiihlen, iiberstrahlt vom Lichte hehr — Ruhet sie jetzt nimmermehr ! Und Ich wahnte, durch die Liifte wallten siisze Weihrauchdiifte, Ausgestreut durch unsichtbare Seraphshande um mich her. " Lethe," rief ich, " susze Spende schickt Dir Gott durch Engelshande, Dasz sich von Lenoren wende Deine Trauer tief und schwer ! Nimm, o nimm die siisze Spende und vergisz der Trauer schwer ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " " Gramprophet ! " rief ich vol! Zweifel, " ob Du Vogel Oder Teufel ! Ob die Holle Dich mir sandte, ob der Sturm Dich wehte her ! Du, der von des- Orkus Strande — Du, der von dem Schreckenlande- Sich zu mir, dem Triiben, wandte — kiinde mir mein heisz Begehr : Find' ich Balsam noch in Gilead ? ist noch Trost im Gnadenmeer ? " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " Trdnslations. 65 " Gramprophet ! " rief ich voll Zweifel, "ob Du Vogel Oder Teufel ! Bei dem ew'gen Himmel droben, bei dem Gott, den ich verehr' — Kiinde mir, ob ich Lenoren, die hienieden ich verloren, Wieder sind' an Edens Thoren — sie, die thront im Engelsheer — Jene Sel'ge, die Lenoren nennt der Engel heilig. Hear ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " " Sei dies Wort das Trennungszeichen ! Vogel. Damon, Du muszt weichen ! rieuch zuriick zum Sturmesgrauen, oder zum pluton'- schen Heer ! Keine Feder lasz zuriicke mir als Zeichen Deiner Tiicke ; Lasz allein mich dem Geschicke — wagie nie Dich ■wieder her ! Fort und lasz mein Herz in Frieden, das gepeinigt Du so sehr ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " Und der Rabe weichet nimmer — sitzt noch immer, sitzt noch immer Auf der blassen Pallasbiiste ob der Thiire hoch und her; Sitzt mit geisterhaftem Munkeln, seine Feueraugen funkeln Gar damonisch aus dem dunkeln, diistern Schatten um ihn her ; Und mein Geist wird aus dem Schatten, den er breitet um mich her, Sich erheben — nimmermehr. Carl Theodore Eben. F 66 Translations. Fraulein Betty Jacobson's popular translation runs thus : — DER RABE. Einst um Mitternacht, gar schaurig, sass ich briitend miid und traurig Ueber seltsam krausen Biicherri, bergend haldver- gess'ne Lehr ; East schon nickt' ich schlafbefangen, plotzlich draus; sen kain's gegangen, Kam wie leise suchend naher, tappte an derThiir umher : " 's ist ein Gas wohl," murrt' ich leise, " tappend an der Thiir umher ; Nur ein spater Gast, — was mehr ? " Deutlich ist mir's noch geblieben, im December war's, dem triiben, Geisterhaft verloschend hiipften Funken im Kamin umher, Heiss herbei sehnt' ich den Morgen, den aus Biichem Trost zu borgen Flir den Kummer um Lenore, war mein Herz zu triib und schwer ; Um Lenoren, die nur Engel droben nennen, licht und hehr ! — Ach, hier nennt sie Niemand mehr! Und das leise Rascheln, Rauschen, wie von seidnen Vorhangs Bauschen, Fiillte mich mit Angst und Grauen, das ich nie gekannt bisher. Deutlich fiihlt' mein Herz ich schlagen, musste zu mir selber sagen : " Jemand kommt mich zu besuchen, tappt nun an der Thiir umher — Noch ein spater Gas will Einlass, suchend tappt er hin und her ; Nur ein spater Gast, was mehr ? " — Translations. ■ 6"] Als besiegt des Herzens Zagen, fing ich deutlich an zu fragen ; " Ob ihr Herr seid oder Dame, um Verzeihung bitt' ich sehr, Denn ich war so schaf befangen, und so Ids kamt ihr gegangen, Dass ich zweifle, ob ich wirklich Schritte horte hier umher," — Hier riss ich die Thiir auf, draussen — Alles finster, still und leer ! Tiefes Dunkel, und nichts mehr ! Unverwandt ins Dunkel starrend, stand ich lange, zweifelnd harrend ; Sann und traumte, wie wohl nimmerSterbliche getraumt bisher ; Aber lautlos war das Schweigen, Niemand kam sich mir zu zeigen, Nur ein einzig Wort efklang wie fliisternd aus der Feme her ; Leise rief ich's : "Leonore !"— Echo tonte triib und schwer ! — Dieses Wort, und sonst nights mehr ! — Riickwarts trat ich nun ins Zimmer, zagend schlug mein Herz noch immer, Und schon wieder hort ich's draussen lauter trippeln hin und her ; Diesmal schein das dumpfe Klingen von dem Fenster her zu dringen : " Dies Geheimnis, ich ergriind' es, schlagt mein Herz auch noch so sehr; Still mein Herz, ergriinden will ich's, birgt es sich auch noch so sehr ; — 's ist der Wind nur, und nichts mehr !" — 68 Translations. Auf schob ich den Fensterriegel, da — mit leisem Schlag: der Flugel, Kam hereinstolzirt ein Rabe, wie aus altersgrauer Mar, Ohne mit dem Kopf zu nicken, ohne nur sich umzu- blicken, Flog er auf die Pallasbiiste, die geschmiickt mit Helm und Wehr Ueberm Thiirgesimse glanzte, setzte drauf sich obea her; Sass, und riihrte sich, nicht mehr. Und mir war's, als woUten fliehen meine triiben Phantasieen Vor dem Raben, der so ernst und gravitatisch blickte her. " 1st dein Kopf auch kahlgeschoren, nicht zu grausem Spuk erkoren Bist du, bist kein grimmes Schreckbild von dem nachtlich diistern Meer, Sprich, wie ist dein hoheitsvoUer Name dort an Pluto's Meer?"^ Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " — Als ich dieses Wort vemommen, hat mich Staunen iiberkommen, Schien das Wort auch ohne Absicht und als Antwort inhaltsleer ; Denn wer wiisste wohl zu sagen, ob es je in unsern Tagen Einem SterbUchen begegnet, das ein Rabe flog daher, Der zum Sitz die Pallasboste sich erkor mit Helm und Wehr, Und sich nannte : " Nimmermehr ! " — Translations. 69 TTnd der Rabe sass alleine auf der Biiste, sprache das eine Wort nor aus> als ob es seiner Seele ganzer Inhalt war', Liess sonst keinen Laut vernehmen, leblos sass er wie ein Schemen, Bis ich leise murmelnd sagte : " Morgen, sicher, flieht audi er, Wie die Freunde mich verliessen, wie die Hoffnung floh vorher ! "— Doch dasprach er: "Nimmermehr!" — Nun die Stille war gebrochen durch dies Wort so klug gesprochen, ■" Ohne Zweifel," sagt' ich, "blieb es iibrig ihm aus alter Lehr', Einst gehort von einem Meister, den des Unheils bose Geister Hart und barter stets bedrangten, bis sein Lied von Klagen schwer, Bis das Grablied seiner Hoffnung, nur von diistrer Klage schwer; Tonte : " Nimmer-nimmermehr ! " — Doch die triiben Phantasieen vor dem Raben mussten fliehen, Und so schob vorThiir und Vogel einen Sessel ich daher, Sinnend Haupt in Handen wiegend, mich ins sammtne Polster schmiegend Sucht ich's forschend zu ergriibeln, was der Rabe un- gefahr Was der grirame, geisterhafte, ernste Vogel ungefahr, Meinte mit dem " Nimmermehr ! " 70 Translations. Tief ih Sinnen so versunken, starrt' ich in des Feuers Funken, Und ich mied des Vogels Auge, das gleich einem feur'gen Speer Mir ins Herz drang ; die Gedanken schweiften dur.ch, des Lebens Schrankeh, In die sammtnen Polster presste ich mein Haupt so- miid und schwer, — In die Polster, drauf der Lampe Schimmer flackert hin und her, Lehnt ihr Haupt sich nimmermehr ! Da durchwiirzt, mit einem Male wie aus einer Raucherschale Schien die Luft, als schritten Engel Weihrauch spen- • den vor mir her ; " Ja, dein Gott hat euch gesendet, mir durch Seraphim gespendet, Leonoren zu verschmerzen, Trostes Undernde Ge- wahr !^- Trink, o trink den Trank aus Lethe, sei Vergessen, noch so schwer ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " " Du Prophet, o schreckHch Wesen, Vogel oder Freund des Bosen, Sandte dich die Holla oder warf ein Sturmwind dich hieher ? Hoffnungslos, doch ohne Zagen, will noch einmal ich dich fragen Nach verborgnem Geisterlande,— gieb, o Schreck- licher, Gehor : — Find ich. Balsam einst in Gilead? — Sprich, o sprich und gieb Gehor ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " Translations. 71 " Du Prophet, o schrecklich Wesen, Vogel oder Freund des Bosen, Bei dem Himnielszelt dort oben, bei des Hochsten Sternenheer, Stille meines Herzens Flehen, sprich, ob einst in Edens Hohen Ich Lenoren wiederfinde, jene Einz'ge rein und hehr — Engel nennen sie Lenore, jene Heil'gerein und hehr." — Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " " Set dies Wort das Abschiedszeichen," schrie ich, " fort ! In Nacht entweichen Magst du, Damon, in die Sturmnacht fort zu Pluto's schwarzem Meer ! Keine Fader vom Gewande lass der Liige hier zum Pfande, Lass mich ungestort und einsam, lass die Biiste droben leer, Zieh den Pfeil aus meinem Herzen, lass den Plate dort oben leer ! " Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! " Und der Rabe, ohne Regen, ohn' ein Glied nur zu bewegen, Hockt auf Pallas' bleicher Biiste, starr und schweigend wie vorher ; Seiner Damonaugen Funken leuchten wie in Traum versunken, Seinen Schatten wirft die Lampe schwarz und lang ins Zimmer her, Und die Seele kann dem Schatten, der am Boden schwankt umber, Nicht entfliehen — nimmermehr ! — Betty Jacobson. 72 Translations. Among other .noteworthy translations of The Raven into German may be mentioned one by Spielhagen, the well-known novelist, and yet another by Adolf Strodtmann. Strodtmann, who appears to have accepted Poe's Philosophy of Composition as a state- ment of facts, has translated that esSay as an appen- dix to Der Rabe. From his rendering of the poem pubUshed in Hamburg (Lieder und Balladenbuch Americanischer und Englischer Dichter) 1862, the following excerpts may be made : — I. Einst zur Nachtzeit, triib und schaurig, als ich schmaz- ensmiid und traurig Sasz und briitend, sann ob mancher seltsam halbver- gessnen Lehr', — Als ich fast in Schlaf gefallen, horte plotzlich ich erschallen An der Thiir ein leises Hallen, gleich als ob's ein Klopfen war'. ■" 'S ist ein Wandrer wohl," so sprachich, " der verirrt von iingefahr, — Ein Verinter, sonst nichts mehr." II. In der rauhsten zeit des Jahres, im Decembermonat war es, Flackemd warf ein wunderbares Licht das Feuer rings umher. Heisz ersehnte ich den Morgen ; — aus den Biichern, ach ! zu borgen War Kein Frost fiir meine Sorgen um die Maid, geliebt so sehr, Um die Maid, die jetzt Lenore wird genannt im Engelsheer — Hier, ach, nerint kein wort sie mehr ! Translations. y^ Angstlich in das Dunkel starrend blieb ich stehn, verwundert, harrend Traume traumend, die Kein arnier Erdensohn getraumt vorher. Doch nur von des Herzens Pochen ward die Stille unterbrochen, Und als ein' ges Wort gesprochen ward : " Lenore ? " kunmierschwer, Selber sprach ich's, und : " Lenore ! " tmg das Echo zu mir her, — Nur dies Wort, und sonst nichts mehr. XIII. Und der Rabe, Schwartz and dunkel, sitzt mit krach- zendem Gemunkel Noch auf meiner Pallasbiiste ob der Thiir bedeutung- schwer. Seine Damonaugen gliihen unheilvoll mit wildem Spriihen, Seine Fliigel Schatten zieben an dem Boden breit- umher ; Und mein Hertz wird aus dem Schatten, der miqli einhiillt weit umher, Sich erheben — nimmermehr ! 74 Translations. HUNGARIAN. A PUBLISHED translation of The Raven is stated to- have appeared in Russian but we have been unable to obtain a copy. Poe's prose works are very popular in Italy and Spain, it is, therefore, probable that his poetic master-piece has been rendered into one or both of those languages although we have not succeeded in tracing such renderings. His writings are admired in Hungary, and in a collection of biographical sketches- by Thomas Szana, published at Budapest in 1870, and entitled " Nagy Szellemek," (" Great Men ")' was a life of Edgar Poe. For this sketch Endrody contribiited the following translation of The Raven: — A holl6. Egyszer n6ma, rideg djen iiltem elmeriilve mflyen Almadozva valamely rdg elfelejtett eneken . . . Bolingattam fdlalomban, — im egyszerre ajt6m koppaii F616nk l^p^s zaja dobban, — dobban halkan, csondesen. "Ldtogatd — gondoldm — ki ajtdmhoz jott csondesen, Az lesz, egy6b semmisem. Translations. 75 Ah ! oly jdl eml^kszem mdg ^n :— k6s6 volt, &e- cember vdg^n, Minden iiszok hamvig 6gv& arnya rezgett rdmeseh. Ugy vdrtam s k^sett a hajnal !• konyveim — bar nagy halommal — Nem birtak a fajdalommal, — ^rtted, elhalt kedevsem ! Kit Lenoranak neveznek az angylok odafen, Itt orokre ndvtelen ! De az ajt6 s ablakoknak fiiggonyei mind susogtak, S ismeretlen r6miilettel foglaUk el kebelem. S hogy legyozhessem , magamban — a Klelmet, valtig mondtam : " Latogato csak, ki ott van ajtdm elott csondesen, Valami elkdsett utas, var az ajtdn csondesen ; — Az lesz, egy6b semmisen ! " Kinyitdm az ajtd szirnyat — ^s azonnal nyilatan at Szdzados holld csapott be, komoran, nehdzkesen, A n^lkiil, hogy meghajolna, sem kdszonve, se nem szdlva, Mintha az ur d lett volna, csak leszdllt negddesen. Ajtdm felett egy szobor volt, arra szallt egynesen, Rdszallt, raiilt nesztelen ! A setdt madar mikdp iil, nem ndzhettem mosoly n^lkiil, Komoly, biiszke m61t6saggal iilt nagy ii'nnep61yesen. — Bar iitdtt-kopott ruhaba, — gondolam — nem vegy te kaba, V6n botor, nem jdsz hiaba, 6jlakodb61 oda-len j Szdlj ! nerved mi, hogyha honn vagy alvilagi helyeden ? Szdlt a madar : " Sohasem ! " 76 Translations. Csak bamultam e bolondot, hogy oly tiszta hangot mondott, Bar szavdban, bizonyara, kevds volt az ^rtelem. De pdldatlan ily madar, mely szobadba mit ndgy fal zar el, Ajtddnak foldbe szall fel,^ — s ott iil jd magas helyen, S nev^t mondja, hogyha kdrded, biztos helyen iilve fen ; Es a neve : " Sohasem." Es a hoUd iilve helybe, osak az egy szdt ismdtelte, Mintha abban volna lelke kifejezve teljesen. Azutdn egyet se szdla,^ — meg se rezzent szarnya tolla, S en siigam (inkabb gondolva) : " Minden elhagy, istenem ! Marad-e csak egy baratom ? Lehet-e remdnylenem ? " A maddr szdlt : " Sohasem.'' Megrendiiltem, hogy talil az 6n sohajomra a valasz, Amde — ezt sugd a kdtely— nem tud ez mast, ugy hiszem. Erre tanita gazdaja, kit kitartd sors viszalya Addig iilde, addig hanya, mig ezt dalla sziintelen — Tort rem6nye omlad6kin ezt sohajta sziintelen : " Soha — soha — sohasem ! " Ram a hoUd meron n^zve, engem is mosolyra kdszte. S oda iiltem ellendbe, 6 meg szembe allt velem. En magam pamlagra vetve, kepzeletrol k6pzeletre Szalla elmdra onfeledve, 6s azon tdrdm fejem : Hogy e remes, vijjogd, vad, kopott holl6 sziintelen Mdrt kialtja : « Sohasem ? " Translations. yy Ezt talalgatam magamban, a holl6 elott azonban R61a egy hangot se mondtam, — s 6 csak ndzett mereven. S kedvesem nev^t sohajtvdn, fejem a vdnkosra hajtam, Melynek puha bdrsony habjdn rezg a m&sf^ny k^tesen ; Melynek puha bdrsony habjat — ^rinteni kedveseiri Ah ! nem fogja sohasem ! S mintha most a szagos l^gbe' — lathatatlantomjdn egne S angyaloknak zengne Idpte — sietsz6rt virag- kelyheken . . . 'Ah — rebegtem — tan az isten kiild angyalt, hogy megenyhitsen, S melyre fbldon balzsam nincsen, — a bii feledve legyen! Idd ki a felejt^s kelyhdt, biid enyhet lei csoppiben ! ' Sz61t aholl6: "Sohasem!" ' J6s — ^kialt^k — bar ki Idgy te, angyal, ordog, — madar kdpbe, Vagy vihart61 iizet^l be pihenni ez enyhelyen ! Bar elhagy.va, nem leverve, — kifaradva a keservbe, Most felelj meg ndkem erre, konyorgok s kovetelem : Van-e balzsam Gileadban — s ^n valaha follelem?' Szdlt a hollo: "Sohasem!" ' Jos ! kialtek — bdr ki Hgy te, angyal, ordog — madar- k^pbe, Hogyha van hited az dgbe, — ds egy istent fdlsz velem : Sz61j e szivhez keservdben, — lesz-e ama boldog dden, A hoi egyesitve legyen, kedves^vel,^-vdgtelen. Kit Lenoranak nevezhek az angyalok odafen ? ' ■ Sz61taholl6: "Sohasem!" 78 Translations. ' Menj tehat, pusztulj azonnal ! ' — ^kialt^k ra fajda- lommal — ' Veszsz orokre semmis^gbe, a pokoli djjelen ! Ne maradjon itt egyetlen — toll, emldkeztetni engem, Hogy folverted ndma csendem, — szallj tovabb, szallj hi'rtelen, Vond ki kormodet szivembol, bar szakadjon v^resen ! ' Sz61t a holl6 : " Sohasem ! " , S barna szaraya meg se lendiil, mind csak ott iil, mind csak fent iil, Akarmerre fordulok, csak szemben iil mindig velem, Szemei meredt vilaga, mint kis^rtet rdmes amya, S koriilotte a biis lampa f^nye reszket k^tesen, S lelkem — ah ! e n^ma arnytcjl, mely koriilleng rdmesen — , Nem menekszik' — sohasem ! Endrody. 79 LATIN. A TRANSLATION of Ttie Raven into Latin was pub- lished in 1866, at Oxford and London, in a volume of translations from English poetry, entitled Fasciculus ediderunt Ludovicus Gidley et Robinson Thornton. Mr. Gidley was the author of this particular render- ing, which appears to have been once or twice repub- lished already, and is as follows : — Alta nox erat ; sedebara tsedio fessus gravi, Nescio quid exoletse perlegens scientiae, Cum velut pulsantis ortus est sonus meas fores — Languido pulsantis ictu cubiculi clausas fores : " En, amicus visitum me serius," dixi, " venit— - Inde fit sonus ; — quid amplius % " Ah ! recordor quod Decembris esset hora nubili, In pariete quod favillse fingerent imagines. Crastinum diem petebam ; nil erat solaminis, Nil levaminis legendo consequi curse meae : — De Leonina delebam, coelites quam nominant — Nos non nominamus amplius. Moestus aulasi susurros purpurati, et serici, Horrui vana n^c ante cognita formidine ; Propter hoc, cor palpitans ut sisterem, jam dictitans Constiti, " Mens sodalis astat ad fores meas, Me meus sero sodalis hie adest efflagitans ; Inde fit sonus ; — quid amplius ? " 8o Translations. Mente mox corroborata, desineus vanum metum, " Quisquis es, tu parce," dixi, " negligentiae mese ; Me levis soninus tenebat, et guatis tam lenibus Ictibus fores meas, ut irritum sonum excites, Quern mea vix consequebar aure '' — tunc pandi fores : — lUic nox erat ; — ^nil amplius. Ales iste luculenter eloquens me perculit, Ipsa quamvis indicaret pasne nil responsio; Namque nobis confitendum est nemini mortalium Copiam datam videndi quadrupedem unquam aut alitem, Qui super fores sederet sculptilem premeus Deam, Dictus nomine hoc, " Non amplius." -At sedens super decorum solus ales id caput, Verba tanquam mente tota dixit hsec tantummodo. Deinde pressis mansit alls, postea nil proferens. Donee segre murmurarim, " Cseteri me negligunt — Deseret me eras volucris, spes ut ante destitit." Corvus tunc refert, " Non amplius." Has tenebras intuebar turn stupens metu diu, Haesitans, et meute fingens quodlibet miraculum ; At tacebat omne limen ferreo silentio, Et, " Leonina ! " inde nomen editum solum fuit ; Ipse dixeram hoc, et echo reddidit loquax idem ; — Hsec vox edita est ; — nil amplius. Translations. 8i In cubiclum mox regressus, concitio prsecordiis, Admodum paulo acriorem rursus ictum exaudio. " Quicquid est, certe fenestras concutit," dixi, meas ; ""Eja, prodest experiri quid sit hocmysterium — Cor, parumper conquiesce, donee hoc percepero ; — Flatus hie strepit ; — nil amplius." Tunc repagulis remotis, hue et hue,' en cursitans, Et micans alis, verenda forma, corvus insilit. Blandiens haud commoratus, quam cellerrime viam ; Fecit, et gravis, superbus, constitit super fores — In caput divse Minervse coUorans se sculptile Sedit, motus haud dein amplius. Nonnihil deliniebat cor meum iste ales niger, Fronte, ceu Catoniana, tetrica me contuens : " Tu, licet sis capite Isevi, tamen es acer, impiger, Ta,m verendus," inquam, "et ater, noctis e plaga vagans — Die, amabo, qui vocaris nocte sub Plutonia ? " Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius..'' Me statim commovit apta, quam dedit, responsio : " Ista," dixit, " sola vox est hinc spes, peculium, Quam miser prsecepit actus casibus crebis herus Ingruentibus maligne, donee ingemisceret, Hanc querelam, destitutus spes, redintegrans diu, Vocem lugubrem, ' Non amplius.' G 82 Translations. Mox, nam adhuc deliniebat cor meum iste ales niger, Culcitis stratum sedile coUoco adversus fores ; Hac Cubans in sede molli mente cogito mea, Multa fingens continenter, quid voluerit alitis Tam sinistri, tam nigrantis, tarn macri, tam tetrici, Ista rauca vox, " Non amplius." Augmans hoc considebam, froferens vocis nihil Ad volucrem, jam intruentem pupulis me flammeis ; Augurans hoc plus sedebam, segniter fulto meo Capite culcita decora, luce lampadis lita, Qua,m premet puella mollem, luce lampadis litam, Ilia, lux mea, ah ! non amplius. Visus aer thureis tunc fumigari odoribus, Quos ferebant Di prementis pede tapeta tinnulo. " En miser," dixi, " minstrant — Dl tibi nunc exhibent Otium multum dolenti de Leonina tua ! Eja, nepenthes potitor, combibens oblivia !" Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius." " Tu, sacer propheta,'' dix, " sis licet daemon atrox! — Tartarus seu te profundus, seu procella hue egerit, Tu, peregrinans, et audax, banc malam visens domum, Quam colet ferox Erinnys — die mihi, die, obsecro, Num levamen sit doloris, quem gero — die, obsecro !" Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius.'' Translations. 83 " Tu, sacer propheta," dixi, " sis licet daemon atrox ! Obsecro deos per illos queris uterque cedimus — Die dolenti, num remotis in locis olim Elysl Sim potiturus puella numini carissima, Num Leoninam videbo, coelites quam nominant." Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius." " Ista tempus emigrandi vox notet," dixi fremens — " Repete nimbum, repete noctis, tu, plagam Plu- toniam ! Nulla sit relicta testans pluma commentum nigra ! Mitte miserum persequi me ! linque Palladis caput ! E meo tu corde rostrum, postibus formam eripe !" Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius." Et sedens, pennis quietis usque, corvus, indies, Sculptilis premit Minervse desuper pallens caput ; Similis oculos molienti luctuosa dsemoni : Sub lychno nigrat tapetes iluctuans umbra alitis ; Et mihi mentem levandi subrutam hac umbra meam Facta copia est — non amplius ! G 2 FABRICATIONS. NE outcome of the immense popularity iij its native country of The Raven is the wonder- ful and continuous series of fabrications to which it has given rise. An American journalist in want of a subject to eke out the scanty interest of his columns appears to revert to Poe and his works as natural prey : he has only to devise a para- graph — the more absurd and palpably false the better for his purpose — about how The Raven was written, or by whotn it was written other than Poe, to draw at- tention to his paper and to get his fabrication copied into the journals of every town in the United States. From time to time these tales are concocted and scat- tered broadcast over the country : one of them, and one of the most self-evidently absurd, after running the usual rounds of the American press, found its way to England, and was pubUshed in the London Star in the summer of 1864. It was to the effect that Mr. Lang, the well-known Oriental traveller, had discovered that Poe's poem of The Raven was a literary imposture. "Poe's sole accomplishment,'' so ran the announce- ment, "was a minute and accurate acquaintance with Oriental languages, and that he turned to account by translating, almost literally, the poem of The Raven, from the Persian ! " Fabrications. 85 This startling information invoked a quantity of correspondence, but without eliciting any explanation, as to when and where Mr. Lang had proclaimed his ■ discovery; where the Persian original was to be found, or by whom it had been written ? In connection with this Oriental hoax, however, the London paper was made the medium of introducing to the British public one yet more audacious and; for the general reader, more plausible. On the ist September of the same ytaxXhe.MormngStar'gvibWsh.td. the following letter : — Edgar Allan Poe. Sir — I have noticed with interest and astonishment the remarks made in different issues of your paper re- specting Edgar A. Poe's "Raven/' and I think the following fantastic poem (a copy of which I enclose), written by the poet whilst experimenting towards the production of that wonderful and beautiful piece of mechanism, may possibly interest your numerous readers. "The Fire-Fiend" (the title of the poem I enclose) Mr. Poe considered incomplete and threw it aside in disgust. Some months afterwards, finding it amongst his papers, he sent it in a letter to a friend, labelled facetiously, ".To be read by firelight at mid- night after thirty drops of laudanum." I was intimately acquainted with the mother-in-law of Poe, and have frequently conversed with her respecting "The Raven," and she assured me that he had the idea in his mind for some years, and used frequently to repeat verses of it to her and ask her opinion of them, frequently making alterations and improvements, according to the mood he chanced to be in at the time. Mrs. Clemm, knowing the great study I had given to " The Raven," and the reputation I had gained by its recital through America ■86 Fabrications. took great interest in givitig me all the information in her power, and the life and writings of Edgar A. Poe have been the topic of our conversation for hours. Respectfully, London, August 31. M. M. 'Cready." This impuderlt and utterly baseless circumstantial account, which, need it be remarked was pure fiction from alpha to omega, was followed by the following tawdry parody : — The Fire Fiend: A Nightmare. I. In the deepest dearth of Midnight, while the sad and solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell- Faintly, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air. That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling — In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light's fitful gleaming. And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart foredomed to care ! II. As the last long lingering echo of the Midnight's mystic chime — Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of Time- Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace^ — In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started : Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's phantasmal Error Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming, face ! Fabrications. 87 ■ HI. On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot ' of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I aivoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor. Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my gaze toward the gleaming Hearth, and — there ! oh, God ! I saw It ! and from out Its flaming jaw It Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurghng stream of gore ! IV. Speechless ; struck with stony silence ;. frozen to the floor I stood, Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling blood : — Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips : — Till theDemon seemed to name me; — then a wondrous calm o'ercame me. And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff' and gluey, And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse ! V. Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear : — Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep : — Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon of .the Fire ! I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire ! and each blazing roof's my pyre. And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep ! " 88 Fabrications. VI. "'How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar among the Pines ! How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the reef flame shines, And I hear the shrieks of .terror, with a Life in every breath ! How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackhng rafter Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! higher ! higher \ Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death!" VII. " I am monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal-King of Death I World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon , my breath ! With the symbol of Hereafterflamingfrom myfatal face 1 , I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! higher ! higher 1 higher ! Leap my ministering Demons, hke Phantasmagoric lemans Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!" VIII. When a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded sleep, And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cradle of the Deep," Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke. And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden ledges, Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn file marches. Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak. Fabrications. 89 IX. Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremu- lous note From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled his throat : — Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber Night- mare ridden. With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a Fate ! X. Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap. And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep ; But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone. Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden — And I bowed, and said, " All Power is of God, of God alone 1 " The above poor imitation of Poe's poetic chef (Tosuvre circulated through the United States for some time as the prototype of The Raven, and although the whole affair was treated as a fabrication by all persons capable of judging, it was received by a number of persons, according to the allegation of its avowed concocter, as the genuine production of go • Fabrications. Poe. In 1866, a volume entitled "The Fire-Fiend and other Poems," was pubUshed in New York, pre- faced by a " Pre-note " to the following effect : A few — and but a few — words of explanation seem appropriate here, with reference to the poem which gives title to this volume. The ' Fire-Fiend ' was written some six years ago, in consequence of a literary discussion wherein it was asserted, that the marked originality of style, both as to conception and expression, in the poems of the late Edgar Allen (sic) Poe, rendered a successful imitation difficult even to impossibility. The author was challenged to produce a poem, in the manner of The Raven, which should be accepted by the general critic as a genuine composition of Mr. Poe's (sic), and the ' Fire-Fiend ' was the result. This poem was printed as ' from an unpubhshed MS. of the late Edgar A. Poe,' and the hoax proved sufficiently successful to deceive a number of critics in this country, and also in Engla,nd, where it was afterwards republished (by Mr. Macready, the trage- dian),* in the 'Lon&on Star, as an undoubted produc- tion of its soi-disdnt author. The comments upon it, by the various critics, pro- fessional and other (sic), who accepted it as Mr. Poe's, were too flattering to be quoted here, the more espe- cially, since, had the poem appeared simply as the composition of its real author, these gentlemen would probably have been slow to discover in it the same merits. The true history of the poem and its actual authorship being thus succinctly given, there seems * This assertion, need it be said, is incorrect. — Ed. Fabrications. 91 nothing further to be said, than to remain, very respectfully, the Reader's humble servant, The Author. The author of this imposition was, according to the titlepage of the volume it appeared in, " Charles D. Gardette." As another example of the ludicrously inane ab- surdities about Poe's Raven to which the American journals give publicity, may be cited the following communication, issued in the NeiJi) Orleans Times, for July, 1870, and purporting to have been sent to the editor, from the Rev. J. Shaver, of Burlington, New Jersey, as an extract from a letter, dated Richmond, Sept. 29, 1849, written by Edgar Allan Poe to Mr. Daniels of Philadelphia. Some portions of the letter, it was alleged, could not be deciphered on account of its age and neglected condition : — "Shortly before the death of our good friend, Samuel Fenwick, he -sent, to me from New York for publication a most beautiful and thrilling poem, which he called The Raven, wishing me, before printing it, to ' see if it had merit,' arid to make any alterations that might appear necessary. So perfect was it in all its parts tha,t the slightest improvement seemed to me impossible. But you knpw a person very often de- preciates his own talents, and he even went so far as to suggest that in this instancCi or in any future pieces he might contribute, I should revise and print them in my own name to insure their circulation. " This proposal I rejected, of course, and one way or other delayed printing The Raven, until, as you know, it came out in The Review, and * * *. It was published when I was, unfortunately, intoxicated, and 92 Fabrications. not knowing what I did. I signed my name to it, and thus it went to the printer, and was published. " The sensation it produced made me dishonest enough to conceal the name of the real author, who had died, as you know, some time before it came out, and by that means I now enjoy all the credit and applause myself. I simply make this statement to you for the * * *. I shall probably go to New York to-morrow, but will be back by Oct. 12th, I think." The utter falsity and absurdity of this story need not detain us so long in its refutation as it did several of Poe's countrymen. It need not be asked whether such persons as the " Rev. J. Shaver," or " Mr. Daniels of Philadelphia," ever existed, or why Poe should make so damaging a confession of dishonesty and in slip-shod English, so different from his usual terse and expressive style, it is only, at the most, , necessary to point out that far from publishing The Raven in The Review with his name appended to it, Poe issued it in The American Review as by " Quarles." A myth as ridiculous as any is that fathered by some of the United States journals on a " Colonel Du SoUe." According to the testimony of this military- titled gentleman, shortly before the publication of The Rdven Poe was wont to meet him and other literary contemporaries at mid-day "for a budget of gossip and a glass of ale at Sandy Welsh's cellar in Anne Street." According to the further deposition of the Colonel the poem of The Raven was produced by Poe, at Sandy Welsh's cellar, " stanza by stanza at small intervals, and submitted piecemeal to the criti- cism and emendations of his intimates, who suggested various alterations and substitutions. Poe adopted Fabrications. many of them. Du Solle quotes particular instances ■of phrases that were incorporated at his suggestion, and thus The Raven was a kind of joint-stock affair in which many minds held small shares of intellectual capital. At length, when the last stone had been placed in position, the structure was voted complete ! " Another class of forgeries connected with the would- be imitators of Edgar Poe's style is known as the " Spiritual Poems." These so-called " poems " are wild rhapsodical productions supposed to be dictated by the spirits of departed genius to earthly survivors : they have always to be given through the medium of a mortal, and although generally endowed with rhyme are almost always devoid of reason. Edgar Poe js a favoured subject with these "mediums,'' and by means of Miss Lizzie Doten, one of their most re- nowned improvisatrice, has produced an imitation of his Raven, which she styled the " Streets of Balti- more," and in which the departed poet is made to describe his struggle with death and his triumphant entry into eternity. One stanza of this curious pro- duction will, doubtless, suffice : — " In that grand, eternal city, where the angel hearts take pity On that sin which men forgive not, or inactively deplore, Earth hath lost the power to harm me, Death can nevermore alarm me, And I drink fresh inspiration from the source which I adore — Through my grand apotheosis, that new birth in Balti- more ! " Such is the mental pabulum provided for the poet's countrymen ! PARODIES. NOTHER peculiar sign of the wide in- fluence exercised by The Raven is the number of parodies and imitations it has given rise tci: whilst many of these are beneath contempt some of them, for various reasons, are worthy of notice and even of preservation. The first of these, probably, in point of time if not of merit, is The Gazelle, by Philip P. Cooke, a young Virginian poet, who died just as he was giving promise of future fame. His beautiful lyric of Florence Vane had attracted the notice of Poe, who cited it and praised it highly, in his lectures on " The Poets and Poetry of America." The Gazelle might almost be re- garded as a response to the elder poet's generous notice. Poe himself observes, that this parody " although professedly 'an imitation, has a very great deal of original power," and he published it in the New York Evening Mirror (April 29th, 1845), with the remark that " the following, from our new-found boy poet of fifteen years of age, shows a most happy faculty of imitation " — Parodies. 95 THE GAZELLE. Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad soul pondering, Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time's ever swinging bell, While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the fountain. By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet dell ; Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell, Merely whispering, " Fare thee well." From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising, Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded knell. Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice so spell-like bound me, While that voice so spell-like bound me — searching in that tranquil dell, Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his dimly-lighted cell, Merely whispering, " Fare thee well !" Then I stooped once more, and drinking, heard once more the silvery tinkling, Of that dim mysterious utterance, like some fairy, harp of shell — Struck by hand of woodland fairy, from her shadowy home and airy. In the purple clouds and airy, floating o'er that mystic dell. And from my sick soul its music seemed all evil to expel, Merely whispering, "Fare thee well!" 96 Parodies. Then my book at once down flinging, from my reverie up springing, Searched I through the forest, striving my vain terror to dispel, All things to my search subjecting, not a bush or tree neglecting, When jbehind a rock projecting, saw I there a white gazelle. And that soft and silvery murmur, in my ear so slowly fell. Merely whispering, " Fare thee well !" From its eye so mildly beaming, down its cheek a tear was streaming, As though in its gentle bosom dwelt some grief it could not quell, Still these words articulating, still that sentence ever prating. And my bosom agitating as upon my ear it fell, That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a potent spell. Merely uttering, " Fare thee well !" Then I turned, about departing, when she from her covert starting, Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony to swell, And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit seeming, To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel. But, oh ! that which followed after — listen while the tale I tell — Of that snow-white sweet gazelle. Parodies. 97 With her dark eye backward turning, as if some mysterious yearning In her soul to me was moving, which she could not thence expel, Through the tangled thicket flying, while I followed panting, sighing, All my soul within me dying, faintly on my hearing fell, Echoing mid the rocks and mountains rising round that fairy dell. Fare thee, fare thee, fare thee well ! Now at length she paused and laid her, underneath an ancient cedar. When the shadowy shades of silence, from the day departing fell. And I saw that she was lying, trembling, fainting, weeping, dying. And I could not keep from sighing, nor from my sick soul expel The memory that those dark eyes raised — of my long lost Isabel. Why, I could not, could not tell. Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear 'tis ringing, And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed sweet gazelle. Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses flowing. On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus' mystic cell , Saw I in that seraph's beauty, semblance of my Isabel, Gently whispering, ' Fare thee well ! ' " H 98 ' Parodies. "Glorious one," I cried, upspringiag, "art thou joyful tidings bringing, From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel? Shall thy coming leave no token? Shall there no sweet word be spoken ? Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell ? Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, ^but that fatal, 'Fare thee well!'" Still it answered, ' Fare thee well !' " " Speak ! oh, speak to me bright being ! I am blest . thy form in seeing. But shall no sweet whisper tell me, — tell me that thou lovest still? Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or token given, With no whispered token given — 1;hat thou still dost love me well ? Give it, give it now, I pray thee — here within his blessed dell, Still that hated ' Fare thee well.' " Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence pressing, With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to compel. And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes upraising, To, the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my Isabel, Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the white gazelle, Faintly whispering, " Fare thee well !" Parodies. 99 Another of the earliest parodies on The Raven de- serves allusion as having, like the preceding, received recognition at the hands of Poe himself. In the number of the Broadway Journal (then partly edited by Poe) of the 26th of April, 1845, the following editorial note appeared, above the stanzas hereafter cited : — A GENTLE PUFF. " If we copied into our Journal all tjie complimentary notices that are bestowed upon us, it would con- tain hardly anything besides ; the following done into poetry is probably the only one of the kind that we shall receive, and we extract it from our neighbour, the New World, for the sake of its uniqueness.'' Then with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had borne hini lately, Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing floor ; As he passed the Courier's Colonel, then I saw The Broadway Journal, In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore. And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly through the door, As if he pondered, evermore. H 2 100 Parodies. With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care be- guiling, Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and broad claymore, And with gallant presence dashing, 'mid his confreres stoutly clashing. He unpit)dngly went slashing, as he keenly scanned them o'er, And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant presence bore, As might awe them, evermore. Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding. Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor; While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking, On his goodly armour hacking, wrought no change his visage o'er, As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion proudly bore. Resisting error, evermore. This opinion of a contemporary journalist on Poe's non-respect, in his critical capacity, of persons, was speedily followed by several other parodies of more or less interest. The Evening Mirror for May 30th, 1845, contained one entitled The Whippoorwill, the citation of one stanza of which will, doubtless, suffice for most readers: Parodies. lOi " In the wilderness benighted, lo ! at last my guide alighted On a lowly little cedar that overspread a running rill; Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered, Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still ; Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still ? Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill ! These lines on an American bird, like those cited from the Broadway, must have passed under Poe's own eyes, even if he did not give them publication, as at the time they appeared he was assistant-editor to the Evening Mirror. There is yet another parody on The Raven which Poe is known to have spoken of, and to have most truthfully described, in a letter of i6th June, 1849, as "miserably stupid." The lines, only deserving mention from the fact that they invoked Poe's notice, appeared in an American brochure, now of the utmost rarity, styled The Moral of Authors: a New Satire, by J. E. Tuel, and were dated from the — "Plutonian Shore, Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry Before the Dismal Ages, A.D. 18 — " A quotation from the lines themselves is needless. It has been seen how rapidly The Raven winged its way across the Atlantic. The ominous bird had not long settled on the English shores ere its wonderful music had penetrated into every literary home. As a natural consequence of its weird power and artificial 102 Parodies. composition it was speedily imitated : one of the first English .parodies was contributed by Robert Brough, to CriiikshanKs Comic Almanack iax 1853, and was fepubhshed in the Ficcadilly Annual in 1870. The Vulture, as it is styled; is scarcely worthy of .its parentage, but the two first stanzas may be cited as typical of the whole piece, which is descriptive of the ■depredations committed by a certain class of " sponges " on those people who are willing to put up with their ways : — Once upon a midnight chilUng, as I held my feet unwilling O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four ; Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then out-skipping. Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door. " 'Tis the second floor," I mutter'd, " flipping at my chambers door — Wants a light — and nothing more ! " Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November, And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore ; Falt'ringly I stjrr'd the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er the fuel. And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore. Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd nostril bore — Nameless here for evermore ! Parodies. ' 103 A much better parody on The Raven was con- tributed by Mr. Edmund Yates to Mirth and Metre, a brochure which appeared in 1855. From The Tankard the following stanzas may be given : — Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December, Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire, Pond'ring o'er my misspent chances with that grief which times enhances — Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher, — Aims to which I should aspire. As I sat thus wond'ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking, In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced — Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and sadness, — Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery's hand effaced,^ Forms which Venus' self had graced. » Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking, Loud and furious, — such a rat-tat never had I heard before ; Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth upleaping. Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I "What a bore!" Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, "What a bore!" Said the echo, " Pay your score ! " ***** 104 Parodies. Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary landing, Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor; Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I'd drank hard, — ' Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore. In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before, Stood and muttered, " Pay your score I " Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne'er in past or future Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore ! Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely When it added, "Come old boy, you've many a promise made before, False they were as John O'Connell's who would ' die upon the floor.' Now for once — come, pay your score ! " Fro n my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard ' darting With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter's door ; But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self- same knocking. And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before, — Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before, — Sitting, crying, " Pay your score ! " ***** Parodies. 105 Our Miscellany, another 3roc/iure, published in 1856, contained The Parrot, apparently by the same hand and of about the same calibre. The opening stanzas read thus : — " Once, as through the streets I wandered, and o'er many a fancy pondered, ■ Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my mind of yore, — Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a man I. tumbled, Who, beneath a sailor's jacket, something large and heavy bore. " Beg your pardon, sir ! " I muttered, as I rose up, hurt ^nd sore j But the sailor only swore. Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore ! But, in fact, my sense was napping " then the sailor answered, rapping Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the score, — Answered he, ''Come, hold your jaw!" io6 « Parodies, " May my timbers now be shivered-^-" oh, at this my poor heart quivered, — " If you don't beat any parson that I ever met before ! You've not hurt me; stow your prosing" — then his huge peacoat unclosing,. Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he bore, — Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore. Which at once drew corks and swore. Much, I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass and red as carrot, Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sentences a score, And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so intensely, That I bid for it at once ; and when I showed of gold my store. Instantly the sailor sold it ; mine it was, and his no more ; Mine it was for evermore. Prouder was I of this bargain, e'en than patriotic Dargan, When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the threshold of his door ; — Surely I had gone demented — surely I had sore repented. Had I known the dreadful misery which for me Fate had in store, — Known the fearful, awful misery which for me Fate had in store. Then, and now, and evermore ! Parodies. 107 Scarcely to my friends I'd shown it, when (my mother's dreadful groan ! — it Haunts me even now!) the parrot from his perch began to pour Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. Ains- worth teaches — Us were uttered by highway men and rapparees of yore ! — By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees of yore; But which now are heard no more. And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind — It was surprising, That this favourite son, who'd never, never so trans- gressed before, Should have brought a horrid, screaming — nay, e'en worse than that — blaspheming Bird within that pure home circle — bird well learned in wicked lore ! While he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a , horrid bore. Cried out " Cuckoo !" barked, and swore. And since then what it has cost me, — all the wealth and friends it's lost me, All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my bosom's core. Can't be mentioned in these verses; till, at length, ray heartfelt curses