LIFE AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 

THE 
 
 LIFE AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 (A New Memoir by E. L. Didier.) 
 AND ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
 ' V; ,> '^^C^^^^^^S^S^'^ 
 
 *V^>- 
 
 Poe's Cottage at Ford ham. 
 
 NEW YORK : NS? 
 
 fUoCU- 
 
 
 W. J. WIDDLETON, PUBLISHER. 
 1877. 
 
^2^ 
 
 'i 
 
 Copyright, 1876, 
 
 BY 
 
 W, J. Widdleton, Publisher. 
 
 Press of J. J. Little & Co., 
 Nos. 10 to 20 Astor Place, New York. 
 
TO 
 
 WILLIAM J. McCLELLAN, Esq., 
 
 Baltimore. 
 
 In associating your name with mine in this tribute to a genius whom we 
 both so enthusiastically admire, I desire to express my appreciation of the 
 warm and generous interest, which, from first to last, you have taken in the 
 Work, and, at the same time, to testify to our long and uninterrupted 
 friendship. 
 
 EUGENE L. DIDIER. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface 9 
 
 Introductory Letter. 1 r 
 
 Life of Edgar A. Poe 19 
 
 The Raven 131 
 
 Lenore 138 
 
 Hymn 140 
 
 A Valentine 141 
 
 The Coliseum 142 
 
 To Helen 144 
 
 To 146 
 
 Ulalume 147 
 
 The Bells 1 5 r 
 
 An Enigma 156 
 
 Annabel Lee 156 
 
 To My Mother 158 
 
 The Haunted Palace 159 
 
 The Conqueror Worm 161 
 
 To F s S. O d 162 
 
 To One in Paradise 163 
 
 The Valley of Unrest « 164 
 
 The City in the Sea 165 
 
 The Sleeper 167 
 
 Silence 1 69 
 
 A Dream Within a Dream 170 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dream-Land 171 
 
 To Zante -. 173 
 
 Eulalie 174 
 
 Eldorado ..... 175 
 
 Israfel « 176 
 
 For Annie 178 
 
 To 182 
 
 Bridal Ballad , 182 
 
 ToF 184 
 
 Scenes from " Politian " 185 . 
 
 Poems Written in Youth. — Sonnet — To Science 209 
 
 Al Aaraaf 210 
 
 To the River 229 
 
 Tamerlane 230 
 
 To 239 
 
 A Dream 240 
 
 Romance 240 
 
 Fairy-Land 241 
 
 The Lake. — To 243 
 
 Song 244 
 
 To M. L. S 245 
 
 Spirits of the Dead 246 
 
 To I lelen 247 
 
 Alone 248 
 
 The Poetic Principle 249 
 
 The Philosophy of Composition 287 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 During the twenty-seven years that have passed since 
 Edgar A. Poe's death, his fame has been steadily increas- 
 ing and extending, but the world has remained in ignor- 
 ance of the true story of the poet's life. The present 
 memoir is as full and complete as it is possible to make 
 it. Every person accessible to the writer, who possessed 
 any information upon the subject, has been approached, 
 and seldom in vain. Much fresh and interesting infor- 
 mation has been obtained ; many false statements, here- 
 tofore accepted without question, have been corrected. 
 
 The cordial thanks of the author are heartily tendered 
 to Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman, for her valuable Introduc- 
 tory Letter, and for extracts from Poe's letters to William 
 J. McClellan, Esq., who, with characteristic generosity, 
 placed at my disposal his entire collection of Poeana; to 
 Professor Joseph H. Clarke, for his interesting sketch of 
 
10 PREFACE. 
 
 Edgar A. Poe, when his pupil at the Richmond Academy; 
 to Colonel John T. L. Preston, of the Virginia Military 
 Institute, and Andrew Johnston, Esq., of Richmond, for 
 their reminiscences of Poe as a schoolboy ; to Mr. Wil- 
 liam Wertenbaker, Librarian of the University of Virginia, 
 and to Neilson Poe, Esq., for details of family history and 
 personal recollections of the poet. 
 
 EUGENE L. DIDIER. 
 
 185 Madison Avenue, 
 Baltimore, August 1, 1876, 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 Mr. Eugene L. Didier: 
 
 Dear Sir : — I am gratified to know that one who so sin- 
 cerely admires the genius of Edgar Poe, and who must have 
 access to many hitherto unexplored sources of information 
 as to his early history and associates, is preparing to pub- 
 lish the result of his investigations in relation to a period 
 concerning which we still know so little. I doubt not that 
 whatever you may have to say on the subject will be of per- 
 manent value in the elucidation of a story whose facts are 
 so singularly evasive and uncertain. 
 
 To translate that mysterious, shadowy, poetic life of his, 
 with its elusive details and mythical traditions, into the fixed 
 facts and clear outlines of authentic narrative, must, I fear, 
 prove a difficult task to the most conscientious annalist. 
 
 In your letter of June 26, you say : " N. P. Willis 
 speaks of Poe as living at Fordham while he was employed 
 upon the Mirror, which was in the autumn of 1844 and 
 early winter of 1845." I have no certain knowledge of the 
 time when Poe was employed on the Mirror j but I have a 
 very definite and decided knowledge as to the fact that dur- 
 ing the whole of the winter 1845-6, he was residing in the 
 city of New York — I think in Amity Street. He was, at that 
 time, a frequent visitor and ever-welcome guest at the houses 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 of many persons with whom I have long been intimately 
 acquainted — among others, the Hon. John R. Bartlett, then 
 of the firm of Bartlett & Welford, and Miss Anne C. 
 Lynch, now Mrs. Botta — who were accustomed to receive in- 
 formally at their houses, on stated evenings, the best intellec- 
 tual society of the city. To reinforce my memory on the 
 subject, I have just referred to letters received from various 
 correspondents in New York, during the winters 1845 an< i 
 1846, in all of which the name of the poet frequently occurs. 
 
 In one of these letters, dated January 20, 1846, the writer 
 says : " Speaking of our receptions, I must tell you what a 
 pleasant one we had on Saturday evening, in Waverley Place; 
 or rather I will tell you the names of some of the company, 
 and you will know, among others, that of Cassius Clay ; Mr. 
 Hart, the sculptor, who is doing Henry Clay in marble ; Hal- 
 leck ; Locke (the Man in the Moon) ; Hunt, of the Merchant's 
 Magazine ; Hudson ; Mr. Bellows ; Poe ; Headley ; Miss 
 Sedgwick ; Mrs. Kirkland ; Mrs. Osgood ; Mrs. Seba Smith ; 
 Mrs. Ellet ; and many others, more or less distinguished." 
 
 One of these letters, in which the date of the year is want- 
 ing, alludes to a controversy, which took place at one of the 
 soirees, between Margaret Fuller (Ossoli) and Poe, about 
 some writer whom, in her lofty, autocratic way, the lady had 
 been annihilating. Miss Fuller was then writing critical 
 papers for the New York Tribune. Poe, espousing the cause 
 of the vanquished, with a few keen, incisive rejoinders, 
 obtained such ascendency over the eloquent and oracu- 
 lar contessa, that somebody whispered, " The Raven has 
 perched upon the casque of Pallas, and pulled all the feathers 
 out of her cap." 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 1 3 
 
 In another letter, dated January 7, 1846, I find the follow- 
 ing : " I meet Mr. Poe very often at the receptions. He is 
 the observed of all observers. His stories are thought 
 wonderful, and to hear him repeat the Raven, which he does 
 very quietly, is an event in one's life. People seem to think 
 there is something uncanny about him, and the strangest 
 stories are told, and, what is more, believed, about his mes- 
 meric experiences, at the mention of which he always smiles. 
 His smile is captivating ! . . . Everybody wants to 
 know him ; but only a very few people seem to get well ac- 
 quainted with him." 
 
 This was in the spring of 1846, when Poe was at the very 
 acme of his literary and social success among the literati 
 of New York. 
 
 His wife's health, which had always been delicate, was 
 now rapidly failing, and, hoping that she might be benefited 
 by change of air, the family removed to Fordham. Mr. Poe 
 first took his wife there on a house-hunting tour of inspec- 
 tion, when the fruit trees were in blossom, and the aspect of 
 the little cottage temptingly beautiful to the invalid. Whether 
 they engaged it and removed there at once, I do not know ; 
 but it is my impression that they did, and that Poe withdrew 
 himself entirely from the literary circles where his presence 
 had proved so attractive. 
 
 There had, moreover, arisen at this time, among Poe's 
 friends and admirers, social as well as literary feuds and 
 rivalries of an incredible bitterness, and an intense vitality — 
 feuds and rivalries whose unappeased ghosts still " peep and 
 mutter." 
 
 The malign paragraph, falsely attributed to Mrs. Elizabeth 
 
14 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 Oakes Smith, which recently went the rounds of the news- 
 papers, was doubtless of this class. It was, apparently, an 
 intentional perversion of a report stated by her in an able 
 article, written for the Home Journal, which appeared early 
 in March or April of the present year. 
 
 I do not hesitate to say, without appealing to her on the 
 subject, that the scandal so industriously circulated was 
 neither written nor authorized by her.* It is not only at 
 variance with the whole tenor of the article in question, but 
 with that of a private letter, written within the year, in which 
 she says : " Mr. Poe was the last person to whom I should 
 ever have attributed any grossness. ... I saw women 
 jealous in their admiration of him. I think he often found 
 himself entangled by their plots and rivalries. I do not for 
 a moment think he was false in his relations to them." 
 
 Moncure Conway, too, who had reason to know something 
 of Poe's habits, in this particular, from gentlemen of Rich- 
 mond who had been intimately associated with him, says, 
 in a cordial notice of Mr. Ingram's Memoir, prefixed to 
 the Standard edition of Poe's works : " Edgar Poe was 
 exceptionally chivalrous in his relations with women," and he 
 
 * Since the above was written, the following note from Mrs. Smith has been 
 
 received : 
 
 Hollywood, Carteret Co., N. C, 
 
 Dear Mrs. Whitman : *fr T ^ l87b ' 
 
 I should be loth to think that any one who had ever known me could believe 
 that I wrote the coarse, slanderous paragraph which you quote from the news- 
 papers in your letter of the 12th instant. I never saw nor heard of it till now. 
 Mr. Poe was no such person as that would imply. Is it not strange that so 
 much misrepresentation should still follow one so long in the grave ? It is a 
 
 tribute, but a cruel tribute, to the power of his marvelous genius. 
 
 E. O. S. 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. I 5 
 
 illustrates the remark by an anecdote corroborative of its 
 truth. " The innumerable legends which accumulated round 
 his life and name," says Mr. Conway, " were, in one sense, a 
 tribute to his extraordinary powers. He is one of the few 
 men who are represented by a mythology." 
 
 The persistent enmity, which follows his fame like a 
 shadow, is without a parallel in the literary history of our 
 country. While many of the old slanders have lost their 
 pungency, Poe's memory continues to be assailed on the 
 most baseless and preposterous pretexts. Apparently society 
 needs a typical Don Giovanni, a representative Mephisto- 
 pheles, to frighten reprobates and refractory children, and to 
 point a pious moral. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Bartol, of Boston, a most exemplary and 
 benignant gentleman, of progressive views and liberal ten- 
 dencies, lately illustrated an eloquent specimen of pulpit 
 oratory, by denouncing Poe as "the unhappy master, who 
 recklessly carried the torch of his genius into the haunts 
 of the drunkard and the debauchee, until he utterly extin- 
 guished it in his profligate poems ! " Evidently the good Doc- 
 tor had not read these " profligate poems" — poems to which 
 the severest moralist accords " a matchless purity." At what 
 shrine, then, was the torch of his clerical criticism lighted ? 
 Probably he had been reading Mr. Francis Gerry Fairfield's 
 " Mad Man of Letters," and vaguely associated with " the 
 haunt of the drunkard," Sandy Welsh's cellar, the noonday 
 glass of ale, the cotemporaries, and the joint-stock company 
 who got up the Raven ! Out of such materials is the scroll 
 of history replenished ! 
 
 Mr. George Parsons Lathrop, in a note to his article on 
 " Poe, Irving, and Hawthorne," as published in Scribners 
 
1 6 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 Monthly for April, shows the heedless manner in which Mr. 
 Fairfield cites his authorities. 
 
 "In his ' Mad Man of Letters,' " says Mr. Lathrop, "he 
 quotes the testimony of Moreau de Tours as coincident with 
 that of Maudsley in the assertion that the more original 
 orders of genius are akin to madness." Mr. Lathrop says 
 that Dr. Maudsley says nothing of the kind ; that he admits 
 that Poe's genius was akin to madness, but denies that it 
 was genius of the highest kind. 
 
 However this may be — and we think Dr. Maudsley is not 
 always luminous and consistent with himself on this obscure 
 question — it may not be uninteresting to cite here what 
 the learned alienist said in a somewhat rhetorical article on 
 Edgar Allan Poe, written for the Journal of Mental Science^ 
 April, i860. The purport of the article was to show that, 
 with a nature so rarely and sensitively organized, developed 
 under circumstances so exceptionally perilous, Poe's strange 
 and sorrowful career was not only natural, but inevitable. 
 
 "Strange," says Dr. Maudsley, "how far back lies the 
 origin of any event in this world ! Remembering the young 
 law student, the father of the poet, sitting, with rapt coun- 
 tenance, in the pit of the Baltimore Theater, and absorbed in 
 the enchanting actress upon whom every eye was turned in 
 admiration, one cannot help reflecting that in this supreme 
 moment lay the germ of things which were to occupy the 
 world's attention, so long, it may be, as it existed : Edgar 
 Poe, his poetry, and the amazement of mankind at his 
 strange, lurid, and irregular existence." 
 
 After this it matters little in what precise order or rank of 
 the poetical hierarchy the Doctor accords him a place ; his 
 words are an involuntary tribute to a genius, " whose mere 
 
INTRODUCTORY LETTER. I 7 
 
 potency, dissociated from other elements," Mr. Lathrop 
 admits to be "unrivaled and pre-eminent." 
 
 In connection with Dr. Maudsley's theory of antenatal in- 
 fluences, one of those strange coincidences which startled 
 Macbeth as an intimation of "fate and metaphysical aid," 
 happened to me yesterday. 
 
 Among a large collection of old plays and pamphlets, 
 which, after lying perdu for half a century, I was just about 
 to surrender to an importunate chiffonier, my eye fell upon 
 one as worn and yellow as the priceless laces of a centen- 
 nial belle. The title arrested me ; it was " ' The Wood 
 Daemon ; or, the Clock has Struck ! ' a Grand, Romantic, 
 Cabalistic Melodrama, in Three Acts, interspersed with 
 Processions, Pageants, and Pantomimes [as performed at 
 the Boston Theater with unbounded applause]. Boston : 
 1808." I turned the page with a premonitory chill, and lo ! 
 among the list of performers, I found the name ot " Mr. Poe." 
 
 In a curious preface, dated March 30, 1808, the soi-di- 
 sant " author," admitting that he had taken the plot, etc., etc., 
 from M. G. Lewis, " commits his ( Wood Daemon,' with all its 
 defects, to the fostering bosom of an indulgent public, in the 
 trembling hope that, as the production of a native Ameri- 
 can, it may be found worthy of their cheering patronage." 
 
 Apparently the " gentle public " did not disappoint the 
 trust reposed in it. 
 
 A note prefixed to Byron's unfinished drama, " The De- 
 formed Transformed," states that the plot was taken in part 
 from the same romance which furnished M. G. Lewis with the 
 plot of his "Wood Daemon," and in part from the " Faust" of 
 Goethe. 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY LETTER. 
 
 Tales of the wild and wonderful were winging their way 
 from Germany and from the Orient, to possess the minds 
 of Scott and Coleridge, Shelley and Godwin, Moore and 
 Southey, and Savage Landor, whose "Geher" surpassed 
 them all. A taste for melodrama, with its gorgeous pageants 
 and grand spectacles, was beginning to take possession of the 
 stage, until, as Mrs. Kemble has told us, in a recent chapter 
 of her " Old Woman's Gossip," the splendid opera of " Der 
 Freyschutz " swept everything before it. 
 
 Sorcery and Necromancy, Wild Yagers and Wild Hunts- 
 men, Wood Daemons and Specters and "Ghoul-haunted 
 Woodlands" ruled the hour. The clock had struck; and, 
 to judge from present appearances, the end is not yet. 
 
 When " The Daemon " made his first appearance in Bos- 
 ton, Dr. Maudsley's impressible young law student, then a 
 husband and father, was seeking a precarious subsistence 
 by playing, sorrowfully enough, we may well believe, his 
 subsidiary part in the great pageant. To him, doubtless,. 
 
 ; ' The play was the tragedy ' Man/ 
 And its hero, the Conqueror Worm." 
 
 What effect these dramatic antecedents and the influences 
 of the hour may have had on the young poet, who made his 
 first appearance on the stage of life within a year from that 
 date, Dr. Maudsley may perhaps be able to determine. 
 
 Remembering these things, what a weird significance must 
 ever henceforth attach to that wonderful poem, 
 
 mm " Lo ! 'tis a gala night." 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 Providence, R. I., July, 1876. 
 
Life of Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Poe Family. — General Poe, the Grandfather of the 
 Poet. — His Patriotic Devotion to the Cause of Ameri- 
 can Independence. — David Poe, Jr., the Father of 
 Edgar. — His Romantic Marriage. — Sketch of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Poe's Theatrical Career. — Their Tragical Death. 
 
 j|HE life of a poet, however distinguished, seldom 
 offers that agreeable variety which makes the 
 lives of heroes so interesting. But the life of 
 the author of "The Raven " furnishes an acknowledged 
 exception to this general rule. The story of the beautiful 
 and gifted boy, who, reared in luxury and taught to expect 
 a fortune, was thrown upon the world, poor and friend- 
 less, at the early age of twenty ; who, by the force of 
 supreme genius, placed his name among the highest 
 in the highest ranks of fame ; whose glory has brightened 
 as the years rolled along, 
 
 " Till now his genius fills a throne, 
 And nations marvel at his feet " — 
 
 such a story must command the attention of all who 
 
20 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 admire gifts so exalted, and feel sympathy for sorrows so 
 overwhelming as were the gifts and sorrows of Edgar A. 
 Poe. 
 
 For one hundred years the Poe family have occupied 
 a prominent position in the city of Baltimore, and have 
 been conspicuously identified with its business, literary, 
 professional, and educational interests. David Poe, 
 the elder (by courtesy called General Poe), the grand- 
 father of the poet, was born in Londonderry, Ireland, in 
 1743. His father was John Poe; his mother, the sister 
 of Admiral MacBride.* About the middle of the last 
 century, the family emigrated to America, and settled in 
 Pennsylvania, where David grew to manhood, and mar- 
 ried the beautiful Miss Cairnes, of that State. In the 
 memorable year 1776, he took up his permanent resi- 
 dence in Baltimore, where he was soon recognized as one 
 of the leading citizens. He took an immediate and 
 active interest in the struggle for independence. We find, 
 in Force's "American Archives''' (5th Series, Vol. III., p. 
 1 147), that on the 10th of December, 1776, David Poe 
 bore a prominent part in the expulsion of Robert Chris- 
 tie, the Royal Sheriff of Baltimore ; and in the Maryland 
 
 * Admiral MacBride was a distinguished officer of the British Navy, and took 
 a conspicuous part in the engagement off Copenhagen, in March, 1801, under 
 Lord Nelson. Admiral MacBride was a member of Parliament for several 
 years. Mrs. John Poe, the mother of General Poe, died in Baltimore, at the age 
 of one hundred and six, and was buried in Westminster Church-yard. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 2 1 
 
 Journal, of March 25, 1777, mention is made of an 
 attack upon Mr. William Goddard by David Poe and 
 other members of the Whig Club. Goddard was the 
 editor of The Journal, and had made himself obnoxious 
 to the patriotic people of Baltimore by publishing unfa- 
 vorable criticisms of Washington. Hence this attack 
 upon him by the Whig Club, which was composed of the 
 best citizens. Mr. Poe was a zealous member of the club 
 until its dissolution about a year later. 
 
 On the 17th of September, 1779, David Poe was 
 appointed, by the Governor and Council of -Maryland, 
 Assistant Deputy-Quartermaster for Baltimore. In this 
 position he was very energetic, and frequently, when the 
 State funds were exhausted, he made advances from his 
 personal means, and rendered very valuable service to 
 the cause of the patriots * His official position required 
 him to correspond with General Smallwood, Governor 
 Lee, General Gist, and other distinguished officers of the 
 Old Maryland Line. Some of his letters may be found 
 in the Maryland papers of the '76 Society : these letters 
 breathe the most ardent patriotism, and might be read 
 with benefit at the present day. In Purviance's ' c Balti- 
 more During the Revolution," page 106, we find the fol- 
 lowing estimate of David Poe : "Hewas a faithful officer, 
 
 * Among other things, General Poe furnished two brass cannons, which were 
 used at Yorktown. His patriotism ruined him pecuniarily, and he died quite 
 poor. 
 
22 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 and was held in great estimation by all who had business 
 to transact with him. Such was his devotion to his 
 country, that it was almost proverbial, and so unabating 
 was it long after peace was proclaimed that, by the public 
 sentiment, he became a brevet-general, and in his later 
 days was better known as General Poe than by any other 
 name." 
 
 At the close of the war, David Poe engaged in the dry- 
 goods business in Baltimore. He was a member of the 
 First Branch of the City Council in 1 799-1 800. This 
 was the only public position he held after the Revolution- 
 ary War. When Baltimore was threatened by the Brit- 
 ish, in September, 18 14, General Poe volunteered in the 
 defense of the city, and, although then seventy-one years 
 old, he took an active part in the battle of North Point, 
 where the enemy were ignominiously defeated by the 
 brave militia of Maryland. 
 
 General Poe died on the 17th of October, 18 16, in the 
 seventy-fourth year of his age. The Baltimore papers, in 
 announcing the death of the noble old patriot, paid 
 glowing tribute to his many good qualities. He died, as 
 he lived, a zealous republican, regretted by an extensive 
 circle of relatives and friends. General Poe's enthusiastic 
 devotion to the American cause won for him the friend- 
 ship of Washington, Lafayette, and the other leading men 
 of that time. At the reception given to General Lafayette, 
 by the surviving officers and sailors of the Revolution, at 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. FOE. 2$ 
 
 Baltimore, October 23, 1824, he said : "I have not seen 
 among these my friendly and patriotic commissary, Mr. 
 David Foe, "who resided in Baltimore when I was here in 
 1 78 1, and, out of his very limited means, supplied me 
 with five hundred dollars to aid in clothing my troops, 
 and whose wife, with her own hands, cut out five hundred 
 pairs of pantaloons, and superintended the making of them 
 for the use of my men." Lafayette was informed that 
 Mr. Poe was dead, but that his wife was still living. He 
 expressed an anxious wish to see her. The next day he 
 entered a coach, and, escorted by a troop of horse, paid 
 his respects to the venerable lady. He spoke to her in 
 grateful terms of the friendly assistance he had received 
 from her and her husband. " Your husband," said La- 
 fayette, pressing his hand on his breast, ' ' was my friend, 
 and the aid I received from you both was greatly benefi- 
 cial to my troops." 
 
 General Poe had six children, of whom the eldest was 
 David Poe, Jr., the father of Edgar. He was a hand- 
 some, dashing, clever young fellow, and after receiving as 
 finished an education as the schools of Baltimore then 
 furnished, he commenced the study of the law in the 
 office of William Gwynn, Esq., an eminent member 
 of the Baltimore bar, and editor of The Federal Gazette. 
 Young Poe and several of his gay companions formed 
 an association called the Thespian Club, for the promo- 
 tion of a taste for the drama. Thev met in a large room 
 
24 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 in a house belonging to General Poe, on Baltimore Street, 
 near Charles Street, then a fashionable locality for private 
 residences. Here, at their weekly meetings, they recited 
 passages from the old dramatists, and performed the 
 popular plays of the day, for the entertainment of them- 
 selves and their friends. 
 
 David Poe became so infatuated with the stage that he 
 secretly left his home in Baltimore and went to Charles- 
 ton, where he was announced to make his c c first appear- 
 ance on any stage." One of his uncles (William Poe), # 
 who lived in Augusta, Georgia, saw the announcement in 
 the newspapers ; he went to Charleston, took David off the 
 stage, and put him in the law office of the Hon. John 
 Forsyth, of Augusta. He had always been fond of the 
 society of actors, and was more at home in the green- 
 room than in the court-room. Before he ran away 
 from home, he had met Mrs. Hopkins, an actress, 
 whose maiden name was Elizabeth Arnold. The grace, 
 vivacity, and beauty of the piquant little actress fired the 
 susceptible heart of the young law student ; he was willing 
 and anxious to abandon home, position, profession, and 
 everything, to live only for his love. But there existed a 
 slight impediment to his desires in the person of Mr. 
 Hopkins, who played the important role of husband to 
 
 * William Poe, a younger brother of General Poe, removed to Georgia shortly- 
 after the Revolution, and settled in Augusta. He married the sister of the Hon. 
 John Forsyth. His son, Hon. Washington Poe, was a member of Congress 
 from Georgia. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 25 
 
 his ladylove. While David Poe was still "yawning over 
 Chitty," the obliging Mr. Hopkins died, and within six 
 months the long-separated lovers were married. Their 
 marriage took place in the spring of 1806, and an imme- 
 diate estrangement between General Poe and his son was 
 the result. The young husband, thus left to his own 
 resources, adopted his wife's profession. On the 8th of 
 July, 1806, the Yauxhall Garden Theater was inaugurated 
 in New York, with a company of which both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Poe were members. David Poe here made his first 
 appearance as Frank, in " Fortune's Frolic/"' while Mrs. 
 Poe played Prucilla, the Tom Boy. Ireland, in his 
 "Records of the New York Stage/' says: "The lady 
 was young and pretty, and evinced talent both as a singer 
 and actress ; but the gentleman was literally nothing." 
 On September 6, 1809, the Park Theater, New York, 
 opened with the "Castle Specter." Mr. and Mrs. Poe 
 made their first appearance at this establishment as 
 Hassan and Angela. They played until the close of the 
 season, July 4, 1810. In the winter of 1811, Air. and 
 Mrs. Poe were performing at the Richmond Theater. On 
 the night of the 26th of December, the theater was de- 
 stroyed by fire ; among the seventy persons who per- 
 ished in this awful calamity were David Poe and his wife. 
 He had escaped from the burning building, but, in the 
 confusion, his wife became separated from him : return- 
 ing to look for her, he was caught by the falling timbers, 
 2 
 
26 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 and died in a vain effort to save his wife, whom he loved 
 better than life. 
 
 By the tragical death of Mr. and Mrs. Poe, their three 
 little children were left homeless among strangers. The 
 sympathy of the kind people of Richmond was deeply 
 moved by the condition of the poor orphans. Mr. John 
 Allan, a wealthy merchant of the city, adopted Edgar, 
 and Mrs. McKenzie, of Henrico County, Virginia, 
 adopted Rosalie, who was the youngest of the children. 
 Henry, the eldest, was taken to Baltimore and educated 
 by his godfather, Mr. Henry Didier, whose counting- 
 room he subsequently entered. He was very clever, but 
 wild and erratic. Having quarreled with his patron, 
 Henry Poe determined to go to Greece, and fight for the 
 cause to which the death of Byron had attracted the atten- 
 tion of the world. Young Poe arrived in time to parti- 
 cipate in the last battles of the war. On the 14th of 
 September, 1829, the Sultan acknowledged the inde- 
 pendence of Greece, an event which was brought about 
 by the combined armies of England, France, and Russia. 
 Poe accompanied the Russian troops to St. Petersburg, 
 where he soon got into trouble and into prison. He was 
 released by the interposition of the Honorable Arthur 
 Middleton, the x\merican Minister, who had him sent 
 to the port of Riga, and placed on a vessel bound for 
 Baltimore. Six months after returning home, Henry 
 Poe died, at the early age of twenty-six, leaving behind 
 him the reputation of great but wasted talents. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 27 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1809-1826. 
 
 Birth of Edgar Poe. — Adoption by Mr. Allan. — His Resi- 
 dence in Scotland. — Return Home. — School Days in 
 Richmond. — Professor Clarke's Account. — Col. Pres- 
 ton's Reminiscences. — Poe's Precocious Talents. — f 'TiiE 
 Most Distinguished School-boy in Richmond." — His 
 Youthful Accomplishments, etc. 
 
 DGAR POE, the second son of David Poe, Jr., 
 was born in Boston on the 19th of January, 
 1809, while his parents were filling a theatrical 
 engagement in that city. When he was five weeks old, 
 they returned to their home in Baltimore at General Poe's, 
 who had long before been reconciled to his son. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Poe always carried their children with them in 
 their professional visits through the country, and much 
 of Edgar's infancy was passed in the green-room. His 
 beauty and brightness made him the pet of the actors and 
 of all who saw him. The death of his parents, and his 
 adoption by the Allans, wrought a complete change in 
 the circumstances of little Edgar's existence. From a 
 life of poverty he passed to a home of luxury. In Mrs. 
 
2 8 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 Allan, he found the love of a mother ; in Mr. Allan, the 
 indulgence, if not the affection, of a father. The former 
 petted and caressed the beautiful boy ; the latter spoiled 
 him by showing him off to strangers, by gratifying his 
 every whim, by pampering his childish desires, and by 
 encouraging his proud, imperious spirit. 
 
 Mr. Allan was accustomed to spend the summer at the 
 White Sulphur Springs. . It was even then the fashionable 
 resort of all that was best and brightest in the fair land 
 of the South. Summer after summer, the gayety and 
 fascination of Southern life and Southern manners were 
 transferred to the magnificent mountains of Virginia ; 
 thither went the planter from South Carolina, Mississippi, 
 and Louisiana ; the business and professional man from 
 New Orleans, Charleston, and Richmond, and gentlemen 
 of fortune from the whole South, taking with them their 
 charming wives and daughters. Edgar accompanied 
 Mr. and Mrs. Allan to the White Sulphur in the summers 
 of 1812, '13, '14, and '15. There are several persons 
 now living in Richmond, who remember seeing him 
 there in those years. They describe him as a lovely little 
 fellow, with dark curls and brilliant eyes, dressed like a 
 young prince, and charming every one by his childish 
 grace, vivacity, and cleverness. His disposition was 
 frank, affectionate, and generous, and he was very popu- 
 lar with his young companions. 
 
 In the summer of 18 16, Mr. and Mrs. Allan visited 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 29 
 
 their early home in Scotland, taking Edgar with them. 
 He was left with a maiden sister of Mrs. Allan's, who 
 lived in that country, while they passed two years in Eng- 
 land and on the continent. It was in Scotland that 
 Edgar Poe's education began, and during those two years 
 he mastered the elementary branches of English, and 
 learned the rudiments of Latin. Even in those childish 
 days, he possessed a remarkable memory, a memory which, 
 like Byron's, was "wax to receive and marble to retain/' 
 
 In the year 1818, the Allans returned to their home in 
 Richmond, accompanied by Edgar, who was now a rosy- 
 faced boy in his ninth year. A few weeks after their 
 return, Mr. Allan placed Edgar Poe in the Academy of 
 Professor Joseph H. Clarke, of Trinity College, Dublin, 
 who kept an English and classical school in Richmond 
 from 1816 to 1823. Professor Clarke, who is now living 
 in Baltimore, at the venerable age of eighty-six, has fur- 
 nished me with the following highly interesting account 
 of Poe's school-days : 
 
 "In September, 18 18, Mr. John Allan, a wealthy 
 Scotch merchant, residing in Richmond, brought to my 
 school a little boy between eight and nine years old. 
 'This is my adopted son, Edgar Poe,' Mr. Allan said. 
 1 His parents were burned to death when the theater was 
 destroyed. The little fellow has recently returned from 
 a residence of two years in Scotland, where he has been 
 studying English and Latin. I want to place him under 
 
30 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 your instruction/ I asked Edgar about his Latin. He 
 said he had studied the grammar as far as the regular 
 verbs. He declined penna, domus, fructus, and res, I 
 then asked him whether he could decline the adjective 
 bonus. I was struck by the way in which he did it : he 
 said bonus, a good man ; bona, a good woman ; bonum, a 
 good thing. Edgar Poe was five years in my school. 
 During that time he read Ovid, Caesar, Virgil, Cicero, 
 and Horace in Latin, and Xenophon and Homer in 
 Greek. He showed a much stronger taste for classic 
 poetry than he did for classic prose. He had no love for 
 mathematics, but his poetical compositions were univer- 
 sally admitted to be the best in the school. While the 
 other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote genu- 
 ine poetry : the boy was a born poet. As a scholar, he 
 was ambitious to excel, and although not conspicuously 
 studious, he always acquitted himself well in his classes. 
 He was remarkable for self-respect, without haughtiness. 
 In his demeanor toward his playmates, he was strictly just 
 and correct, which made him a general favorite, even with 
 those who were older than he was. His natural and pre- 
 dominant passion seemed to me to be an enthusiastic ardor 
 in everything he undertook. In any difference of opinion 
 which occurred between him and his fellow students, he 
 was very tenacious in maintaining his own views, and 
 would not yield until his judgment was convinced. He 
 had a sensitive and tender heart, and would do anything 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 3 1 
 
 to serve a friend. His nature was entirely free from self- 
 ishness, the predominant quality of boyhood. 
 
 ' ' Even in those early years, Edgar Poe displayed the 
 germs of that wonderfully rich and splendid imagination, 
 which has placed him in the front rank of the purely 
 imaginative poets of the world. His school-boy verses 
 were written con amove, and not as mere tasks. When he 
 was ten years old, Mr. Allan came to me one day with a 
 manuscript volume of verses, which he said Edgar had 
 written, and which the little fellow wanted to have pub- 
 lished. He asked my advice upon the subject. I told 
 him that Edgar was of a very excitable temperament, that 
 he possessed a great deal of self-esteem, and that it would 
 be very injurious to the boy to allow him to be flattered 
 and talked about as the author of a printed bock at 
 his age. That was the first and last I heard of it. The 
 verses, I remember, consisted chiefly of pieces addressed to 
 the different little girls in Richmond, who had from time 
 to time engaged his youthful affections. [Some of these 
 juvenile productions may have been incorporated in Poe's 
 first volume of poems, which was published at Boston, in 
 1824, called, l< C A1 Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems. 
 By a Virginian." The lines "To Helen," written at the 
 early age of thirteen, first appeared in this volume. The 
 classic beauty of this piece placed it among the most ex- 
 traordinary juvenile poems in all literature.] 
 
 "To the best of my recollection, the names of his 
 
32 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 classmates were Robert Mayo, now a conspicuous lawyer 
 in Virginia ; Channing Moore (son of Bishop Moore, of 
 Virginia), now an Episcopal clergyman in New York ; 
 Peter V. Daniel, Jr. ; John Forbes; Nathaniel and William 
 Howard ; John Brokenborough, son of Judge B. ; and Col- 
 onel John S. L. Preston, of the Virginia Military Institute." 
 Colonel Preston furnishes the following additional par- 
 ticulars of Poe's school-days in Richmond : ' ' As a scholar, 
 Poe was distinguished specially in Latin and French. In 
 the former he was equaled, but not surpassed, by Nathan- 
 iel Howard, his friend and rival ; but in poetical com- 
 position, Poe was facile princeps. I was the boy confidant 
 of the boy poet, whose verses excited my enthusiastic ad- 
 miration. While his many accomplishments captivated 
 my young heart, he also took a fancy to me, and sub- 
 mitted his juvenile poems to me, and condescended to ask 
 my critical opinion of them, although he was several years 
 my senior. Poe was the swiftest runner, the best boxer, 
 and the most daring swimmer at Clarke's school. Indeed, 
 his swimming feats at the Great Falls of the James River 
 were not surpassed by the more celebrated feat of Byron 
 in swimming from Sestos to Abydos. Edgar Poe was a 
 generous, free-hearted boy, kind to his companions, and 
 always ready to assist them with his hand and head ; but 
 fierce in his resentments, and eager for distinction." The 
 Nathaniel Howard alluded to by Colonel Preston was af- 
 terward one of the ripest scholars and most profound law- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 33 
 
 vers of Virginia. He was killed at the fall of the Capitol in 
 Richmond, April, 1870. 
 
 At the close of the summer session of 1S23, Professor 
 Clarke removed from Richmond. Upon this occasion, 
 young Howard wrote a Latin ode, after the style of the 
 "O jam Satis" of Horace; while Edgar Poe addressed 
 the retiring professor in English verse, expressing his feel- 
 ings in the true language of poetry. 
 
 After the departure of Professor Clarke from Richmond, 
 Mr. William Burke took his school and most of his schol- 
 ars, and among them Edgar Poe. Mr. Andrew Johnston, 
 in a letter dated Richmond, April 29, 1876, gives the fol- 
 lowing particulars of Poe at that school : 
 
 "I went to school at Mr. Burke's on the 1st of Octo- 
 ber, 1823, and found Edgar A. Poe there. I knew him 
 before, but not well, there being two, if not three, years 
 difference in our ages. We went to school together all 
 through 1824 and the early part of 1825. Some time in 
 the latter year (I cannot recollect at what time exactly) 
 he left the school. For a considerable part of the time, 
 Poe was in the same class with Colonel Joseph Selden, 
 Dr. William H. Howard (I give their subsequent titles), 
 Mr. Allies C. Selden, and myself. Poe was a much more 
 advanced scholar than any of us; but there was no other 
 class for him — that being the highest — and he had no- 
 thing to do, or but little, to keep his headship of the 
 class. I dare say he liked it well, for he was fond of 
 
34 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 desultory reading, and even then wrote verses, very clever 
 for a boy of his years, and sometimes satirical. We all 
 recognized and admired his great and varied talents, and 
 were proud of him as the most distinguished school-boy 
 of the town. At that time, Poe was slight in person and 
 figure, but w r ell made, active, sinewy, and graceful. In 
 athletic exercises he was foremost : especially, he was the 
 best, the most daring, and most enduring swimmer that 
 I ever saw in the water. When about sixteen years old, 
 he performed his well-known feat of swimming from 
 Richmond to Warwick, a distance of five or six miles. 
 He was accompanied by two boats, and it took him sev- 
 eral hours to accomplish the task, the tide changing 
 during the time. In dress he was neat but not foppish. 
 His disposition was amiable, and his manners pleasant 
 and courteous." 
 
 After leaving Burke's school, in March, 1825, Mr. Allan 
 placed Edgar Poe under the best private tutors, in order 
 to prepare him for college. He devoted himself almost 
 exclusively to the classics, modern languages, and belles- 
 lettres. He also carefully read the best English authors 
 in prose and poetry. Richmond, fifty years since, was 
 celebrated for its polished society. In this society, Edgar 
 Poe was early welcome — a boy in years, but a man in 
 mind and manners. The refined grace and courtesy 
 toward women that ever distinguished him may have 
 been thus acquired in the best society of the polite little 
 capital of Virginia. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 1827-1831 . 
 
 Enters the University of Virginia. — His Life there. — 
 Statement of Mr. Wertenbaker.— A Successful Stu- 
 dent. — Publishes "Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor 
 Poems." — First meets Mrs. Clemm and Virginia. — Poe 
 at West Point. 
 
 PilR. ALLAN certainly gave Edgar Poe the advan- 
 tages of a first-rate education. The petted and 
 precocious boy was now an accomplished youth 
 of seventeen, fully prepared to enter college. The Uni- 
 versity of Virginia — which, with the Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence, stand as enduring monuments of the genius 
 and patriotism of Thomas Jefferson — was opened for the 
 reception of students in the spring of 1825. The new 
 seat of learning soon became the favorite resort of the 
 most distinguished young men of Virginia, Maryland, 
 and other Southern States. Mr. Allan determined to 
 send Edgar to the University of Virginia. William Wer- 
 tenbaker, Esq,, the Librarian of the University (to which 
 position he was appointed by Mr. Jefferson, in 1825), has 
 
$6 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 furnished me with an interesting account of Poe's college 
 career, from which I make the following extracts : 
 
 "Edgar A. Poe entered the University of Virginia, Feb- 
 ruary i st, 1826, and remained until the 15th of December 
 of the same year. He entered the schools of ancient 
 and modern languages, attending the lectures on Latin, 
 Greek, French, Spanish, and Italian. I was myself a 
 member of the last three classes, and can testify that he 
 was regular in attendance, and a very successful student, 
 having obtained distinction at the final examination in 
 Latin and French. This was at that time the highest 
 honor a student could obtain, the present regulations in 
 regard to degrees not having been then adopted. Under 
 existing regulations, Mr. Poe would have graduated in the 
 two languages above mentioned, and have been entitled 
 to diplomas. 
 
 "As Librarian, I had frequent official intercourse with 
 Mr. Poe. The following are the names of some of 
 the books which he borrowed from the college library : 
 'Histoire Ancienne/ par Eollin ; 'Histoire Romaine ; ' 
 Robertson's ' America ; ' Marshall's ' Life of Wash- 
 ington ; ' 'Histoire Particuliere " ^Voltaire; Dufief's 
 1 Nature Displayed/ It will gratify the many admirers 
 of Poe to know that his works are more in demand and 
 more read than those of any other author, American or 
 foreign, now in the library. 
 
 "Mr. Poe was certainly not habitually intemperate 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. $J 
 
 during the time he was at the university. I often saw 
 him in the lecture-room and in the library, but never 
 in the slightest degree under the influence of intoxicating 
 liquors. Among the professors he had the reputation of 
 being a sober, quiet, and orderly young man. To them 
 and to the officers, his deportment was universally that 
 of an intelligent and polished gentleman. The records of 
 the university, of which I was then, and am still, the cus- 
 todian, attest that, at no time during the session, did he 
 fall under the censure of the Faculty. 
 
 "I remember spending a pleasant hour in Mr. Poe's 
 room one cold night in December, a short time before he 
 left the university. On this occasion, he spoke with re- 
 gret of the large amount of money he had wasted, and 
 of the debts he had contracted during the session. If 
 my memory is not at fault, he estimated his indebtedness 
 at two thousand dollars, and though they were gaming 
 debts, he was earnest and emphatic in the declaration that 
 he was bound by honor to pay, at the earliest opportunity, 
 every cent of them/' 
 
 The room-mate and most intimate friend of Poe at the 
 university was the late Judge Thomas S. Gholson, of 
 Petersburg, Va. Among his other classmates were the 
 Hon. R. M. T. Hunter, formerly United States Senator, 
 and now Treasurer of Virginia ; General George Mason 
 Graham, of King. George County, Va. ; Judge William 
 Loving, of Louisville, Ky ; Dr. Orlando Fairfax, of Rich- 
 
38 - LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 mond, Va. ; William M. BurweH, of New Orleans; George 
 H. Hoffman, Esq., of Philadelphia; Philip St. George 
 Ambler, Esq., of Amherst County, Va. ; General John S. 
 Preston, of South Ca-rolina ; Judge Henry Shackleford, of 
 Culpepper County, Va. ; Ex-Governor Thomas Swann, of 
 Maryland ; the late Judge Z. Collins Lee, of Baltimore ; 
 Dr. William A Spotswood, of Virginia, and a score of 
 others still living. 
 
 Poe was liberally supplied with money while at the 
 university, but he had never been taught its value, and, 
 consequently, he spent it recklessly and extravagantly. 
 Goldsmith, whose heart was "open as day to melting 
 charity," said of himself that he had been taught to give 
 away thousands before he had learned to earn hundreds. 
 Poe had been allowed — almost encouraged — to throw 
 away thousands before he was eighteen. When a mere 
 boy, his little purse was filled with gold dollars, while the 
 other boys were glad to have silver quarters. 
 
 In the winter of 1826-7, Poe returned to Richmond 
 from the university, bringing with him the reputation of 
 great scholarship and great extravagance. The latter rep- 
 utation was brilliantly maintained, for we hear of cham- 
 pagne suppers, and elegant suits of clothes in abund- 
 ance. Edgar Poe was, at this time, the gayest, hand- 
 somest, and most dashing young man in Richmond ; the 
 peer and companion of the Mayos, Randolphs, Prestons, 
 and other aristocratic vounor men of Virginia. His 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 39 
 
 distinguished talents, fascinating conversation, polished 
 manners, and presumptive wealth (for Mr. Allan's for- 
 tune had been recently increased by the death of a wealthy 
 uncle, and Edgar Poe was to be the heir of his adopted 
 father), made him a welcome visitor in the best society of 
 Richmond. 
 
 But Poe's time was not wholly passed in the gay pleas- 
 ures of fashionable life. He was ambitious, and looked 
 to something higher, nobler, than mere social distinction. 
 He studied much and read more ; nor was he satisfied 
 with being only an admirer of the writings of others. He 
 determined to be himself a writer — a poet ; to place his 
 name in the literature of his country — in the literature of 
 the world. Early in 1829 we find Poe in Baltimore, with 
 a manuscript volume of verses, which in a few months 
 was published in a thin octavo, bound in boards, crim- 
 son sprinkled, with yellow linen back. The title of the 
 book was, " Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems. 
 By Edgar A. Poe. Baltimore : Hatch & Dunning. 1829.''' * 
 The Peabody Library of Baltimore has a copy of this 
 rare volume, which I have carefully examined. It num- 
 bers seventy-one pages. On the sixth page is the Dedica- 
 tion : "Who drinks the deepest? Here's to him." "-A1 
 Aaraaf" is printed the same as now, except eight unim- 
 
 * It was printed by Matchett & Woods, who have printed the- Baltimore City 
 Directory for nearly half a century. Hatch & Dunning were two young men 
 from New York who started in Baltimore with a small capital. After a year or 
 two they disappeared. 
 
40 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 portant verbal changes. " Tamerlane," which is dedicated 
 to John Neal, is preceded by an advertisement, as follows : 
 " This poem was printed for publication in Boston, in the 
 year 1827, but suppressed through circumstances of a 
 private nature." There is only one word changed in the 
 whole poem. After "Tamerlane" follow nine miscel- 
 laneous poems, all of which, with the exception of the 
 first and part of the eighth, are in the last edition of Poe's 
 works. The first of these miscellaneous poems consists 
 
 of four stanzas, and is headed "To ." It has never 
 
 been reprinted in full, but the third stanza contains the 
 germ of " A Dream within a Dream." 
 
 I have failed to discover that this volume attracted any 
 attention either in Baltimore or elsewhere, although it 
 will scarcely be questioned that it contained thoughts 
 and sentiments and verses which are far superior to any- 
 thing in Byron's early poems. Indeed, the delicate, airy 
 grace and musical rhythm of a portion of " Al Aaraaf" 
 give a bright promise of that wonderful metrical sweetness 
 which pre-eminently distinguishes Poe's poetry. 
 
 But if Edgar Poe made neither money nor fame by this 
 little volume, it resulted in an acquaintance, a friendship, 
 and a love, which contributed more to his happiness than 
 either money or fame could have done. It was during 
 this visit to Baltimore that he saw, for the first time since 
 his infancy, his aunt, Mrs. Maria Clemm, who was to be 
 his devoted friend through life, and his most enthusiastic 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. FOE. 4 1 
 
 defender after his death. Mrs. Clemm — the daughter of 
 General Poe, who had spent his fortune in the cause of 
 American Independence, and the wife of William Clemm, 
 who had bravely fought for his city, State, and country — 
 was compelled to earn a living by teaching school. It 
 was at this time, also, that Edgar Poe first saw his cousin, 
 Virginia Clemm, a lovely, delicate girl of seven ; " the fair 
 and gentle young Eulalie, who became his blushing bride " 
 — his Ligeia, his beautiful one — his Annabel Lee, "whom 
 he loved with a love that was more than love " — his lost 
 Lenore ! 
 
 It is not to be presumed that Edgar Poe had any inten- 
 tion of adopting the life of a professional author when he 
 published "AlAaraaf." He was, at that time, the heir 
 presumptive of Mr. Allan's fortune — thirty thousand dol- 
 lars a year — with every present want gratified, and his future 
 apparently secure. But, even while on this visit to Balti- 
 more, the beginning of the end of all his fair prospects 
 was approaching. Toward the end of February he was 
 summoned back to Richmond, by the alarming illness of 
 Mrs. Allan. He hastened to obey the sad summons, for 
 he loved his adopted mother with all the warmth of his af- 
 fectionate nature. But, alas ! he was never again to see that 
 kind, motherly face ; never again to hear that sweet, gentle 
 voice. Communication, in those days, between Baltimore 
 and Richmond was slow, and before he arrived, Mrs. 
 Allan was dead and buried. Edsrar felt keenly the loss of 
 
42 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 his earliest friend. He mourned her long and sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 The death of Mrs. Allan caused no immediate change 
 in Poe's life ; Mr. Allan continued his friend, so far as 
 food, clothing, and shelter went. But he missed that 
 tender solicitude, that affectionate interest, which Mrs. 
 Allan was ever ready to bestow. 
 
 When Edgar Poe had reached his twenty-first year, Mr. 
 Allan — who very properly thought that a young man, how- 
 ever great his expectations might be, should adopt a pro- 
 fession — had a serious talk with him upon this important 
 subject. Poe expressed a distaste both for the dry drudg- 
 ery of the law, and for the laborious life of a physician. 
 The gay, dashing, daring life of a soldier seemed to pos- 
 sess a peculiar fascination for the high-spirited, chivalrous 
 youth, and he told Mr, Allan that, of all the professions, 
 he preferred the army. Mr. Allan was delighted at his 
 choice, and immediately went to work to secure his ap- 
 pointment to West Point. Recommended by Chief Jus- 
 tice Marshall, John Randolph, General Scott, and other 
 influential friends, the appointment was easily obtained. 
 A handsome outfit was furnished by Mr. Allan, and on 
 the ist of July, 1830, Edgar A. Poe entered West Point 
 as a cadet. He was perhaps the most brilliant and gifted, 
 but the least creditable cadet that ever entered the Mili- 
 tary Academy. He was in the very first bloom of that 
 remarkable beauty of face and form, which neither study, 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 43 
 
 nor trouble, nor poverty, nor sorrow ever destroyed. Dark, 
 hyacinthine hair fell in graceful curls over his magnifi- 
 cent forehead, beneath which shone the most beautiful, 
 the most glorious of mortal eves. His figure was slight, 
 but elegantly proportioned ; his bearing was proud and 
 fearless. 
 
 The young cadet soon discovered that the life of a 
 soldier was not all so couleur de rose as his bright fancy had 
 pictured it. The severe studies, the severe discipline, the 
 morning drill, the evening parade, the guard duty, were 
 each and all distasteful to the young poet, whose heart 
 was glowing with high hopes, whose soul was full of a 
 noble ambition. He turned with delight from military 
 tactics to peruse the tuneful pages of Virgil ; he neglected 
 mathematics for the fascinating essays of Macaulay, which 
 were just then beginning to charm the world ; he escaped 
 from the evening parade to wander along the romantic 
 banks of the Hudson, meditating his musical "Israfel," 
 and, perhaps, planning " Ligeia ; or, the Fall of the House 
 of Usher." 
 
 The result of his study and meditation appeared in the 
 winter of 1831, when he published, under the title of 
 "Poems, by Edgar A. Poe," seven new poems, together 
 with "AlAaraaf*" and " Tamerlane, " from the edition 
 of 1829, omitting all the others. These seven new poems 
 consisted of the exquisite lines "'To Helen," "Israfel," 
 "The Doomed City'" (afterward improved, and called 
 
44 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 "The City in the Sea"), " Fairyland" (which retains its 
 name only), "Irene" (afterward remodeled into "The 
 Sleeper"), "A Paean" (four verses of which were incor- 
 porated in ' ' Lenore "), and ' ' The Valley of Nis " ( " The 
 Valley of Unrest "). The book was dedicated to the 
 United States Corps of Cadets, an honor which the cadets 
 did not deserve, for they " considered the verses ridicu- 
 lous doggerel." The world has pronounced a different 
 verdict. 
 
 After Poe had been at West Point six months, the rigid 
 rules became so intolerable that he asked permission of 
 Mr. Allan to resign. This was peremptorily refused. 
 Within a year after the death of his first wife, Mr. Allan 
 married Louise Gabrielle Patterson, of New Jersey, and, 
 a son being born,* Edgar Poe was no longer the heir of 
 the five thousand acres of land in Goochland County, Vir- 
 ginia, of hundreds of slaves, of real estate in Richmond, 
 of bank and State stock, .the whole amounting to five 
 hundred thousand dollars. In money matters, Mr. Allan 
 
 * Mr. Allan had three children by his second wife : John, the eldest, married 
 Henrietta Hoffman, the only child of William Henry Hoffman, Esq., of Balti- 
 more. At the commencement of the late civil war, John Allan entered the Con- 
 federate Army, and was killed at Gettysburg, July 3, 1863, while commanding a 
 Virginia regiment. The second son, "William, married his brother's widow ; he 
 died in 1868, and his wife died in 1870. Mrs. Henrietta Allan had two children 
 by her first husband, Hoffman and Louise Gabrielle, They are living with 
 their grandmother in Richmond. Patterson Allan, the third son, married a lady 
 of Cincinnati, who was banished from Richmond, by Jefferson Davis, as a Union 
 spy. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 45 
 
 had always treated, his adopted son with the utmost gen- 
 erosity. But he had now other claimants to his fortune, 
 and he wished to give Edgar Poe an honorable profession, 
 which would afford him a regular support for life. Hence 
 his refusal to allow him to leave West Point — consent of 
 father or guardian being required before a cadet could 
 resign. But Poe was determined to get away from West 
 Point, with or without Mr. Allan's consent. So he com- 
 menced a deliberate and systematic neglect of duty and 
 disobedience of rules : he cut his classes, shirked the 
 drill, and refused to do guard duty. The desired result 
 followed ; on the 7th of January, 1831, Edgar A. Poe 
 was brought before a general court-martial, under the 
 charge of " gross neglect of all duty, and disobedience of 
 orders." The accused promptly pleaded "Guilty" and, 
 to his great delight, was sentenced " to be dismissed the ser- 
 vice of the United States." The sentence was duly approved 
 at the War Department, and carried into effect March 6, 
 1831. 
 
 Several of Poe's cotemporaries at West Point after- 
 ward distinguished themselves. Among others, Colonel 
 Henry Clay, Jr., who fell, gallantly fighting, at Buena 
 Vista; Major-General A. A. Humphreys, Chief of Engi- 
 neers, U. S. A.; Major-General William H. Emory, of 
 Maryland ; General Randolph B. Marcy, of Massachu- 
 setts ; General Francis H. Smith, President of the Vir- 
 ginia Military Institute ; General Humphrey Marshall, 
 
46 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 of Kentucky ; Major-General John G. Barnard, of Mas- 
 sachusetts ; the late General Tench Tilghman, President 
 of the Maryland Society of the Cincinnati ; Colonel Lu- 
 cius Bellinger Northrop, of South Carolina, Commissary 
 General of the late Confederate Army ; Colonel Bliss, 
 afterward private secretary of President Taylor ; Colonel 
 George B. Crittenden, of Kentucky ; Colonel George H. 
 Ringgold, of Maryland ; Major Philip M. Barbour, of 
 Kentucky, killed at the battle of Monterey, and several 
 others. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 1831-1833. 
 
 Poe leaves Mr. Allan's House. — Removes to Baltimore. — 
 Mrs. Clemm Receives Him. — Virginia, His Pupil. — His 
 Studies. — Mode of Life.— Adopts the Literary Pro- 
 fession. — Tales of the Folio Club. — Gains the Prize 
 Offered by The Saturday Visitor. 
 
 R. ALLAN received Edgar Poe very coldly when 
 he returned to Richmond from West Point. 
 He was disappointed and disgusted that the 
 young man's military career had terminated so unfortu- 
 nately ; he was exasperated that the wayward youth had 
 thrown away so fine an opportunity of establishing him- 
 self for life. So no feast was prepared, no fatted calf was 
 killed, no friends were gathered to welcome the prodigal 
 home. Mr. Allan gave him a home, indeed ; but it was 
 no longer the home of his infancy — no longer the home 
 of his happy boyhood, and of his brilliant youth. He 
 was tolerated, that is all. No longer the petted child, 
 whose word was law ; no longer the presumptive heir of 
 half a million ; but an unwelcome guest, whose presence 
 was deemed an intrusion. The haughty spirit of Edgar 
 
48 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 Poe felt keenly the great change ; to be scarcely tolerated 
 in the house where he had once reigned supreme was 
 agony to his proud, sensitive nature. This was the be- 
 ginning of that "intolerable sorrow/' which crushed, 
 conquered, and finally broke his brave, noble heart. 
 This was the commencement of that " unmerciful dis- 
 aster " which " followed fast and followed faster," until 
 " Melancholy marked him for her own," and the " dirges 
 of his Hope" sang forever the sad refrain of "never 
 more." 
 
 The Allan family have never vouchsafed any explana- 
 tion of the cause of the final separation between Mr. 
 Allan and Edgar Poe. If the latter had been in fault, is 
 it not reasonable to suppose that such a fact would have 
 been long since published to the world ? For nearly 
 twenty years Edgar had been the idolized child of the 
 house ; caressed by Mrs. Allan, indulged by Mr. Allan. 
 Mrs. Allan dies, Edgar goes to West Point ; he returns, 
 and finds all things changed in the old Fifth Street house. 
 Another Mrs. Allan is there. We all know the influence 
 of a second wife upon a fond, doting old husband. In 
 this case the influence of the beautiful young wife was 
 immediate and permanent. It began with the marriage, 
 and ended only with the death of Mr. Allan. Edgar 
 Poe felt its effects more than any one else. His extrav- 
 agance at the university was forgiven, but his escapade at 
 West Point was not to be tolerated. Why ? Because the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 49 
 
 first Mrs. Allan was his friend, and the second Mrs. Allan 
 was not. She, very naturally, wanted the Allan money 
 for the Allan children, who now began to make their an- 
 nual appearance. Mrs. Susan Archer von Weiss, in a 
 letter before me, dated Richmond, Virginia, June 6th, 
 1876, after saying she was a "confidant of Mr. Poe's, " 
 states that the cause of the quarrel between Allan and Poe 
 was "very simple and very natural under the circum- 
 stances — human nature considered — and completely ex- 
 onerates Mr. Poe from ingratitude to his adopted father!' 
 
 Whatever was the cause, the result was that, a few 
 months after his return from West Point, Edgar Poe 
 left Mr. Allan's house forever. Writing long years after 
 to one who possessed his entire confidence, he said : 
 "By the God who reigns in heaven, I swear to you that 
 my soul is incapable of dishonor. I can call to mind no 
 act of my life which would bring a blush to my cheek or 
 to yours. If I have erred at all, in this regard, it has 
 been on the side of what the world would call a Quixotic 
 sense of the honorable — of the chivalrous. The indul- 
 gence of this sense has been the true voluptuousness of 
 my life. It was for this species of luxury that in early 
 youth I deliberately threw away from me a large fortime, 
 rather than endure a trivial wrong. " 
 
 Like Adam, when expelled from Paradise, Edgar Poe 
 (though his late home had been for some time anything 
 but a Paradise to him) had now all the world before him 
 3 
 
50 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 where to choose his place of rest. Remembering the 
 affectionate interest which his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, had 
 manifested toward him when he met her in 1829, Edgar 
 went to Baltimore, and sought out this, his nearest rela- 
 tive. Mrs. Clemm was poor, but poor as she was, she 
 gave her " Eddie " (as she always called him) a home — 
 a home humble, indeed, in a worldly sense, but rich in 
 love. Soon after his removal to Baltimore, in the early 
 summer of 1831, Poe, not wishing to be dependent upon 
 his aunt, sought diligently for some employment by which 
 he could earn a living. Dr. N. C. Brooks (who was, in 
 1838-9, editor of the , Baltimore Museum, a magazine in 
 w r hich appeared some of Poe's best tales) informed me 
 that about this time (1831), Edgar Poe applied for a posi- 
 tion in his school, then recently started at Reisterstown, 
 in Baltimore County. Dr. Brooks regretted there was 
 no vacancy, for he knew that Poe was an accomplished 
 scholar. 
 
 In 1 83 1-2, Mrs. Clemm lived on Cove (now Fremont) 
 Street. An intimate friend of Poe's* has furnished an inter- 
 esting description of his life and studies at this time ; his 
 dress, personal appearance, habits, conversation, are all 
 minutely given. This gentleman was in the habit of see- 
 ing Poe daily, for weeks at a time. They took long and 
 frequent walks together in the beautiful, undulating country 
 
 * L. A. Wilmer, author of "The Quacks of Helicon," etc. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 5 1 
 
 around Baltimore. Their conversation was generally upon 
 literary topics, and Poe expressed his opinion freely and 
 forcibly upon all writers, from Shakespeare down to the last 
 aspirant for poetical fame. He never could be made to 
 bow to the world's opinion. The very fact that an author 
 possessed the world's good opinion was sufficient for him 
 to condemn that author. He knew that a few self-ap- 
 pointed critics formed what is called the world's opinion. 
 He knew that these would-be critics praised Wordsworth 
 and ridiculed Keats. Poe frankly confessed that he had 
 "no faith in Wordsworth;" he spoke with "reverence 
 of Coleridge's tow r ering intellect and gigantic power ; " 
 pronounced Byron's "English Bards and Scotch Review- 
 ers" a "failure;" called Dr. Johnson "scurrilous," and 
 was one of the earliest admirers of Tennyson, at the time 
 when the English reviewers were neglecting him and prais- 
 ing the Rev. George Croly. 
 
 At this time, Edgar Poe was slender, but graceful in 
 person ; his hands and feet were as beautiful as a woman's. 
 His dress was faultlessly neat ; fashionable, but not fop- 
 pish. His disposition was affectionate, and he was ten- 
 derly devoted to his aunt and cousin. Virginia Clemm 
 was now an exquisitely beautiful girl ten years old, the 
 pupil, companion, and pet of her cousin Edgar. One 
 day, Edgar, Virginia, and Mr. Wilmer were walking in 
 the neighborhood of Baltimore, when they happened to 
 approach a grave-yard, where a funeral was in progress. 
 
52 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 Curiosity attracted them to the side of the grave, where 
 they stood among those who had accompanied the body 
 to the cemetery. Virginia's sensitive heart was so touched 
 by the grief of the stricken mourners, that she mingled 
 her tears with theirs. Her emotion communicated itself 
 to Edgar, and if his cruel defamers had seen him, at that 
 moment, weeping by a stranger's grave, they would not 
 have said of him that "he had no touch of human feeling 
 or of human pity, " that "he had no heart, " that ' ' he loved 
 no one but himself/' etc. 
 
 Poe was at this period constantly occupied in literary 
 work, either writing or studying. His favorite reading 
 was metaphysics, travels, and poetry. Disraeli was his 
 model as a novelist, Campbell his favorite poet, and Vic- 
 tor Cousin's "True, Beautiful, and Good," his favorite 
 work on metaphysics. 
 
 So. as early as 1832, Edgar Poe, with that noble confi- 
 dence which genius inspires, had adopted the literary 
 profession. He was the right man in the wrong place. 
 Baltimore, pre-eminently distinguished for the refined 
 tastes and polished manners of its people, has never been 
 a literary city. The names of the genial novelist, Ken- 
 nedy, the exquisite lyrist, Pinkney, and the accomplished 
 essayist, Calvert, filled the measure of Baltimore's literary 
 fame, until the name of Poe crowned it with immortal 
 glory. 
 
 During 1832-3, Poe was writing the "Tales of the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 53 
 
 Folio Club," comprising "The Descent into the Mael- 
 strom," "A Manuscript found in a Bottle/*' "Adventure 
 of Hans Pfaall," "A Tale of the Ragged Mountain/' 
 "Berenice/*' and "Lionizing." These were written with 
 the utmost care, pruned and re-pruned, polished and re- 
 polished, over and over again, until, when they left the 
 author's hands, they were as perfect as the gems that come 
 from the hands of a Roman lapidary. Difficult as had 
 been the writing of these tales, more difficult would have 
 been their publication, had not one of those opportuni- 
 ties occurred which seems to come to every person once 
 in a lifetime. 
 
 In the summer of 1833, the Baltimore Saturday Visitor 
 — a weekly literary journal, which had been started in 
 1832, under the editorial charge of L. A. Wilmer — offered 
 one hundred dollars for the best prose story, and fifty 
 dollars for the best poem. Poe submitted his "Tales of 
 the Folio Club," and his poem, "The Coliseum," in com- 
 petition for the prizes. The committee appointed to 
 award the prizes were the late Hon. John P. Kennedy 
 (author of "Horse-shoe Robinson,"'* etc.), and two other 
 professional gentlemen (a doctor and a lawyer), who pos- 
 sessed only a local repute. The "Tales of the Folio 
 Club" were so immeasurably superior to all the other 
 stories submitted, that the hundred- dollar prize was unan- 
 imously given to Edgar A. Poe, and the " Manuscript 
 found in a Bottle " was selected as the one to which the 
 
54 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 premium should be awarded. The poem sent in by Poe 
 has been admired by all readers as a magnificent tribute 
 to the grandeur and glory of the Coliseum. It was as su- 
 perior to the other " poems'' as the "Manuscript found 
 in a Bottle'' was superior to the other stories; but, having 
 awarded the hundred-dollar prize to Poe, it was deemed 
 expedient to bestow the fifty-dollar prize upon one of the 
 other competitors. So, having selected from the mass of 
 rubbish a "poem" a shade better than the rest, which 
 was written by an unknown local genius, the smaller 
 prize was awarded to him. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 55 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 1834-1836. 
 
 Poe BECOMES A Contributor to The Southern Literary Messen- 
 ger. — Marries Virginia Clemm.— Editor of The Messenger. 
 — His Brilliant Articles. — His Severe Criticisms. — 
 Social Position in Richmond. 
 
 DGAR POE was now upon the first step of the 
 ladder which leads ad as/ra. Like Goldsmith, 
 Shelley, Byron, Burns, and Keats, his literary 
 
 career was brief, and like theirs, his fame will be endur- 
 ing. He did not, like Lord Byron, "awake one morning, 
 and find himself famous.'"' He had to fight his way to 
 recognition, through toil, poverty, and suffering. 
 
 John P. Kennedy was neither a great lawyer, great 
 novelist, nor great statesman ; but his kindness to Poe will 
 embalm his name forever in the memory of all lovers of 
 genius. Of the three gentlemen composing the commit- 
 tee, he alone extended a helping hand to the poor young 
 poet ; he alone interested himself in the career of the am- 
 bitious young author. He invited Poe to his house, made 
 him welcome at his table, and furnished him with a sad- 
 dle-horse, that he might take exercise whenever he pleased. 
 
56 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 He did more : he introduced his protege to the proprietor of 
 The Southern Literary Messenger, then recently started at 
 Richmond, and recommended him as being "very clever 
 with his pen, classical, and scholar-like." Mr. F. W. 
 White, the proprietor of The Messenger, invited Poe to 
 send in a contribution. He was delighted to comply with 
 the request. In the number for March, 1835, appeared 
 his strangely beautiful story, " Berenice, " which attracted 
 immediate attention. From that time Poe became a reg- 
 ular monthly contributor to The Messenger, furnishing 
 tales, poems, and criticisms with marvelous rapidity, 
 when we consider their exquisite finish. 
 
 It is pleasant to quote, from one of Edgar Poe's letters, 
 written to Mr. White at this time, two passages, which show 
 that he possessed, in a remarkable degree, the' very two 
 virtues which have been denied him, viz., gratitude and 
 humility. He had written a critique of John P. Ken- 
 nedy's novel, "Horse-shoe Robinson/' and, apologizing 
 for the hasty sketch he sent, instead of the thorough re 
 view which he intended, he says : "At the time, I was so 
 ill as to be hardly able to see the paper on which I wrote, 
 and I finished it in a state of complete exhaustion. I 
 have not, therefore, done anything like justice to the book, 
 and I am vexed about the matter, for Mr. Kennedy has 
 proved himself a kind friend to me in every respect, and 
 I am sincerely grateful to him for many acts of generosity and 
 attention!' In the same letter, in answer to Mr. White's 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 57 
 
 query, whether he was satisfied with the pay he was re- 
 ceiving for his work on "The Messenger, Poe wrote : "I 
 reply that lam, entirely. My poor services are not worth 
 what you give me for themJ\ 
 
 For four years Edgar Poe had been engaged in the 
 most delightful of occupations — the instruction of a 
 beautiful girl, singularly interesting and truly loved. For 
 four years, Virginia — his starry-eyed young cousin — had 
 been his pupil. Never had teacher so lovely a pupil, 
 never had pupil so tender a teacher. They were both 
 young ; she w T as .a child. 
 
 " But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 Of those who were older than we." 
 
 Under the name of Eleonora, Edgar tells the story of 
 their love in the Valley of the Many-colored Grass. He 
 describes the "sweet recesses of the vale ; " the "deep 
 and narrow river, brighter than all, save the eyes of Eleo- 
 nora ; " the "soft, green grass, besprinkled with the yel- 
 low buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the 
 ruby-red asphodel " — all so beautiful that it ' c spoke to 
 our hearts of the love and glory of God." Here they 
 " lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without 
 the valley — /, and my cousin, and her mother" "The 
 loveliness of Eleonora was that of the seraphim, and she 
 was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had 
 led among the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of 
 love which animated her heart," etc. 
 
58 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 As soon as his prospects began to brighten, and his 
 regular employment on The Messenger gave him a fixed 
 income, Edgar, with the enthusiastic ardor of his race, 
 wanted to marry his cousin Virginia, although she was 
 only in her fourteenth year. Late in the summer of 1835, 
 he was offered the position of assistant editor of The Mes- 
 senger, at a salary of five hundred dollars per annum. He 
 gladly accepted the offer, and prepared to remove to 
 Richmond immediately. Before leaving Baltimore, he 
 persuaded Mrs. Clemm to allow him to marry Virginia, 
 and on the 2d of September, 1835, tne ) T were married, at 
 old Christ Church, by the Rev. John Johns, D. D., after- 
 ward the Protestant Episcopal Bishop of Virginia. The 
 next day he went to Richmond, and did not see his darl- 
 ing little wife for a year, when she and her mother joined 
 him in that city. 
 
 Poe felt most painfully the separation from "her he 
 loved so dearly." For years Virginia had been his daily, 
 his hourly companion and confidant. Like Abelard and 
 Heloise, they had one home and one heart. He had 
 watched her young mind's development ; he had seen 
 her grow each year more lovely, more winning, more in- 
 teresting. And now, when his most cherished wish was 
 realized, by the sweet girl becoming his wife, he was 
 two hundred miles away from her. In the first days of 
 this separation, he wrote Mr. Kennedy a letter (dated 
 Richmond, September 11, 1835), in which, after express- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 59 
 
 ing a deep sense of gratitude for frequent kindness and 
 assistance, he says : 
 
 " I am suffering under a depression of spirits such as 
 I have never felt before. I have struggled in vain against 
 the influence of this melancholy ; you will believe me 
 when I say that I am still miserable, in spite of the great 
 improvement in my circumstances. My heart is open 
 before you ; if it be worth reading, read it. Write me 
 immediately ; convince me that it is worth one's while — 
 that it is at all necessary — to live, and you will prove 
 yourself indeed my friend. Persuade me to do what is 
 right. I do mean this. Write me, then, and quickly. 
 Your words will have more weight with me than the 
 words of others, for you were my friend when ?io one else 
 was. " 
 
 In December, 1835, Poe was made editor of The Mes- 
 senger. Under his editorial management, the work soon 
 became w r ell known everywhere. Perhaps no similar en- 
 terprise ever prospered so largely in its commencement, 
 and none, in the same length of time — not even Black- 
 wood, in the brilliant days of Dr. Maginn, ever published 
 so many dazzling articles from the same pen. Strange 
 stories of the German school, akin to the most fanciful 
 legend of the Rhine, fascinating and astonishing the reader 
 with the verisimilitude of their improbability, appeared in 
 the same number with lyrics plaintive and wondrous 
 sweet, the earliest vibration of those chords which have 
 
60 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 since sounded through the world. But it was in the edi- 
 torial department of The Messenger that Poe's great powers 
 were most conspicuously displayed. He was the most 
 consummate critic that ever lived. Woe to the unlucky 
 author who offended by a dull book. His powerful pen 
 was as much feared by the poetasters and literary dances 
 of forty years ago, as Pope's brilliant wit had been feared 
 a century before by Theobald and the other heroes of the 
 "Dunciad." 
 
 Within a year after Poe assumed control of The Messen- 
 ger, its circulation had increased from seven hundred to 
 five thousand, and, from a mere provincial magazine in 
 1835, it had become in 1836 a magazine of national 
 reputation, occupying a commanding position in American 
 literature. 
 
 Edgar Poe had left Richmond less than five years be- 
 fore, "a youth to fortune and to fame unknown." He 
 returned, and, assuming the editorship of The Messenger, 
 the leading periodical of the South, by his original and 
 brilliant contributions, he made his name known in all 
 the land as an exquisitely delicate poet, a fearless critic, 
 and an accomplished literary artist. Slander had been 
 whispered, nay, proclaimed aloud against him ; abuse 
 had been heaped upon him ; malice had invented lies to 
 blacken his name. He was too proud to defend himself 
 from such attacks. He was too true a gentleman to 
 exonerate himself at the expense of a lady, although that 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 6 1 
 
 lady had been the. primary cause of his separation from 
 Mr. Allan, and, consequently, of his loss of fortune. 
 
 His domestic life in Richmond, after Mrs. Clemm and 
 Virginia joined him. was sweet and pure and true. He 
 was devoted to his beautiful child-wife, and she idolized 
 her gifted husband. To gratify her taste for music, he 
 had her taught by the best masters, although his salary 
 could scarcely afford the expense. But he cheerfully 
 denied himself many little personal comforts for her sake. 
 Airs. Clemm was the [Martha of the little household, pro- 
 viding the food, and sometimes cooking it ; keeping 
 everything neat and tidy and inviting. Their home fully 
 illustrated Goethe's saying that beauty is cheap where taste 
 is the purchaser. 
 
 While conducting The Messenger, Poe's time was so 
 fully occupied that he seldom went into general society. 
 Indeed, from this time forward, he mingled little in what 
 is called the gay world. The society of cultivated women 
 was always attractive to him. That he now enjoyed at 
 the Alackenzies, Daniels, Macfarlands, Fairfaxes, Haxalls, 
 Amblers, and two or three other houses, that formed a 
 delightful literary coterie in Richmond forty years ago. 
 
 
62 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 1837-8- 
 
 Poe Removes to New York. — Becomes Associate Editor of 
 the New York Quarterly Review. — Literary Labors. — Pri- 
 vate Life. — Virginia's Loveliness. — Poe Writes " The 
 Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym." — Removes to Phil- 
 adelphia. — His Home there. — His Opinion of Washing- 
 ton Irving. — Mrs. Clemm. 
 
 ERHAPS the happiest period of Edgar Poe's life 
 was the last year that he was the editor of The 
 Southern Literary Messenger. At the early age 
 of twenty-six, he had made a brilliant reputation ; he 
 was married to the sweet girl Virginia ; he was young 
 and hopeful ; his life was full of bright promise ; his 
 noble brow — as white as a girl's, and as beautiful as a 
 god's — had not been clouded by suffering and sorrow ; 
 his "sweet, imperious mouth" had not caught the expres- 
 sion of lofty scorn which contact with a false and hollow 
 world made habitual in his later years. 
 
 In January, 1837, Poe was offered the position of asso- 
 ciate editor of the New York Quarterly Review. As the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 6$ 
 
 salary was larger than he received on The Messenger, and 
 New York was a far wider field for a professional litterateur 
 than the provincial little city of Richmond, he accepted 
 the offer. Mr. White, the proprietor of The Messenger, 
 parted with him with much regret, and, in the number 
 of the magazine which had the announcement of Poe's 
 retirement, promised that he would "continue to furnish 
 its columns from time to time with the effusions of his 
 vigorous and powerful pen/ 7 He never relinquished his 
 early interest in The Messenger, but wrote occasionally for 
 it as long as he lived. As some of his earliest, so some 
 of his latest writings were first published in that maga- 
 zine. 
 
 In the winter of 1837, Poe and his little family removed 
 to New York. Mrs. Clemm endeavored to add to their 
 small income by taking boarders. Among the latter was 
 the late William Gowans, the well-known second-hand 
 bookseller, who has furnished a brief but interesting ac- 
 count of Poe's life at this time. He says : 
 
 "For eight months or more one house contained us, 
 and one table fed us. I saw much of Mr. Poe during 
 that time, and had an opportunity of conversing with him 
 often. He was one of the most courteous, gentlemanly, 
 and intelligent companions I ever met. I never saw him 
 in the least affected by liquor, or descend to any known 
 vice. He kept good hours, and all his little wants were 
 attended to by Mrs. Clemm and her daughter, who 
 
64 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 watched him as carefully as if he had been a child. Mrs. 
 Poe was a lady of matchless beauty and loveliness ; her 
 eyes could match those of any houri, and her face defy 
 the genius of any Canova to imitate ; her temper and 
 disposition were of a surpassing sweetness, and she 
 seemed as much devoted to him and his every interest 
 as a young mother is to her first born/'' 
 
 Poe's contributions to the New York Quarte?'ly Review 
 were chiefly critiques of current literature. They dis- 
 played his extraordinary force as a critic, his elegant 
 scholarship, and his immense reading. As they were 
 very unsparing in exposing the literary pretenders of the 
 day, Poe made many enemies by his criticisms, enemies 
 who nursed their wrath and kept it warm until • he was 
 cold in his grave ; then safely poured and continue to pour 
 their venomous slander upon his memory. 
 
 In The Southern Literary Messenger, for January and 
 February, 1837, appeared the first portions of "The Nar- 
 rative of Arthur Gordon Pym." It attracted much atten- 
 tion while running through The Messenger, and it was 
 afterward published in book form, both in this country 
 and in England, where it went through three editions in 
 a very short time. It is not considered, however, one of 
 Poe's most successful productions, and is not now read 
 with half the interest that "William Wilson/' " Ligeia," 
 " The Murders in the Rue Morgue," and " The Fall of 
 the House of Usher '" are read. These wonderful tales — 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 65 
 
 more artistic than Hoffmann's, more circumstantial than 
 DeFoe's — display a richness of imagination, and a beauty 
 of style which have made Edgar Poe peerless in that pecu- 
 liar department of fictitious literature. 
 
 Our poet's first residence in New York lasted from early 
 in the winter of i S3 7 to late in the summer of 1838, 
 when he removed to Philadelphia. Soon after his arrival 
 in the latter city he was requested, by his old friend, Dr. 
 N. C. Brooks, to write the leading article for the first 
 number of The American Museum, a monthly magazine, 
 about to be started by Dr. Brooks, in Baltimore. The 
 subject suggested was "Washington Irving." Dr. Brooks 
 received the following reply : 
 
 "Philadelphia, September 4, i{ 
 
 "My Dear Sir: 
 
 ' ' I duly received your favor, with the ten dollars. 
 Touching the review, I am forced to decline it just now. 
 I should be most unwilling not to execute such a task 
 well, and this I could not do at so short a notice, at least 
 now. I have two other engagements which it would be 
 ruinous to defer. Besides this, I am just leaving Arch 
 Street for a small house, and, of course, am somewhat in 
 confusion. 
 
 " My main reason, however, for declining is what I first 
 alleged, viz., I could not do the review well at short notice. 
 It is a theme upon which I would like very much to write, 
 
66 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 for there is a vast deal to be said upon it. Irving is much 
 overrated^ and a nice distinction might be drawn between 
 his just, and surreptitious, and adventitious reputation ; 
 between what is due to the pioneer solely, and what to the 
 writer. 
 
 ' ' The merit, too, of this tame propriety and faultless- 
 ness of style should be candidly weighed. He should be 
 compared with Addison, something being hinted about 
 imitation, and Sir Roger De Coverley should be brought 
 up in judgment. A bold and a-priori investigation of 
 Irving's claims would strike home, take my word for it. 
 The American literary world never saw anything of the 
 kind yet. Seeing, therefore, the opportunity of making 
 a fine hit, I am unwilling to risk your fame by a failure ; 
 and a failure would certainly be the event were I to under- 
 take the task at present. 
 
 " Suppose you send me the proof of my article. I look 
 anxiously for the first number of The Museum, from which 
 I date the dawn of a fine literary day in Baltimore. 
 
 " After the 15th, I shall be more at leisure, and will be 
 happy to do you any literary service in my power. You 
 have but to hint. 
 
 "Very truly yours, 
 
 "Edgar A. Poe." 
 
 The article, of which Poe desired the "proof," was 
 " Ligeia." It was published in the first number of The 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 6j 
 
 Museum, September, 1838. In this magazine, Poe also 
 published his clever satirical sketch, "The Signora Psyche 
 Zenobia," "Literary Small Talk/' and the dainty, airy 
 "Haunted Palace/'' 
 
 Poe resided most of the time, while in Philadelphia, at 
 Spring Garden, a suburb of the city. Captain Mayne 
 Reid, who became acquainted with him at this time, 
 wrote a most delightful description of his home and 
 family. The house was small, but furnished with much 
 taste ; flowers bloomed around the porch, and the sing- 
 ing of birds was heard. It seemed, indeed, the very home 
 for a poet. " In this humble domicile," says Mayne Reid, 
 "I have spent some of the pleasantest hours of my life — 
 certainly, some of the most intellectual. They were 
 passed in the company of the poet himself and his wife — 
 a lady angelically beautiful in person, and not less beau- 
 tiful in spirit. No one who remembers that dark-eyed, 
 dark-haired daughter of the South ; her face so exqui- 
 sitely lovely ; her gentle, graceful demeanor ; no one who 
 has ever spent an hour in her society, but will indorse 
 what I have said of this lady, who was the most delicate 
 realization of the poet's rarest ideal. But the bloom 
 upon her cheek was too pure, too bright for earth. It 
 was consumption's color — that sadly beautiful light that 
 beckons to an early grave. 
 
 "With the poet and his wife there lived another person — 
 Mrs. Clemm. She was the mother of Mrs. Poe — and one 
 
68 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 of those grand American mothers. She was the ever-vigi- 
 lant guardian of the house, watching over the comfort of 
 her two children, keeping everything neat and clean, so 
 as to please the fastidious eyes of the poet ; going to 
 market, and bringing home the little delicacies that their 
 limited means would allow ; going to publishers with a 
 poem, a critique, or a story, and often returning with- 
 out the much-needed money." This is a very pleasing 
 glimpse at the home life of our poet, and all the more 
 valuable, coming, as it does, spontaneously from a for- 
 eigner. Such scenes show more truly a man's real char- 
 acter than volumes of human analysis. 
 
 Perhaps it will be as well to give just here a few per- 
 sonal particulars which Mrs. Clemm furnished me, and 
 which I took down in short-hand at the time : ' ' Eddie 
 had no idea of the value of money. I had to attend to 
 all his pecuniary affairs. I even bought his clothes for 
 him ; he never bought a pair of gloves or a cravat for 
 himself; he never would calculate; he was very chari- 
 table, and would empty his pockets to a beggar. He 
 loved Virginia with a tenderness and a devotion which no 
 words can express, and he was the most affectionate of 
 sons to me." 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 69 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 1838-1842. 
 
 Editor of The Gentleman's Magazine. — Small Salary. — Pub- 
 lishes " Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque." — 
 Editor of Grahams Magazine. — Poe's Critical Ability. — 
 His Wonderful Intuition. — " The Murders in the Rue 
 Morgue." — " The Mystery of Marie Roget." — Poe's 
 Reputation Abroad. — French Admiration of His Ge- 
 nius. — Poe's Opinion of Dickens. — Prospectiye Notice 
 of "Barnaby Rudge." — Wants a Clerkship at Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 |OON after his removal to Philadelphia, Poe was 
 engaged as a contributor upon The Gentleman s 
 Magazine, which was owned by William E. 
 Burton, the comedian. He drew immediate attention to 
 the magazine by his powerful criticisms, and strange, 
 fascinating tales. Among the latter was "The Fall of 
 the House of Usher," which is considered by most readers 
 Poe's masterpiece in imaginative fiction ; but he gave that 
 preference to "Ligeia." "Both have the unquestionable 
 stamp of genius. The analysis of the growth of madness 
 in one, and the thrillinsr revelations of the existence 
 
JO LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 of a first wife in the person of a second, in the other, 
 are made with consummate skill ; and the strange and 
 solemn and fascinating beauty, which informs the style 
 and invests the circumstances of both, drugs the mind, 
 and makes us forget the impfobabilities of their general . 
 design." In 1839 these and other romantic creations of 
 his peerless imagination were published in two volumes, 
 under the title of "Tales of the Grotesque and Ara- 
 besque/' by Lee & Blanchard, of Philadelphia. Hence- 
 forth, in this department of imaginative composition, Poe 
 was "alone and unapproachable." 
 
 Burton was so well satisfied with Poe's contributions 
 to The Gentleman s Magazine that in May, 1839, he ap- 
 pointed him its editor-in-chief. For two hours' work 
 every day, the editor received ten dollars a week — very 
 paltry pay for a man of Poe's reputation and genius ; there 
 are scores of editors in this country to-day, who, not pos- 
 sessing half of his reputation, or any of his genius, are 
 twice as well paid. But American writers, thirty and 
 forty years ago, were not paid so well as American scrib- 
 blers are now paid. Poe's duties upon The Gentleman s 
 Magazine left him plenty of time for other literary work. 
 He was always a most industrious writer ; never idle, 
 never lounging ; when not engaged upon a critique, he 
 was writing a tale or a poem. 
 
 In the autumn of 1840, Mr. Burton sold The Gentle- 
 man's Magazine to George R. Graham, owner of The 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 7 1 
 
 Casket ; the two periodicals were merged into one, and 
 published under the name of Graham s Magazine. Poe 
 was retained as the editor of the new magazine. Under 
 his management it soon reached an extensive circulation ; 
 in fact, the circulation, which was five thousand when 
 he took charge of it in November, 1840, was more than 
 fifty thousand when he retired in November, 1842. In 
 Grahanis Magazine he continued his merciless exposure 
 of the dunces, which he had so savagely begun five years 
 before in The Southern Literary Messenger. The small 
 poetasters fell before his powerful pen as surely and as 
 completely as the summer grass before the scythe of the 
 mower. They fell to rise no more. Commonplace peo- 
 ple — and they are the vast majority of mankind — think (if 
 they are capable of thinking upon any subject) that Ed- 
 gar Poe took a savage delight in impaling these would-be 
 poets upon the point of his critical pen ; whereas the truth 
 is, that there was no personal feeling at all in the matter. 
 But his love of the beautiful was so exquisite that a false 
 meter, an inelegant phrase, or an imperfect image was 
 perfect torture to him ; hence his severe criticisms. His 
 taste was fastidious — faultless : his judgment unerring ; 
 his decision final. He was among the first to proclaim 
 the genius of Mrs. Browning (then Miss Barrett) to the 
 world ; and when he collected his poems into a volume, 
 the book was dedicated to her, as "To the noblest of her 
 sex, with the most enthusiastic admiration, and with the most 
 
7 2 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 sincere esteem." His estimate of Hawthorne, of Willis, 
 of Halleck, was eminently just. He placed Longfellow, 
 in 1846, the first among American poets; the place which, 
 in 1876, Poe himself holds, in the opinion of the lead- 
 ing scholars of England, France, and Germany. He was 
 the first to introduce to American readers the then un- 
 known poet, Tennyson, and boldly declared him to be 
 "the noblest poet that ever lived/' at a time when the 
 English critics had failed to discover the genius of the 
 future Poet Laureate. 
 
 Poe's reputation was much increased by the publication, 
 in the April (1841) number of Graham's Magazine, of the 
 extraordinary, analytical story, ' ' The Murders in the Rue 
 Morgue," which introduced him for the first time to 
 French readers, and, also, made his name conspicuous in 
 the French courts. The tale was dressed up to suit the 
 French palate by a Paris Bohemian, and published in 
 i( Le Commerce, as an original story, under the name of 
 " L'Orang Otang." Not long afterward, another French 
 journal, La Quotidienne, published a translation of the story 
 under another name. Thereupon Le Steele charged La 
 Quotidienne with having stolen the said feuilleton from one 
 previously published in Le Commerce, This led to a war 
 of words between the editors of La Quotidienne and Le 
 Steele. The quarrel became so warm that it was car- 
 ried to the law courts for settlement, where the aforesaid 
 Bohemian proved that he had stolen the story from Mon- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 7 3 
 
 sieur Edgar A. Poe, an American writer. It was proved, 
 also, that the writer in La Quotidieiine was himself an im- 
 pudent plagiarist, for he had taken Monsieur Poes story 
 without a word of acknowledgment ; whilst the editor of 
 Le Steele was forced to admit that not only had he never 
 read any of Poe's works, but had not even heard of him. 
 The public attention having been thus directed to Poe, his 
 best tales were translated by Madame Isabelle Mennier, 
 and published in several French magazines. The leading 
 French journals united in bestowing upon our author the 
 highest praise for the extraordinary power and ingenuity 
 displayed in these tales. Later, Charles Baudelaire, hav- 
 ing, by years of studious application, thoroughly imbued 
 his mind with the spirit of Edgar Poe's prose writings, 
 his translation of them was published in 1864-5, m ^ ve 
 1 2mo volumes, by Michel Levy et Freres, of Paris. Poe 
 is among the very few, perhaps it may be said, that he is 
 the only American author who is really popular in France. 
 That he has become a standard and classic writer there 
 is, in a great measure, owing to the patient industry of 
 Baudelaire. 
 
 Poe followed the " Murders in the Rue Morgue ' ,; by 
 the " Mystery of Marie Roget/'" in which the scene of the 
 mysterious murder of a cigar girl, named Alary Rogers, 
 in the vicinity of New York, was transferred to Paris, and, 
 by a wonderful train of analytical reasoning, the mystery 
 that surrounded the affair was completely disentangled. 
 4 
 
74 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 These, and a succeeding story, "The Purloined Letter/' 
 are the most ingenious tales of ratiocination in the Eng- 
 lish language. It may be an interesting piece of informa- 
 tion that Monsieur G , the Prefect of the Parisian Po- 
 lice, who is mentioned in these stories, was Monsieur 
 Grisquet, for many years Chief of the Paris Police, who 
 died in the month of February, 1866. 
 
 But perhaps the most successful and most skillful of 
 Poe's efforts at ratiocination was that in which he pointed 
 out what must be the plot of Dickens's celebrated novel, 
 ' ' Barnaby Rudge, " when only the beginning of the story 
 had been published. In the Philadelphia Saturday Even- 
 ing Post, of May 1, 1841, Poe printed what he called a 
 " prospective notice " of the novel, in which he used the 
 following words : 
 
 "That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not ap- 
 pear evident to our readers; but we will explain: The 
 person murdered is Mr. Reuben Haredale. His steward 
 (Mr. Rudge, Senior) and his gardener are missing. At 
 first both are suspected. ' Some months afterward,' in the 
 language of the story, ' the steward's body, scarcely to be 
 recognized but by his clothes and the watch and ring he 
 wore, was found at the bottom of a piece of water in the 
 grounds, with a deep gash in the breast, where he had 
 been stabbed by a knife,' etc., etc. 
 
 "Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who 
 asserts that the stewards body was found ; he has put the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 75 
 
 words in the mouth of one of his characters. His design 
 is to make it appear in the denouement that the steward, 
 Rudge, first murdered the gardener, then went to his 
 master's chamber, murdered him, was interrupted by his 
 (Rudge's) wife, whom he seized and held by the wrist, to 
 prevent her giving the alarm ; that he then, after possessing 
 himself of the booty desired, returned to the gardener's 
 room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse 
 his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was after- 
 ward discovered at so late a period that the features could 
 not be identified/' 
 
 Readers who are familiar with the plot of " Barnaby 
 Rudge " will perceive that the differences between Poe's 
 preconceived ideas and the actual facts of the story are 
 very immaterial. Dickens expressed his admiring appre- 
 ciation of this analysis of " Barnaby Rudge." He would 
 not have expressed the same appreciation of Poe's opinion 
 of him, when reviewing the completed novel. At the 
 time when Charles Dickens was the most popular writer 
 in the world, Edgar Poe (who could never be made to 
 bow his supreme intellect to any idol) boldly declared 
 that he " failed peculiarly in pure narrative," pointing out, 
 at the same time, several grammatical mistakes of the great 
 Boz. He also showed that Dickens "occasionally lapsed 
 into a gross imitation of what itself is a gross imitation — the 
 manner of Lamb — a manner based in the Latin construc- 
 tion. Poe further showed that Dickens's great success as a 
 
76 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 novelist consisted in the delineation of character, and 
 that those characters were grossly exaggerated caricatures 
 — all of which is now generally admitted ; but it required 
 considerable courage to proclaim such an opinion at the 
 time when Poe proclaimed it. 
 
 While Poe was editor of Grahams Magazine, his restless 
 spirit grew tired of the " endless toil " of editorial life, 
 and he endeavored to secure more certain and more re- 
 munerative employment. His intimate friend and life- 
 long correspondent, William F. Thomas, of Baltimore, 
 author of "Clinton Bradshaw, " and other novels of some 
 note forty years ago, had obtained a Government clerk- 
 ship at Washington. In the year 1842, Poe wrote to Mr. 
 Thomas, expressing a wish to get a similar position, say- 
 ing that he "would be glad to get almost any appoint- 
 ment — even a five hundred dollar clerkship — so that I 
 have something independent of letters for a subsistence. 
 To coin one's brain into silver, at the nod of a master, is, 
 I am thinking, the hardest task in the world." At the 
 conclusion of the letter he says he hopes some day to have 
 a " beautiful little cottage, completely buried in vines and 
 flowers." How fortunate for the world that Edgar Poe 
 failed to secure " even a five hundred dollar clerkship" ! 
 Had he settled down to the dull routine of official life, he 
 would probably not have written "The Raven," "Eu- 
 reka," "Ulalume," "The Literati of New York," and 
 other works which adorn American literature. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 i842-i8\5. 
 
 Poe's Tender Devotion to his Wife. — He Retires from Gra- 
 ham's Magazine. — Protects The Stylus. — "The Gold Bug." 
 — Removal to New York. — Literary Editor of The Mir- 
 rer. — The Broadzvay Journal. — New York Literary Soci- 
 ety. — Poe its Brightest Ornament. 
 
 VIRGINIA POE'S health, which had always been 
 delicate, became still more precarious toward 
 the autumn of 1842. Friends and foes alike 
 
 agree in testifying to Edgar Poe's tender devotion to his 
 darling wife, "in sickness and in health/' The most 
 unrelenting of his enemies alludes to the fact of having 
 been sent for to visit him "during a period of illness, 
 caused by protracted and anxious watching at the side of 
 his sick wife." Mr. George R. Graham, in a generous de- 
 fense of the dead poet, said, ' ' I shall never forget how 
 solicitous of the happiness of his wife and mother-in-law 
 he was, whilst editor of Graham s Jfagazine. His whole 
 efforts seemed to be to procure the comfort and welfare 
 of his home. . . . His love for his wife was a sort 
 
J 8 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 of rapturous worship of the spirit of beauty which he felt 
 was fading before his eyes. I have seen him hovering 
 around her, when she was ill, with all the fond fear and 
 tender anxiety of a mother for her first-born ; her slight- 
 est cough causing in him a shudder, a heart-chill that 
 was visible. I rode out one summer evening with them, 
 and remembrance of his watchful eyes, eagerly bent upon 
 the slightest change of hue in that loved face, haunts me 
 yet as the memory of a sad strain. It was this hourly 
 anticipation of her loss that made him a sad and thought- 
 ful man, and lent a mournful melody to his undying 
 song." Similar language is used by all who were acquaint- 
 ed with the poet and his family. 
 
 In November, 1842, Poe retired from Graham's Maga- 
 zine. His reputation as the most brilliant editor in 
 America ; his fame, as a poet and writer of purely imagi- 
 native fiction, extending to England and over the conti- 
 nent, made him feel the very natural ambition of having 
 a magazine of his own — a magazine in which he would 
 be perfectly untrammeled; in which he could " let loose 
 the dogs of war" upon literary pretenders even more 
 fiercely than he had hitherto been allowed to do. With ' 
 this view, early in 1843 ne projected a magazine, to be 
 called The Stylus. The prospectus was written, printed, 
 and circulated ; contracts were made for contributions 
 and illustrations ; the day was fixed for the appearance of 
 the first number. Failing to secure in advance a sufrl- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 79 
 
 cient number of subscribers to put the magazine upon a 
 paying footing, the enterprise was temporarily abandoned, 
 to be taken up again and again until the close of Poe's 
 life. The prospectus of The Stylus announced the inten- 
 tion of affording a fair and honorable field for the true 
 intellect of the land, without reference to the mere prestige 
 of celebrated names. It further declared that the chief 
 purpose of The Stylus was to become known as a journal 
 wherein might be found at all times a sincere and a fear- 
 less opinion, preserving always an absolutely independent 
 criticism, acknowledging no fear save that of outraging 
 right. Such a magazine, with Edgar A. Poe for its edi- 
 tor, would have been the most brilliant specimen of peri- 
 odical literature that this country has ever seen. But it 
 was never to be. Poe was destined to disappointment 
 through life. His was the too common lot of genius : to 
 work for the pecuniary benefit of others during life, and 
 to be rewarded by an immortality of glory after death. 
 
 Every production of Poe's pen was now welcomed with 
 eager expectation by all cultivated readers. There was a 
 vigor, a brilliancy, an originality about his writings in 
 delightful contrast with the dreary platitude of most of 
 the writers of the time. No tales, weak as a third cup 
 of boarding-house tea — no verses, diluted echoes of Keats 
 and Byron — no critiques, full of meaningless praise — 
 came from his powerful pen. 
 
 In the spring of 1843, P° e obtained the hundred-dollar 
 
80 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 prize offered by The Dollar Magazine, of Philadelphia, 
 for the best prose story. "The Gold Bug" was the tale 
 that won the prize. This tale, which relates to the dis- 
 covery of Captain Kyd's long-buried treasure, displays a 
 remarkably skillful illustration of Poe's celebrated theory, 
 that human ingenuity can construct no enigma which 
 human ingenuity cannot, by proper application, resolve. 
 The chief interest centers upon the solution of an ab- 
 struse cryptogram. 
 
 In the autumn of 1844, Edgar Poe removed with his 
 family to New York. Soon after establishing himself in 
 the metropolis, he was employed by Messrs. Morris & 
 Willis as the literary critic and assistant editor of The 
 Mirror, a daily newspaper. Fortunately the late N. P. 
 Willis, one of the owners and editors of the paper, wrote 
 an account of Poe in this connection, which affords a 
 very attractive glimpse at our poet. Mr. Willis says that 
 "he [Poe] was at his desk in the morning from nine 
 o'clock until the evening paper went to press. He was 
 invariably punctual, and industrious, and good humor- 
 edly ready for any suggestion. We love'd the man for 
 the entireness of the fidelity with which he served us. 
 With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a re- 
 minder of what genius was in him, it was impossible not 
 to treat him always with deferential courtesy. To our 
 occasional request that he would not probe too deep in a 
 criticism, or that he would erase a passage too highly 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 8l 
 
 colored with his resentments against society and man- 
 kind, he readily and courteously assented — far more 
 yielding than most men, we thought, on points so ex- 
 cusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in 
 another periodical, he gave up his employment with us ; 
 and, through all this considerable period (five or six 
 months), we had seen but one presentment of the man — 
 a quiet, patient, industrious, and most gentlemanly per- 
 son, commanding the utmost respect and good feeling 
 by his unvarying deportment and ability.' 7 
 
 The other periodical, in which he was to take the lead, 
 was The Broadway Journal, a weekly paper which had 
 been started in New York early in January, 1845. In 
 March of that year Poe became associate editor of the 
 journal, and one-third owner. From its start, The Broad- 
 way was a dying concern, and when Poe became its sole 
 editor in July, it was in the last stage of journalistic 
 decay. His vigorous contributions, however, kept it alive 
 for six months longer. Upon looking over the volumes 
 • of the journal, I was astonished to find so many and such 
 elaborate articles from Poe's pen, at the very time, too, 
 when his adored wife was sick, almost dying, and when 
 he himself was in ill health, poor, and harassed by cares 
 and troubles of all kinds. 
 
 Poe's brilliant literary reputation admitted him to the 
 most cultured society of New York, where his fascinating 
 conversation, his distinguished appearance, and elegant 
 4* 
 
82 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 manners delighted every one who made his acquaintance. 
 In the winter of 1845-6, he was frequently present among 
 the artists and men of letters, who assembled weekly at 
 the residence of Miss Anna C. Lynch, in Waverley Place. 
 An accomplished woman, who met him at this time, says : 
 " His manners at these reunions were refined and pleas- 
 ing, and his style and scope of conversation that of a gen- 
 tleman and a scholar. He delighted in the society of supe- 
 rior women, and had an exquisite perception of all graces 
 of manner and shades of expression. He was an admiring 
 listener, and an unobtrusive observer. We all recollect 
 the interest felt at the time in everything emanating from 
 his pen ; the relief it was from the dullness of ordinary 
 writers ; the certainty of something fresh and suggestive. 
 His critiques were read with avidity ; people felt their 
 ability and courage. Right or wrong, he was terribly in 
 earnest." Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman, whose name I 
 mention with the most enthusiastic admiration, in that 
 noble defense of her dead friend, " Edgar Poe and his 
 Critics," says : " Sometimes his fair young wife was seen 
 with him at these weekly assemblages in Waverley Place. 
 She seldom took part in the conversation ; but the mem- 
 ory of her sweet and girlish face, always animated and 
 vivacious, repels the assertion, afterward so cruelly and 
 recklessly made, that she died a victim to the neglect and 
 unkindness of her husband, " who," as it has been said, 
 ''deliberately sought her death, that he might embalm her 
 memory in immortal dirges." 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 83 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 1845. 
 
 1 The Raven.'' — Poe's Masterpiece.— The Extraordinary 
 Sensation Produced by it. — The Effect of the Poem 
 upon American Literature. — Poe's Analysis. — " The 
 Raven " Abroad. 
 
 j]E have now reached that period in the life of 
 Edgar A. Poe when his genius culminated in 
 the production of " The Raven," which stands 
 alone in poetry, as the Venus in sculpture and the Trans- 
 figuration in painting. 
 
 "The Raven " was originally published in The Ameri- 
 can Review — a Xew York Whig Journal of Politics, Liter- 
 ature, Art, and Science — in the number for February, 
 1845. Jt is rather remarkable that this poem, the master- 
 piece of Poe, should be the only composition of his pub- 
 lished under a nom deplume. It was headed, "The Raven, " 
 by Quarks, and introduced as follows: ff 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 
 
84 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 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 eve. The resources for Eng- 
 lish rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, 
 producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been 
 thoroughly studied, much ' more perceived, by very few 
 poets in the language. While the classic tongues, espe- 
 cially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several ad- 
 vantages for versification over our own, chiefly through 
 greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other and 
 very great advantages of sound by the modern usage of 
 rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind 
 which the ancients had in common with us. It will be 
 seen that much of the melody of ' The Raven ' arises 
 from alliteration, and the studious use of similar sounds 
 in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be 
 noted that, if all the verses were like the second, they 
 might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing 
 a not uncommon form ; but the presence in all the others 
 of one line — mostly the second in the verse — which flows 
 continuously, with only an aspirate pause in the # middle, 
 like that before the short line in the Sapphic Adonis, while 
 the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of sound 
 with any part beside, gives the versification an entirely 
 different effect." 
 
 This exquisite specimen of hypercritical criticism, made 
 up of words of " learned length and thundering sound," 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 05 
 
 is given as one of the curiosities of American literature. 
 The writer, no doubt, thought he was paying a high com- 
 pliment to "The Raven,'"'* when he kindly pronounced it 
 a "felicitous specimen of rhyming" Then his brilliant 
 suggestion in reference to placing the verses in "short 
 lines,'*'' reminds us irresistibly that the writer could not 
 have been long out of his short clothes. But the simple 
 fact that Edgar A. Poe was paid only ten dollars for a 
 poem that has brought more honor upon American liter- 
 ature than all the rest of American poetry combined, a 
 poem that has been proclaimed a masterpiece of genius 
 by the scholars of the world, is sufficient of itself to show 
 how incapable the editor of The America?! Review was of 
 appreciating the genius of "The Raven." For the re- 
 cently discovered early poem of Poe's, " Alone,'*' Scrib- 
 ?iers Magazine paid twice as much as Poe received for his 
 masterpiece. 
 
 It has been truly said that the first perusal of "The 
 Raven " leaves no distinct understanding, but fascinates 
 the reader with a strange and thrilling interest. It pro- 
 duces upon the mind and heart a vague impression of 
 fate, of mystery, of hopeless sorrow. It sounds like the 
 utterance of a full heart, poured out — not for the sake 
 of telling its sad story to a sympathizing ear — but because 
 he is mastered by his emotions, and cannot help giving 
 vent to them. It more resembles the soliloquies of Ham- 
 let, in which he betrays his stru^ling: thoughts and feel- 
 
86 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 ings, and in which he reveals the workings of his soul, 
 stirred to its utmost depth by his terrible forebodings. 
 
 An American scholar* has furnished the most admira- 
 ble critique of "The Raven" that has yet been given to 
 the world. After assigning to Poe a place in that illus- 
 trious procession of classical poets which includes the 
 names of Milton, Ben Jonson, Herrick, Shelley, and 
 Keats, he says of ' ■ The Raven " : " No poem in our 
 language presents a more graceful grouping of metrical 
 appliances and devices. The power of peculiar letters is 
 evolved with a magnificent touch ; the thrill of the liquids 
 is a characteristic feature, not only of the refrain, but 
 throughout the compass of the poem; their "linked 
 sweetness, long drawn out/' falls with a mellow cadence, 
 revealing the poet's mastery of those mysterious harmo- 
 nies which lie at the basis of human speech. The con- 
 tinuity of the rhythm, illustrating Milton's ideal of true 
 musical delight, in which the sense is variously drawn out 
 from one verse into another ; the alliteration of the Norse 
 minstrel and the Saxon bard ; the graphic delineation and 
 the sustained interest, are some of the features which 
 place ' The Raven ' foremost among the creations of a 
 poetic art in our age and clime/' 
 
 Edgar Poe was not one of those poets, like Addison, 
 "born to write and live with ease ;" but modern readers 
 
 * Professor Henry E. Shepherd, of Baltimore. 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 8 J 
 
 find Addison's " easy writing, hard reading." The truth 
 is that the affectation of easy writing is no longer in 
 fashion. It is now universally admitted that in poetry, as 
 in all other human pursuits, what is rare and valuable is 
 seldom obtainable without patient labor. "Genius is 
 patience," says the great Chateaubriand. There never 
 was a more patient genius than Edgar A. Poe. He be- 
 stowed both time and pains upon his work. After he had 
 planned "The Raven," a poem which few minds beside 
 his own could have conceived, he clothed it in a style 
 and language whose force and affluence have seldom, if 
 ever, been surpassed. Professor Shepherd, the American 
 scholar already quoted in this chapter, alludes with classic 
 beauty and grace to this subject of patience, when he says : 
 "The Athenian sculptor, in the palmiest days of Grecian 
 art, wrought out his loveliest conceptions by the painful 
 processes of unflagging diligence. The angel was not 
 evolved from the block by a sudden inspiration, or a bril- 
 liant flash of unpremeditated art. No finer illustration 
 of conscious art has been produced in our century than 
 ' The Raven.'" 
 
 Poe's own account of the composition of his master- 
 piece is one of the strangest revelations that any author 
 has ever given to the world ; indeed, it would be in- 
 credible if told by any other person than the poet him- 
 self. Setting out with the intention of composing a poem 
 that should suit at once the popular and the critical 
 
00 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 taste, and keeping originality always in view, the work 
 proceeded, says Poe, step by step to its completion, with 
 the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical 
 problem. One of Poe's peculiar theories being that a 
 long poem does not and cannot exist, he limited his 
 poem to one hundred and eight lines. He next con- 
 sidered the impression, or effect, to be produced, and 
 he declares that he kept steadily in view the design of 
 rendering the work universally appreciable. Regarding 
 beauty as the only legitimate province of the poem, and 
 sadness as the highest manifestation of its tone, he selected 
 the idea of a lover lamenting the death of his beautiful 
 beloved as the groundwork of the poem. He then be- 
 thought himself of some key-note, some pivot, upon 
 which the whole structure might turn, and decided upon 
 the refrain ; determining to produce continuously novel 
 effects by the variation of the application of the refrain, 
 the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried. 
 The next thing in order was to select a word which would 
 be in the 'fullest possible keeping with the melancholy 
 tone of the poem. The word " nevermore " was the very 
 first that presented itself. Then it was necessary to have 
 some pretext for the repetition of the one word " never- 
 more." The poet says he saw at once that it would not 
 do to put the monotonous word in the mouth of a human 
 being. Immediately the idea arose of a ^//-reasoning crea- 
 ture capable of speech, and very naturally a parrot, in the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 89 
 
 first instance, suggested itself; but was superseded forth- 
 with by a raven, as equally capable of speech, and infi- 
 nitely more in keeping with the intended melancholy tone. 
 
 Having, then, decided upon the rhythm of the poem, 
 the next point to be considered was the mode of bringing 
 together the lover and the raven. The poet determined to 
 place the lover in the chamber rendered sacred by memories 
 of her who had frequented it. The bird was next to be in- 
 troduced. The night was made tempestuous, to account 
 for the raven's seeking admission, and also for the effect 
 of contrast with the physical serenity within the chamber. 
 The bird was made to alight on the bust of Pallas, also 
 for the effect of contrast between the marble and the 
 plumage, the bust of Pallas being chosen as most in keep- 
 ing with the scholarship of the lover. 
 
 The poem then proceeds, in mournful but melodious 
 numbers, to the denouement, when we are told the soul of 
 the unhappy poet, from out the shadow of the raven, that 
 lies floating on the floor, shall be lifted neve?'??iore. 
 
 This is a mere outline of Poe's masterly analysis of his 
 most extraordinary poem. The world should be grateful 
 to our poet for his ' ' confidential disclosures " in regard to 
 "The Raven." With what delight would not the world 
 have welcomed Shakespeare's own account of the con- 
 ception and composition of "Lear," of "Macbeth," of 
 "Hamlet"! 
 
 It is a remarkable fact that ' ' The Raven, " the longest 
 
90 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 and most elaborate of all Poe's poems, is the only one 
 that was never changed or altered by the author. Several 
 editions were published during Poe's lifetime, but not a 
 stanza, not a line, not a word was changed ; as it was 
 first printed in The American Review, so it has ever been 
 printed. The author was satisfied with his work. 
 
 " The Raven " established Poe's fame as the most origi- 
 nal poet of America, and placed him in the front rank of 
 the poets of the world. The Edinburgh Review, in a very 
 harsh article, says: "'The Raven' has taken rank all 
 over the world as the very first poem yet produced on the 
 American Continent." This poem has been translated 
 into most of the modern and several of the ancient 
 languages. Stephane Mallarme, who has quite recently 
 translated and published a superbly illustrated edition of 
 ( ' The Raven " in Paris, sent Mrs. Whitman a copy of the 
 volume, and a highly appreciative letter, from which I 
 have been permitted to make the following extracts : 
 
 "Whatever is done to honor the memory of a genius 
 the most truly divine the world has seen, ought it not 
 first to obtain your sanction ? Such of Poe's works as our 
 great Baudelaire has left untranslated, this is to say, the 
 poems, and many of the critical fragments, I hope to make 
 known to France, and my first attempt ( ' The Raven ) 
 is intended to attract attention to a future work, now 
 nearly completed. . . . Fascinated with the works of 
 Poe from my infancy, it is already a very long time 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 9 1 
 
 since your name became associated with his in my ear- 
 liest and most intimate sympathies. " In a letter ad- 
 dressed to one of his relations in Baltimore, a few months 
 after the appearance of (; The Raven,/'' Edgar Poe alludes 
 with just pride to the renown which his poetical reputa- 
 tion had conferred upon the family name. A writer in 
 Tke Southern Literary Messenger declared, with equal truth 
 and beauty, that on the dusky wings of "The Raven. "' 
 Edgar A. Poe will sail securely over the gulf of oblivion 
 to the eternal shore. 
 
92 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 1846-1847. 
 
 Poe's Brilliant Reputation. — His Friends. — His Sweet 
 Home Life. — He Writes " The Literati of New York." 
 — Removes to Fordham. — Death of his Wife. 
 
 N the winter of 1845-6. the literary reputation of 
 Edgar A. Poe had attained its greatest brillian- 
 cy. During that time, he resided at 85 Amity 
 Street New York. A cousin of the poet, who visited him 
 that winter, has told me that Edgar, Virginia, and Mrs. 
 Clemm formed the happiest little family he had ever seen. 
 Edgar was sick at the time of this visit, and the visitor 
 was invited to his chamber. The poet was reclining on 
 a lounge, with Virginia and Mrs. Clemm in devoted at- 
 tendance upon him. A small table by his side held a 
 bouquet of sweet flowers, two or three books, and some 
 delicacies. Mrs. Osgood, Miss Anna Lynch, and Mrs. 
 Lewis called. Edgar Poe lying sick upon'his lounge was 
 the center of attraction. The conversation, in such com- 
 pany, naturally took a literary turn. The invalid poet 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 93 
 
 directed it, and all listened, enchanted by his low, musi- 
 cal voice, and the brilliant play of his imagination. 
 
 Poe's acquaintance with Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood 
 commenced soon after the publication of "The Raven." 
 That accomplished woman, a few weeks before her early, 
 death, wrote an account of their first meeting and subse- 
 quent intimacy. She says : ' ' My first meeting with the 
 poet was at the Astor House. A few T days previous, Mr. 
 Willis had handed me, at the table d'hote, that strange and 
 thrilling poem, ' The Raven/ Its effect upon me was 
 so singular, so like that of weird, unearthly music, that it 
 was with a feeling almost of dread I heard he desired an 
 introduction. I shall never forget the morning when I 
 was summoned to the drawing-room, by Mr. Willis, to 
 receive him. With his proud and beautiful head erect, 
 his dark eyes flashing with the electric light of feeling and 
 thought, a peculiar and inimitable blending of sweetness 
 and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me 
 calmly, gravely, almost coldly, yet with so sweet an ear- 
 nestness that I could not help being deeply impressed by 
 it. From that moment until his death we were friends. 
 Of the charming love and confidence that existed between 
 his wife and himself I cannot speak too earnestly, too 
 warmly. It was in his own simple yet poetical home 
 that, to me, the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its 
 most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty ; alter- 
 nately docile and wayward as a petted child ; for his 
 
94 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 young, gentle, and idolized wife, and for all who came, 
 he had, even in the midst of the most harassing literary 
 duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and 
 courteous attention. • At his desk, beneath the romantic 
 picture of his loved Lenore, he would sit, hour after 
 hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing in 
 an exquisitely clear chirography, and with almost super- 
 human swiftness, the lightning thoughts, the ' rare and 
 radiant' fancies, as they flashed through his wonderful and 
 ever-wakeful brain. I recollect one morning, toward 
 the close of his residence in New York, when he seemed 
 unusually gay and light-hearted. Virginia, his sweet 
 wife, had written me a pressing invitation to come to 
 them ■ and I, who never could resist her affectionate 
 summons, and who enjoyed his society far more in his 
 own home than elsewhere, hastened to Amity Street. 
 I found him just completing his series of papers entitled 
 'The Literati of New York/ 'See/ said he, display- 
 ing in laughing triumph several little rolls of narrow 
 paper (he always wrote thus for the press) ; ' I am going 
 to show you, by the difference of length in these, the dif- 
 ferent degrees of estimation in which I hold all you liter- 
 ary people. In each of these one of you is rolled up and 
 fully discussed. Come, Virginia, help me/ One by one 
 they unfolded them. At last they came to one which 
 seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one 
 corner of the room with one end, and her husband to 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 95 
 
 the other. 'And whose lengthened sweetness long drawn 
 out is that? ' said I. ' Hear her ! ' he cried, 'just as if her 
 vain little heart didn't tell her it's herself ! ' ' 
 
 In May, 1845, while still conducting The Broadway 
 Journal, Poe began his celebrated critical papers, "The 
 Literati of New York," in Coder's Lady's Book, of Phila- 
 delphia. The series commenced with George Bush, and 
 terminated with Richard Adams Locke, making thirty- 
 eight in all. The majority of these " literati " have long 
 since passed into merited oblivion. An immense impetus 
 was given to the Ladys Book by the publication of these 
 papers. People read it who had never read it before. 
 Poe caused as much terror among the literary pigmies as 
 Gulliver caused among the Lilliputian pigmies. As a 
 natural result of such unsparing criticism he made a 
 '"'' host of enemies among persons toward whom he enter- 
 tained no personal ill-will." " It was his sensitiveness to 
 artistic imperfections rather than any malignity of feeling 
 that made him so severe a critic." It has been suggest- 
 ed that an appropriate escutcheon for Edgar Poe would 
 have been the crest of Brian de Bois Gilbert — a raven in 
 full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and bearing the 
 motto, ' ' Gare le Corbeau" 
 
 As the spring of 1846 advanced, the health of Mrs. Poe 
 continued to decline, and fearing the effects of the pros- 
 trating summer heat of the city upon the feeble health of 
 the lovely and loved invalid, it was determined to remove 
 
96 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 to the country. The pretty little village of Fordham was 
 chosen for the home of the delicate wife. A tiny Dutch 
 cottage was rented. It was on the top of a picturesque 
 hill, a pretty, romantic spot ; the antiquated little house 
 was half buried in fruit trees. This new heme was small 
 enough, only boasting four rooms, two below and two 
 above ; but it was cool, quiet, and away from the noise 
 and vexations of New York. The parlor was used by 
 Poe as a study. Here he wrote "Ulalume," ''Eureka," 
 and other productions of his "lonesome latter years/' 
 This room was furnished with exquisite neatness and sim- 
 plicity. The floor was laid with red and white matting ; 
 four cane-seat chairs, a light table, a set of hanging book- 
 shelves, and two or three fine engravings, completed the 
 furniture. 
 
 A gentleman who visited Poe at Fordham, in 1846, 
 says: "The cottage had an air of taste and gentility that 
 must have been lent to it by the presence of its inmates. 
 So neat, so poor, so unfurnished, and yet so charming a 
 dwelling I never saw. There was an acre or two of 
 greensward fenced in about the house, as smooth as velvet, 
 and as clean as the best kept carpet. Mr. Poe was so hand- 
 some, so impassive in his wonderful, intellectual beauty, 
 so proud and reserved, so entirely a gentleman upon all 
 occasions — so good a talker was he that he impressed 
 himself and his wishes even without words upon those 
 with whom he spoke. His voice was melody itself. He 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 97 
 
 always spoke low-, even in a violent discussion, compel- 
 ling his hearers to listen if they would know his opinion, 
 his facts, fancies, or philosophy. Mrs. Poe looked very 
 young ; she had large black eyes, and a pearly whiteness 
 of complexion, which was a perfect pallor. Her pale 
 face, her brilliant eyes, and her raven hair, gave her an 
 unearthly look. One felt that she was almost a disrobed 
 spirit, and when she coughed it was made certain that she 
 was rapidly passing away.'' 
 
 As the winter of 1846-7 approached, the affairs of the 
 little Fordham household grew desperate. The sickness 
 of his wife and his own ill health at this time incapaci- 
 tated Poe from literary work, his only source of revenue, 
 and, consequently, the family were reduced to the last 
 extremity, wanting even the barest necessaries of life — at 
 a time, too, when Mrs. Poe required the little delicacies 
 so grateful to the sick. It was at this time that N. P. 
 Willis made, in The Home Journal, his generous appeal 
 in behalf of his friend and brother poet. In the course 
 of his article Mr. Willis said: "Here is one of the finest 
 scholars, one of the most original men of genius, and one 
 of the most industrious of the literary profession of our 
 country : whose temporary suspension of labor, from 
 bodily illness, drops him immediately to a level with the 
 common objects of public charity. There is no interme- 
 diate stopping-place, no respectful shelter, where, with the 
 delicacv due to srenius and culture, he mio;ht secure aid, 
 
98 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 till, with returning health, he could resume his labors, 
 and his unmortified sense of independence." This article 
 was gratefully acknowledged by Poe, in a letter dated De- 
 cember 30, 1846, in which, after alluding to Willis's "kind 
 and manly comments in The Home Journal" he says: 
 "That my wife is ill is true, and you may imagine with 
 what feeling I add that this illness, hopeless from the first, 
 has been heightened and precipitated by her reception, at 
 two different periods, of anonymous letters. That I my- 
 self have been long and dangerously ill, and that my ill- 
 ness has been a well-understood thing among my brethren 
 of the press, the best evidence is afforded by the innumer- 
 able paragraphs of personal and literary abuse with which 
 I have been lately assailed. This matter, however, will 
 remedy itself. At the very blush of my new prosperity the 
 gentlemen who toadied me in the old will recollect them- 
 selves and toady me again. That I am ' without friends/ 
 is a gross calumny, which I am sure you never could have 
 believed, and which a thousand noble-hearted men would 
 have good right never to forgive, for permitting to pass 
 unnoticed and undenied. I am getting better, and may 
 add, if it is any comfort to my enemies, that I have little 
 fear of getting worse. The truth is, I have a great deal to 
 do, and I have made up my mind not to die till it is done. " 
 Exactly one month from the date of this letter, that is, 
 on the 30th of January, 1847, the loved wife died. Her 
 death-bed was the witness of a scene as sad and pathetic 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 99 
 
 as ever told by poet or romance writer. The weather was 
 cold, and Mrs. Poe suffered also from the chills that fol- 
 low the hectic fever of consumption. The bed was of 
 straw, and was covered only with a spread and sheets, no 
 blanket. Here the dying lady lay, wrapped in her hus- 
 band's overcoat, with a large tortoise-shell cat in her 
 bosom. The coat and the cat afforded the only warmth 
 to the sufferer, except that imparted by her mother chafing 
 her feet and her husband her hands. And thus died, at 
 the early age of twenty-five, the wife of America's greatest 
 genius. 
 
 This loss, though long expected, was not the less 
 crushing when it came at last. To a lady of Massa- 
 chusetts, who had sent him expressions of sympathy, 
 Edgar Poe wrote, a few weeks after the death of his wife : 
 "I was overwhelmed by a sorrow so poignant as to de- 
 prive me, for several weeks, of all power of thought or 
 action/' Mrs. Clemm told me that " Eddie" often wan- 
 dered to his wife's grave at midnight, in the snow and 
 rain, and threw himself upon the mound of earth, calling 
 upon her in words of devoted love, and invoking her 
 gentle spirit to watch over him. 
 
100 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 1847-1848. 
 
 The Effect of Virginia's Death. —He Writes " Ulalume." — 
 "Eureka." — The Stylus Again. 
 
 OR weeks and months after his wife's death, Ed- 
 gar Poe was buried in an agony of grief, from 
 which nothing could arouse him. His books, 
 his studies were abandoned ; his pen was thrown aside ; 
 his usual occupation was neglected. He wandered aim- 
 lessly about the country by day, and at night kept long 
 and solitary vigil at the grave of his "lost Lenore." 
 He seemed to anticipate the death of his wife in that line 
 of "The Raven" where he says, "My soul from out 
 that shadow shall be lifted nevermore." It never was 
 lifted. After the loss of his wife, Poe was a changed 
 man. He, who never laughed and rarely smiled before, 
 might now almost be said to have " never smiled-' again." 
 But the most melancholy effect of this crushing grief was 
 the resort to stimulants, hoping to drown his sorrows in 
 the waters of Lethe. Fatal delusion ! Lethe proved, 
 indeed, a river of hell to the unhappy poet. It was not 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 1 01 
 
 for pleasure that -he thus sank his noble intellect. "I 
 have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I 
 sometimes so madly indulge/' he wrote within a year of 
 his death. "It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure 
 that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It 
 has been in the desperate attempt to escape from tortur- 
 ing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness, and 
 a dread of some strange, impending doom." 
 
 But it must not be supposed that this "mad indul- 
 gence " was habitual. It was only sometimes, only when 
 driven to despair by "intolerable sorrow/' that he was 
 guilty of follies and excesses, "which," as he very natur- 
 ally complained, "are hourly committed by others with- 
 out attracting any notice whatever. " It is very easy for 
 people who sit down to a sumptuous dinner every day to 
 abuse our poor, lonely, unhappy poet. It is very easy 
 for people who are surrounded by all the luxuries of life 
 to condemn Edgar Poe as a drunkard ; whereas, if the 
 truth were known, he was not drunk so often as they have 
 been — they for sensual gratification, he driven to it by 
 misery and despair. 
 
 Poe was conscious that he possessed genius ; how 
 could the possessor of so grand a genius be ignorant of 
 it ? He had adorned his country's literature with works 
 which the world has pronounced immortal. Yet, in spite 
 of his wealth of genius, perhaps on account of it, he was 
 so poor that he could not comfort his sick and dying wife 
 
102 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 with the most trifling delicacy. It is all very well for 
 people who daily enjoy the best wines to condemn Poe 
 for being bitter and morbid, when he could not afford a 
 glass of wine to warm the chill body of his idolized dar- 
 ling. Poverty, disappointment, and sorrow wrought their 
 worst upon him. He experienced to the utmost "the 
 stings and arrows of outrageous fortune." But the death 
 of his wife was the crowning sorrow of his life, the crush- 
 ing blow from which he never entirely recovered. 
 
 In the autumn of the year in which he lost his wife, 
 Poe wrote that strange, fascinating poem, "Ulalume." 
 It first appeared in The American Review for December, 
 
 1847. Willis copied it in The Home Journal, January 1, 
 
 1848, with the following notice : "We do not know how 
 many readers we have who will enjoy as we do this ex- 
 quisitely piquant and skillful exercise of variety and nice- 
 ness of language. It is a poem full of beauty — a curi- 
 osity (and a delicious one, we think) in philologic flavor." 
 When Willis wrote this notice, he did not know that Poe 
 was the author of the poem. An enthusiastic writer de- 
 scribes " Ulalume " as a piece of perfect witchery pro- 
 duced by words : the conjuror poet waves the wand of 
 his enchantment, and, by the mystic charm of those few 
 verses, solemn, lantern-like phantasmagoria, effects of 
 light and shade ; dreamy pictures ; intoxication, as if from 
 a charmed chalice ; something luxurious, we know not 
 what, form a spell, which works as the "Arabian Nights " 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. IO3 
 
 on the brain of a. child ; indeed, a whole world is created. 
 Is not this the great art of the poet? He keeps hidden 
 the means ; the effect only is understood. 
 
 An English writer, after quoting the opening stanzas 
 of "Ulalume," says : "These to many will appear only 
 words, but what wondrous words ! What a spell they 
 wield ! What a weird unity there is in them ! The 
 instant they are uttered, a misty picture, with a tarn, dark 
 as a murderer's eye, below, and the thin, yellow leaves of 
 October fluttering above, exponents of a misery which 
 scorns the name of sorrow, is hung up in the chambers 
 of your soul forever/' Mrs. Whitman, in speaking of 
 the strange threnody of " Ulalume," says : " This poem, 
 perhaps the most original and weirdly suggestive of ail 
 his poems, resembles, at first sight, some of Turner's land- 
 scapes, being apparently ' without form and void, and hav- 
 ing darkness on the face of it. ' '' It is, nevertheless, in 
 its basis, although not in the precise correspondence of 
 time, simply historical. Such was the poet's lonely mid- 
 night walk ; such, amid the desolate memories and scene- 
 ries of the hour, was the new-born hope enkindled within 
 his heart at sight of the morning star — 
 
 "Astarte's be-diamond crescent" — 
 
 looming up as the beautiful harbinger of love and hap- 
 piness, yet awaiting him in the untried future ; and such 
 the sudden transition of feeling, the boding dread, that 
 
I04 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 supervened, on discovering what had at first been unnoted, 
 that it shone, as if in mockery or in warning, directly over 
 the sepulcher of the lost " Ulalume." 
 
 " Ulalume " was the only piece published by Poe in the 
 year 1847, his " most immemorial year." During almost 
 this entire period he remained at his quiet cottage home 
 in Fordham. Mrs. Clemm, who shared his grief for their 
 household darling, devoted herself thenceforth exclusively 
 to him. He testified to the kindness of his "dear Mud- 
 die, "as he affectionately called her, in a beautiful sonnet, 
 in which he says she had been " more than mother" to 
 him. 
 
 But, although Poe published only one piece in 1847, 
 it must not be supposed that his busy brain was idle. It 
 was during the autumn and early winter of that year that 
 "Eureka 7 ' was planned, thought out, and, in part, writ- 
 ten. To the composition of this work Poe brought the 
 matured powers of his marvelous intellect ; all the enthu- 
 siasm, all the earnestness of his passionately intellectual 
 nature was thrown into it. Mrs. Clemm told me that while 
 engaged upon this extraordinary prose poem, he would 
 walk up and down the porch in front of the cottage, in 
 the coldest nights of December, with an overcoat thrown 
 over his shoulders, contemplating the stars, and "ponder- 
 ing the deep problems " of the universe, until long after 
 midnight. 
 
 By the middle of January, 1848, the work had pro- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 105 
 
 gressed so far that Poe announced his intention of de- 
 livering a series of lectures, commencing February 3d, 
 with "Eureka/' or " The Universe," as it was first called. 
 His aim and object will be found in the following letter 
 addressed to N. P. Willis : 
 
 "Fordham, January 22, 1848. 
 
 "My Dear Mr. Willis : 
 
 " I am about to make an effort at re-establishing my- 
 self in the literary world, and feel that I may depend upon 
 your aid. 
 
 "My general aim is to start a magazine, to be called 
 The Stylus ; but it would be useless to me, even when es- 
 tablished, if not entirely out of the control of a publisher. 
 I mean, therefore, to get up a journal which shall be my own, 
 at all points. With this end in view, I must get a list of 
 at least five hundred subscribers to begin with — nearly two 
 hundred I have already. I propose, however, to go South 
 and West among my personal and literary friends — old 
 college and West Point acquaintances — and see what I can 
 do. In order to get the means of taking the first step, 
 I propose to lecture at the Society Library, on Thursday, 
 the 3d of February, and, that there may be no cause of 
 squabbling, my subject shall not be literary at all. I have 
 chosen a broad text, The Universe, 
 
 "Having thus given you the facts of the case, I leave 
 
 5* 
 
106 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 all the rest to the suggestions of your own tact and gen- 
 erosity. Gratefully, most gratefully, 
 
 " Your friend always, 
 
 " Edgar A. Poe/' 
 
 In response to this letter, Willis published, in The Home 
 Journal, the following generous and appreciative article : 
 "We by accident omitted to mention, in our last week's 
 paper, that our friend and former editorial associate, Mr. 
 Poe, was to deliver a lecture, on Thursday evening, Feb- 
 ruary 3d, at the Society Library. The subject is rather a 
 broad one, 'The Universe ; ' but, from a mind so origi- 
 nal, no text could furnish any clue to what would proba- 
 bly be the sermon. There is but one thing certain about 
 it : that it will be compact of thought, most fresh, startling, 
 and suggestive. Delivered under the warrant of our friend's 
 purely intellectual features and expression, such a lecture 
 as he must write would doubtless be, to the listeners, a 
 mental treat of a very unusual relish and point. 
 
 1 ' We understand that the purpose of Mr. Poe's lecture 
 is to raise the necessary capital for the establishment of a 
 magazine, which he proposes to call The Stylus. They 
 who like literature without trammels, and criticism with- 
 out gloves, should send in their names forthwith as sub- 
 scribers. If there be in the world a born anatomist of 
 thought, it is Mr. Poe. He takes genius and its imitators 
 to pieces with a skill wholly unequaled on either side of the 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. IO7 
 
 water ; and neither in criticism nor in his own most sin- 
 gular works of imagination, does he write a sentence that 
 is not vivid and suggestive. The severe afflictions with 
 which Mr. Poe has been visited within the last year have 
 left him in a position to devote himself, self-sacrificingly, 
 to his new task ; and, with energies that need the exer- 
 cise, he will doubtless give it that most complete attention 
 which alone can make such an enterprise successful." 
 
 As announced, the lecture was delivered on Thursday 
 evening, February 3d, 1848. The night was stormy, but 
 there was present a "select but highly appreciative audi- 
 ence, that remained attentive and interested for nearly 
 three hours, under the lecturer's powerful, able, and pro- 
 found analytical exposition of his peculiar theory on the 
 origin, creation, and final destiny of the universe. Mr. 
 Poe's delivery is pure, finished, and chaste in style ; his 
 power of reasoning is acute, and his analytical perceptions 
 keen. The lecturer appeared inspired ; his eyes seemed 
 to glow like those of his own ' Raven/ " 
 
 The pecuniar)^ result of this lecture did not materially 
 advance the prospects of The Stylus. Mrs. Clemm once 
 showed me a book in which were entered the names of 
 the subscribers to The Stylus. This book, with several 
 letters and other interesting Poe papers, mysteriously dis- 
 appeared after Mrs. Clemm's death, which took place in 
 Baltimore, February 16th, 1871. The prospectus of The 
 Stylus which was published in 1S48 did not differ, in 
 
108 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 any essential particulars, from the prospectus which was 
 published in 1843. Now, as then, the chief purpose of 
 the proposed magazine was to maintain a ''sincere and 
 fearless opinion," an " absolutely independent criticism/' 
 guided by the "intelligible laws of art." 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. IOQ 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 1848. 
 
 Publication of " Eureka." — Resumes His Contributions to 
 7'he Southern Literary Messenger. — Poe's Engagement to 
 Mrs. Sarah Helen Whitman. — Love Letters. — The 
 Engagement Broken. — Poe Blameless in the Matter. 
 
 [JOE'S lecture upon "The Universe" having failed 
 
 to draw an audience of more than seventy-five 
 persons, he determined to reach a larger audi- 
 ence by the publication of his lecture in book form. 
 With this view, he carefully revised and enlarged it, and 
 late in the spring of 1848, it was published, under the 
 name of ' ' Eureka. " The book was generally noticed in 
 the papers, magazines, and reviews. "Eureka " was the 
 most ambitious literary work Edgar Poe ever wrote, and 
 the least successful. He expected much from it in re- 
 putation. He got little from it but abuse. "Pagan,'' 
 " Pantheist," ' ' Polytheist," were among the epithets flung 
 at him by the shallow scribblers of the day. 
 
 In the summer of this year Poe visited Richmond, and 
 having formed the acquaintance of John R. Thompson, 
 the editor of The Southern Literary Messenger, engaged to 
 
IIO LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 furnish contributions to the magazine in which his earli- 
 est laurels were won. In the September number of The 
 Messenger appeared his elaborate review of Mrs. Estelle 
 Anna Lewis's poems. The October number of The Mes- 
 senger contained Poe's celebrated article on "The Ra- 
 tionale of Verse," in the opening of which he alludes, 
 rather strongly, to the inaccuracy, confusion, misconcep- 
 tion, and downright ignorance generally prevailing upon 
 a subject which he pronounces exceedingly simple, and 
 "within the limits of the commonest common sense." 
 He certainly treats the subject with much analytical acu- 
 men ; but, as it has been truly said, a reference to the 
 carefully finished, free, and original style of "The Raven" 
 will furnish a practical illustration of Poe's theory. The 
 admirable variety, pause, and cadence of the versification 
 of that poem could only have emanated from a mind 
 well acquainted with the art. A rule must govern the 
 use of words, in order to produce perfect unity and har- 
 mony, as necessarily as a rule must be applied to the 
 notes of music, in order to produce the same effect. 
 Nearly as much scientific research is required for the 
 attainment of the one as of the other. Toward the con- 
 clusion of this article, Poe devoted two or three para- 
 graphs to showing that what are called "English hex- 
 ameters " would make much better respectable prose ; that, 
 in fact, the English language cannot be turned or twisted 
 into the Greek hexameters. 
 
 6 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. Ill 
 
 Early in the spring of 1S45. P° e was returning to New 
 York from Boston, where he had been invited to deliver 
 a poem, and stopped at Providence. Late at night, he 
 was strolling through the moonlit streets of the city, and 
 saw a lady walking in a beautiful garden. The time, the 
 scene, the circumstances, all made an indelible impres- 
 sion upon the mind of the poet. Three years passed, 
 during which time he did not see again the lady. In the 
 summer of 18483 he addressed to her the exquisite poem, 
 commencing, 
 
 " I saw thee once — once only — years ago." 
 
 The lady who had so profoundly interested the poetical 
 soul of Edgar Poe was one of the most brilliant women 
 of New England, the gifted poetess, Airs. Sarah Helen 
 Whitman, of Providence, R. I. Up to this time they 
 had never met, though they had many friends in com- 
 mon. This poem, <; To Helen, " conveyed to her the 
 first intelligence of the fact that she had awakened a feel- 
 ing of interest in the poet's heart. It was not until early 
 in the autumn of 1848 that Edgar Poe and Mrs. Whit- 
 man became personally acquainted. She had long 
 admired the extraordinary genius of the poet. She soon 
 learned to value the generous, enthusiastic, chivalrous 
 heart of the man. In spite of the opposition of Airs. 
 Whitman's relations, in spite of the warnings of her 
 friends, she became engaged to Edgar Poe in October of 
 
112 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 this same year, 1848. This engagement was the silver 
 lining to the dark cloud that overspread the latter years 
 of our poet's life. It opened a prospect of happiness for 
 him — even for him, the desolate and despairing. Like the 
 gleam of light that cheered Sinbad in the Cave of Death 
 and restored him to life, did this engagement hold out a 
 saving hope to the soul of the unhappy master of " The 
 Raven," and promise to restore him once again to love. 
 
 Mrs. Osgood said that, in his letters, far more than in 
 his published writings, the genius of Edgar Poe was most 
 gloriously revealed ; they were divinely beautiful. His 
 letters to Mrs. Whitman at this time are the most pas- 
 sionately eloquent that we have ever read. But they are, 
 for the most part, strictly personal, and we can only give 
 here a few brief extracts from them. Listen to his proud 
 protest against the charge of indifference to moral obli- 
 gations so often and so recklessly urged against him : 
 
 " Fordham, October 18, 1848. 
 " Of what avail to me in my deadly grief 
 are your enthusiastic words of mere admiration ? You 
 do not love me, or you would have felt too thorough a 
 sympathy with the sensitiveness of my nature to have so 
 wounded me as you have done with this terrible passage 
 of your letter : ' How often have I heard men and even 
 women say of you, " He has great intellectual power, but 
 no principle, no moral sense.'" Is it possible that such 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. II3 
 
 expressions as these could have been repeated to me — to 
 me — by one whom I love : ah, whom I love ? 
 
 ' l For nearly three years I have been ill, poor, living 
 out of the world ; and thus, as I now painfully see, have 
 afforded opportunity to my enemies to slander me in 
 private society without my knowledge, and, thus, with 
 impunity. Although much, however, may (and, I now 
 see, must) have been said to my discredit during my 
 retirement, those few who, knowing me well, have been 
 steadfastly my friends, permitted nothing to reach my 
 ears — unless in one instance of such a character that I 
 could appeal to a court of justice for redress. I replied 
 to the charge fully, in a public newspaper, suing The 
 Mirror (in which the scandal appeared), obtaining a ver- 
 dict, and recovering such an amount of damages as, for 
 the time, to completely break up that journal. 
 
 "And you ask me why men so misjudge me — why I 
 have enemies ? If your knowledge of my character and 
 of my career does not afford you an answer to the query, 
 at least it does not become me to suggest the answer. 
 Let it suffice that I have had the audacity to remain poor, 
 that I might preserve my independence ; that, neverthe- 
 less, in letters, to a certain extent, and in some regards, 
 I have been successful ; that I have been a critic — an un- 
 scrupulously honest, and, no doubt, in many cases, a 
 bitter one ; that I have uniformly attacked — where I at- 
 tacked at all — those who stood highest in power and in- 
 
114 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 fluence ; and that, whether in literature or in society, I 
 have seldom refrained from expressing, either directly or 
 indirectly, the pure contempt with which the pretensions 
 of ignorance, arrogance, or imbecility inspire me. 
 
 " And you, who know all this, you ask me why I have 
 enemies. Ah ! I have a hundred friends for every indi- 
 vidual enemy ; but has it ever occurred to you that you 
 do not live among my friends ? Had you read my criti- 
 cisms generally, you. would see why all those whom you 
 know best know me least, and are my enemies. Do you 
 not remember with how deep a sigh I said to you, 
 ' My heart is heavy, for I see that your friends are not 
 my own'? Forgive me, best and beloved Helen, if 
 there is bitterness in my tone. Toward you there is no 
 room in my soul for any other sentiment than devotion. 
 It is fate only which I accuse. It is my own unhappy 
 nature." 
 
 No truly generous person can read without a feeling 
 of sympathy this eloquent remonstrance against the base 
 injustice of men who stabbed the character of Poe in the 
 dark; waiting until he was "ill, and poor, and living 
 out of the world/' 
 
 In a letter to Mrs. Whitman, dated November 24, 
 1848, occurs this powerful passage: " The agony which 
 I have so lately endured — an agony known only to my 
 God and to myself — seems to have passed my soul 
 through fire, and purified it from all that is weak. Hence- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. II5 
 
 forward, I am strong ; this, those who love me shall see, 
 as well as those who have so relentlessly endeavored to 
 ruin me. It needed only some such, trials as I have just 
 undergone to make me what I was born to be, by making 
 me conscious of my own strength." 
 
 In six weeks from the time when they first became en- 
 gaged the affair had reached so near a point, that Poe 
 wrote to his friend, W.J. Pabodie, at Providence, request- 
 ing him to get the Rev. Dr. Crocker to publish the in- 
 tended marriage at his earliest convenience. Yet, in a 
 few weeks, the engagement was broken off. Why, still 
 remains a mystery ; but, certainly, Poe was not blamable 
 in the matter, for Mrs. Whitman always remained his 
 friend ; has always defended him, both in private and in 
 public ; and, in ." Edgar Poe, and his Critics,' 7 furnished 
 the ablest and most eloquent defense of her dead friend 
 that has yet been given to the world. Read the conclud- 
 ing stanzas of her beautiful and touching monody en- 
 titled "The Portrait of Poe," and then judge whether 
 any woman could thus write of the man who had grossly 
 insulted (as has been alleged) the dearest and most sensi- 
 tive feelings of her nature : 
 
 " Sweet, mourning eyes, long closed upon earth's sorrow, 
 Sleep restfully after life's fevered dream ! 
 Sleep, wayward heart, till, on some bright* cool morrow, 
 Thy soul, refreshed, shall bathe in morning's beam. 
 
Il6 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 " Though cloud and shadow rest upon thy story, 
 And rude hands lift the drapery of thy pall, 
 Time, as a birthright, shall restore thy glory, 
 And Heaven rekindle all the stars that fall." 
 
 Were more proof required that Edgar Poe ? s conduct in 
 this affair was that of an honorable, high-souled gentle- 
 man, it will be found in the fact that Mrs. Whitman ad- 
 dressed six sonnets to his memory ; sonnets breathing the 
 most passionate admiration ; sonnets which exhibit, with 
 noble eloquence, the real nobility and fascination and 
 power of her poet-lover. The first of these sonnets thus 
 concludes : 
 
 " Thou wert my destiny — thy song, thy fame, 
 The wild enchantments clustering round thy name 
 Were my soul's heritage — its regal dower ; 
 Its glory, and its kingdom, and its power." 
 
 The last of the six sonnets is full of the most sublime 
 sorrow for the lost lover, and ends with an intense long- 
 ing for a never-ending reunion : 
 
 " Oh, yet, believe, that, in that ' hollow vale/ 
 Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain 
 So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail 
 
 To lift its burden of remorseful pain, 
 My soul shall meet thee, and its Heaven forego, 
 Till God 's great love on both one hope, one Heaven bestow." 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. I 1 7 
 
 When the engagement was on the point of being sev- 
 ered, the poet, in a letter to Mrs. Whitman, drew the fol- 
 lowing exquisite picture of his ideal home : 
 
 " I suffered my imagination to stray with you, and with 
 the few who love us both, to the banks of some quiet 
 river in some lovely valley of our land. Here, not too 
 far secluded from the world, we exercised a taste con- 
 trolled by no conventionalities, but the sworn slaves of a 
 natural art in the building for ourselves a cottage, which 
 no human being could ever pass without an ejaculation 
 of wonder at its strange, weird, and incomprehensible yet 
 simple beauty. Oh ! the sweet and gorgeous, but not 
 often rare flowers in which we half buried it, the grandeur 
 of the magnolias and tulip trees which stood guarding it, 
 the luxurious velvet of its lawn, the luster of the rivu- 
 let that ran by its very door, the tasteful yet quiet com- 
 fort of its interior, the music, the books, the unosten- 
 tatious pictures, and above all the love, the love that 
 threw an unfading glory over the whole ! Alas ! all is 
 now a dream. " 
 
Il8 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 1849. 
 
 Last Visit to Richmond. — Death and Burial in Balti- 
 more. — Last Poems. — The Poe Monument. 
 
 j|E have reached the last year of Edgar Poe's life 
 — that life so full of sorrow, so full of suffer- 
 ing, but so full of literary glory. This last 
 year did not yield much fruit, but the fruit that it yielded 
 was precious as the golden apples of the Hesperides. 
 
 Edgar Poe passed the winter and spring of 1849 at n * s 
 secluded home in Fordham. The only variety to relieve 
 the monotony of his quiet life was the occasional visit of 
 a friend, or a visit of a few days, by him and Mrs. Clemm, 
 to their friend, Mrs. Estelle Anna Lewis, in Brooklyn. 
 "Annabel Lee" and "The Bells" were the rich results 
 of this winter's work. 
 
 On the 30th of June, Poe departed on his last trip to 
 the South. The months of July, August, and Septem- 
 ber were spent in Richmond. During this time he 
 boarded either at the old Swan Hotel, or resided in the 
 family of Mrs. John H. McKenzie, at Duncan Lodge, in 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. II9 
 
 the suburbs of the city. She was the lady who adopted 
 Rosalie Poe at the time that Mr. Allan adopted Edgar. 
 The latter, from his childhood, had been upon the most 
 intimate terms with the McKenzie family, and was always 
 a most welcome visitor at their house ; in fact it was his 
 home whenever he visited Richmond. It was during this 
 last visit to Richmond that Poe delivered his beautiful 
 lecture upon "The Poetical Principle/' before one of 
 the most cultivated audiences that had ever been brought 
 together at the Exchange Concert-room. 
 
 Mrs. Elmira Shelton, the Miss Royster to whom Edgar 
 Poe had been engaged eighteen years before, was now a 
 widow. He renewed his former intimate acquaintance 
 with her, visited her frequently, and in September they be- 
 came engaged. About the middle of that month he wrote 
 to Mrs. Clemm that his marriage was appointed for the 
 17th of October. This letter, although announcing the 
 "happy event/' was very sad, as if the writer was oppressed 
 by a sense of impending doom. On Tuesday, the 2d of 
 October, Pee left Richmond by boat for Baltimore, where 
 he arrived the next morning. His intention was to go to 
 Fordham, and bring Mrs. Clemm to Richmond for his 
 wedding. He had written her to be ready to return with 
 him on the 10th — that he had determined to pass the rest 
 of his life amid the scenes of his happy youth. 
 
 What became of Poe, after he arrived in Baltimore on 
 that October morning, will probably never be known. 
 
120 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 It was an election day. His cousin, Mr. Neilson Poe, 
 told me that on the evening of that day he was informed 
 that a gentleman named Poe was in a back room of the 
 Fourth Ward polls, on Lombard Street, between High 
 and Exeter Streets. Mr. Poe went there, and found 
 Edgar A. Poe in a state of stupefaction. He had been 
 "cooped,'' and voted all over the city. A carriage was 
 called, and the dying poet was conveyed to the Washing- 
 ton College Hospital, on Broadway, north of Baltimore 
 Street. There, on the following Sunday, October 7th, 
 he died, remaining insensible to the last. Had he lived 
 until the 19th of January, 1850, he would have been forty- 
 one years old. At four o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, 
 October 9th, the body of Edgar A. Pee was buried in the 
 midst of his ancestors, in the cemetery attached to the 
 Westminster Church, southeast corner of Fayette and 
 Greene Streets. It was a dull, cold, autumn day — just 
 such a day as he had described in "Ulalume" : 
 
 " The skies they were ashen and sober, 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere." 
 
 Only eight persons attended the funeral of the author of 
 "The Raven." 
 
 Both "The Bells "and "Annabel Lee" were published 
 in Sartams Magazine, of Philadelphia, after Poe's death. 
 The former, consisting at first of only two short stanzas, 
 was left with the editor of The Magazine in July, 1849, 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 121 
 
 when the poet stopped in Philadelphia on his way to the 
 South. The poem was accepted and put in type, but 
 before its appearance the author greatly enlarged it, and 
 before its actual publication he sent to the editor the com- 
 plete version of the poem in the form in which it finally 
 appeared in the November number of The Magazine for 
 1849. " Annabel Lee" was published in Sartams Mag- 
 azine in January, 1850. A writer in The British Quarterly 
 Review pronounces ." Annabel Lee" one of the most 
 graceful effusions in all literature. 
 
 For more than a quarter of a century the grave of 
 Edgar A. Poe possessed no stone to tell the passing visitor 
 that America's greatest genius there reposed. Strangers 
 from distant lands visited Baltimore, and sought the grave 
 of Poe as a pilgrim's shrine. Great was their astonish- 
 ment when, after much inquiry and diligent search, they 
 at last found the poets grave — a forlorn, forsaken spot 
 in an obscure corner of an obscure church-yard. Rank 
 weeds covered the neglected mound, but none of the 
 violets and roses and pansies which the poet loved. 
 
 Such for twenty-six years was the resting-place of the 
 author of "The Raven." Such is no longer the condi- 
 tion of our poet's grave. On the 17th of November, 1875, 
 a beautiful monument was dedicated to the honor of 
 Edgar A. Poe, in the presence of an immense assemblage, 
 comprising the wealth, taste, and culture of Baltimore. 
 Poetry, music, and eloquence, each contributed to the 
 6 
 
122 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 interesting occasion. What a contrast was offered by this 
 splendid demonstration to the scant ceremony and scan- 
 tier attendance on that dreary autumn afternoon twenty- 
 six years before, when the body of the poet was privately 
 buried ! Then, eight persons followed him to the grave, 
 while more than a thousand persons were present at the 
 dedication of the Poe Monument. 
 
LIFE OF v EDGAR A. POE, I2q 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Poe's Personal Habits. — His Industry. — His Disposition. — 
 Appearance and Manners —A Genuine American Writ- 
 er. — Moral Beauty of His Writings. — Poe and Byron. 
 — Poe's Fame. 
 
 HERE are many persons — intelligent and culti- 
 vated persons — who believe, and always will 
 believe, that Edgar Poe was a drunken vaga- 
 bond, whose whole life was one long fit of intoxication. 
 It never seems to occur to these worthy people that a 
 drunkard's intellect could not have produced the literary 
 work which stands an immortal monument of Poe's ge- 
 nius ; that the painful process of reasoning, and the won- 
 derful analytical power in his writings display the clearest, 
 the most brilliant mind. Besides the ancient and mod- 
 ern languages, his works show a familiarity with natural 
 history, mineralogy, philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, 
 etc. Habitual drunkards do not, generally speaking, 
 spend their time in accumulating vast stores . of learn- 
 ing. 
 
 It does seem very suspicious that only one of Poe's 
 
124 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 acquaintances knew of his " frequent fits of intoxication." 
 N. P. Willis, who was in daily intercourse with hirn for 
 months, saw nothing of his dissipated habits ; L. A. Wil- 
 mer, during an intimate friendship of twelve years, saw 
 nothing of it; George R. Graham, who was associated 
 with him daily for two years, saw nothing of it ; S. D. 
 Lewis, who lived in the closest intimacy with him, never 
 saw him drink a glass of wine, beer, or liquor of any 
 kind. The fact is, that it was only at rare intervals, and 
 more especially after the loss of his adored wife, that he 
 indulged in stimulants at all. Upon those occasions, the 
 lines in Dermody's ' ' Enthusiast " might be applied to 
 Poe: 
 
 " He who such polished lines so well could form, 
 Was Passion's slave, Intoxication's child ; 
 Now earth-enamored, a groveling worm, 
 
 Now seraph-plumed, the wonderful, the wild." 
 
 Poe was a most laborious, painstaking, industrious 
 writer. Mrs. Clemm told me that it was a regular habit 
 of his, when editor of Grahavis Magazine, to sit down to 
 his desk after breakfast, and write five pages of print before 
 going to bed. He never sat down to write until he had 
 completely arranged the plot, the characters, and even the 
 language. His habit was to walk up and down while 
 thinking out his work. 
 
 Neilson Poe says Edgar was one of the best-hearted 
 men that ever lived. People who only met him in so- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 1 25 
 
 ciety, where his .manner was often cold and repelling, 
 could not believe him otherwise than proud and cynical. 
 It was in the bosom of his own little family, and among 
 the intimate friends whom he loved and trusted, the 
 u few who loved him, and whom he loved/' that his ten- 
 der and affectionate nature manifested itself in all its 
 sweetness. 
 
 Every person who came in personal contact with Edgar 
 Poe speaks of his elegant appearance, the stately grace 
 of his manners, and his fascinating conversation. " His 
 manners were winning in the extreme," says an accom- 
 plished lady, "his voice a marvel of melody." "His 
 conversation was bright, earnest, and fascinating," says 
 another." " He impressed me as a man inspired by no- 
 ble and exalted sentiments," says Dr. N. C. Brooks, who 
 was his friend from first to last. " I do not think it pos- 
 sible to overstate the gentlemanly reticence and amenity 
 of his habitual manner," says Mrs. Whitman, in a letter 
 lying before me. 
 
 Edgar Poe was five feet six inches high ; in his person 
 there was a perfect blending of grace with strength ; his 
 shoulders were broad, his chest full, his waist small, his 
 limbs symmetrical, his feet and hands as beautiful and 
 shapely as a girl's. He had the firm step, erect form, and 
 military bearing observable in all West-Pointers. His 
 eyes were dark gray, with a sad but fascinating expres- 
 sion : 
 
126 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 " Those melancholy eyes that seemed 
 To look beyond all time, or, turned 
 On eyes they loved, so softly beamed — 
 How few their mystic language learned. 
 
 u How few could read their depths, or know 
 The proud, high heart that dwelt alone 
 In gorgeous palaces of woe, 
 
 Like Eblis on his burning throne." 
 
 Over his broad, white forehead fell the rich, dark hair, 
 almost as black as the wings of his own "Raven." The 
 "sweet, imperious mouth/' when opened by one of the 
 poet's rare but beautiful smiles, disclosed the most bril- 
 liant teeth in the world. His complexion was pale, but 
 it was a clear, "translucent pallor," not the sickly hue 
 of ill health. 
 
 Poe always dressed with extreme elegance and in per- 
 fect taste ; he generally wore gray clothes, a loose black 
 cravat, and turn-down collar. 
 
 Edgar A. Poe was a genuine American writer. He was 
 one of the first American authors who dared to have 
 a literary opinion different from that of England. He 
 did not wait for a transatlantic verdict upon a poet, nov- 
 elist, or historian before he delivered his opinion, and he 
 maintained it with irresistible force. He was perfectly 
 free from that spirit of literary Anglo-mania, which was so 
 generally prevalent in this country thirty or forty years 
 ago. He did more to establish a native American liter- 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. I 27 
 
 ature than all the writers that preceded him. Let it never 
 be forgotten that Edgar A. Poe has conferred upon our 
 country the glory of having produced the most original 
 poet of the century. 
 
 A man, whose early death saved him from the peniten- 
 tiary for the crime of bigamy, was the first to start the 
 charge that Poe was utterly void of conscience, that he 
 "exhibited scarcely any virtue in either his life or his 
 writings." We gladly admit that Edgar Poe did not 
 exhibit any of the peculiar "virtues " of this libeler "in 
 his life or his writings." We confidently point to the 
 present memoir as a triumphant answer to this base and 
 gratuitous charge as to the life of Poe. As to his writ- 
 ings, there is not a sentence, a line, a word in all the 
 four closely-printed volumes that could bring a blush 
 to the most delicate maiden's cheek, and, as Han- 
 nay, the English critic, says, "His poetry is all as pure 
 as wild flowers. " Again : ' ' With all his passion for 
 the beautiful, no poet was ever less voluptuous. He 
 never profaned his genius. " No ; his love of beauty 
 was not the gross love of the sensualist ; it was rather 
 the spiritualized, ethereal, heavenly adoration of the se- 
 raph. 
 
 It is a matter of surprise that any American writer, who 
 really has at heart the honor of American literature, should 
 endeavor to cast reproach and dishonor upon Edgar A. 
 Poe, who has done more for our country's literary reputa- 
 
128 LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 tion than any other author. It is hard to stop a false- 
 hood once started. So, every month or two, some hungry 
 penny-a-liner takes up the old, worn-out stories against 
 Poe, dresses them up in new -clothes, and palms them 
 upon a credulous and unsuspecting world. The malig- 
 nancy of these literary vermin is only exceeded by their 
 ignorance. 
 
 Poe and Byron have often been compared. They were 
 alike only in the divine gift of genius. But how different 
 their earthly lot ! Byron, at an early age, became the 
 lord of Newstead Abbey, a magnificent inheritance. Poe, 
 at an early age, was cast upon the world homeless and 
 friendless. Byron was descended from a long and dis- 
 tinguished line of nobles ; he was prouder of being a 
 descendant of the Norman gentleman who came over 
 with the Conqueror, and whose name was inscribed in 
 Doomsday Book, than he was of having written " Childe 
 Harold," or "Manfred." Poe, though of a good family, 
 was the son of a poor player. Byron, at twenty-four, was 
 the most famous poet of his age, the idol of the aristo- 
 cratic society of England, and the most beautiful women in 
 the world were striving for his smile. Poe, at twenty-four, 
 was living in poverty and obscurity. Byron, after a liter- 
 ary career unexampled for success and brilliancy, died in 
 the glorious struggle for Grecian independence. Poe, 
 after a literary career crowded with suffering and sorrow, 
 died miserably in a public hospital. Poe suffered, but he 
 
LIFE OF EDGAR A. POE. \2() 
 
 drew no man down with him ; he did not attempt to 
 shake any man's religion ; he seduced no one from the 
 path of virtue by the voluptuous enchantment of his 
 writings. Byron did this, and more than this : to the 
 evil influence of his writings he added the evil example 
 of his life. 
 
 Edgar Poe was, perhaps, the most scholarly writer 
 our country has ever produced. His acquaintance with 
 classical literature was thorough. His familiarity with 
 modern literature, especially French and Italian, was ex- 
 tensive, w T hile, of English literature, it can be truly said 
 he knew it from the very source — from Chaucer, the first 
 poet-laureate, in the fourteenth century, to Tennyson, 
 the last poet-laureate, in the nineteenth century. Even 
 the most insignificant of his writings show scholarship. 
 In the language of Mr. Kennedy, " His taste was replete 
 with classical flavor, and he wrote in the spirit of an old 
 Greek philosopher." 
 
 Dying so young, and accomplishing so much, we may 
 confidently conjecture what the author of " The Raven " 
 might have done had he reached the number of years 
 allotted to man. But the fame of Edgar A. Poe is 
 secure ; it can never die. 
 6* 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 [INCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
 weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- 
 gotten lore — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 
 
 a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 
 
 door. 
 " 'T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my cham- 
 ber door — 
 
 Only this and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon 
 
 the floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to 
 
 borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 
 
 Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
132 THE RAVEN. 
 
 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 
 P 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door; 
 
 This it is and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no 
 
 longer, 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
 
 implore ; 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 
 
 rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber 
 
 door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened 
 
 wide the door ; — 
 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 
 
 wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
 
 dream before ; 
 
THE RAVEN. 1 33 
 
 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. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 burning, 
 
 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
 before. 
 
 " Surely, '• said I, " surely that is something at my win- 
 dow lattice ; 
 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery 
 explore — 
 
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery ex- 
 plore ; — 
 
 J Tis the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 
 and flutter, 
 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of 
 yore. 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped 
 or stayed he, 
 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my cham- 
 ber door — 
 
134 THE RAVEN, 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more, 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
 smiling, 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
 wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
 " art sure no craven, 
 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the 
 Nightly shore. 
 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- 
 tonian shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore/' 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
 so plainly, 
 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his cham- 
 ber door — 
 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his cham- 
 ber door, 
 
 With such name as "Nevermore." 
 
 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. 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 135 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered-; not a feather then he 
 
 fluttered — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have 
 
 flown before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 
 
 flown before," 
 
 Then the bird said " Nevermore. '*' 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 
 "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock 
 and store 
 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 
 Disaster 
 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one bur- 
 den bore — 
 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of ' Never, — nevermore.'" 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and 
 
 bust and door ; 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
 
 yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
 
 bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
136 THE RAVEN. 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
 pressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
 core ; 
 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease re- 
 clining 
 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated 
 o'er, 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloat- 
 ing o'er 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 
 
 Then, me thought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 
 
 an unseen censer 
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the 
 
 tufted floor. 
 " Wretch/' I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these 
 
 angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
 
 Lenore ! 
 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost 
 
 Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 a Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if 
 
 bird or devil ! 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
 
 here ashore, 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 137 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
 chanted — 
 
 On this Home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- 
 plore — 
 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, 
 I implore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if 
 
 bird or devil ! 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we 
 
 both adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore." 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 
 shrieked, upstarting — 
 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- 
 tonian shore ! 
 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy sou] 
 hath spoken ! 
 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above 
 my door ! 
 
138 LENORE. 
 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
 from off my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
 
 sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 
 door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 
 
 dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 
 on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 
 
 the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 |1|H, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit flown 
 Hll| forever ! 
 
 Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on the 
 Stygian river ; 
 And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear ? — veep now or 
 nevermore ! 
 
 See ! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, 
 Lenore ! 
 
LENORE. 139 
 
 Come ! let the burial rite be read — the funeral song be 
 
 sung ! — 
 An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so 
 
 young — 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so 
 
 young. 
 
 "Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her 
 
 for her pride ; 
 And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her — 
 
 that she died ! 
 How shall the ritual, then, be read ? — the requiem how 
 
 be sung 
 By you — by yours, the evil eye, — by yours, the slan- 
 derous tongue 
 That did to death the innocence that died, and died so 
 
 young ? " 
 Peccavi7?ius ; but rave not thus ! and let a Sabbath song 
 Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong ! 
 The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that 
 
 flew beside, 
 Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have 
 
 been thy bride — 
 For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, 
 The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes — 
 The life still there, upon her hair — the death upon 
 
 her eyes. 
 
140 HYMN. 
 
 " Avaunt ! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I 
 
 upraise, 
 But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days ! 
 Let no bell toll ! — lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed 
 
 . mirth, 
 Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the 
 
 damned Earth. 
 To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost 
 
 is riven — 
 From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven — 
 From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the 
 
 King of Heaven." 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 T morn — at noon — at twilight dim — 
 Maria ! thou hast heard my hymn ! 
 In joy and woe — in good and ill — 
 Mother of God, be with me still ! 
 When the Hours flew brightly by, 
 And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
 My soul, lest it should truant be, 
 Thy grace did guide to thine and thee ; 
 Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast 
 Darkly my Present and my Past, 
 Let my Future radiant shine 
 With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 
 
A VALENTINE. 141 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 [OR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, 
 Brightly expressive as the twins of Loecla, 
 Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies 
 
 Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. 
 Search narrowly the lines ! — they hold a treasure 
 
 Divine — a talisman — an amulet 
 That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure — 
 
 The words — the syllables ! Do not forget 
 The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor ! 
 
 And yet there is in this no Gordian knot 
 Which one might not undo without a sabre, 
 
 If one could merely comprehend the plot. 
 Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering 
 
 Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus 
 Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing 
 
 Of poets, by poets — as the name is a poet's, too. 
 Its letters, although naturally lying 
 
 Like the knight Pinto — Mendez Ferdinando — 
 Still form a synonym for Truth. — Cease trying ! 
 
 You will not read the riddle, though you do the best 
 you can do. 
 
 [To translate the address , read the first letter of the first line in 
 connection with the secoiid letter of the second line, the third letter of 
 the third line, the fourth of the fourth, a7id so on to the end. The 
 name will thus appear. \ 
 
142 THE COLISEUM, 
 
 THE COLISEUM. 
 
 ![YPE of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary 
 Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
 By buried centuries of pomp and power ! 
 At length — at length — after so many days 
 Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
 (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) 
 I kneel, an altered and an humble man, 
 Amid thy shadows, and so drink within 
 My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory ! 
 
 Vastness ! and Age ! and Memories of Eld ! 
 Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim Night ! 
 I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength — 
 O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king 
 Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 
 O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee 
 Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! 
 
 Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! 
 
 Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 
 
 A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 
 
 Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 
 
 Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! 
 
 Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, 
 
 Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, 
 
 Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, 
 
 The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 
 
THE COLISEUM. 
 
 143 
 
 But stay ! these walls — these ivy-clad arcades — 
 These mouldering plinths — these sad and blackened 
 
 shafts — 
 These vague entablatures — this crumbling frieze — 
 These shattered cornices — this wreck — this ruin — 
 These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they all — 
 All of the famed, and the colossal left 
 By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 
 
 " Not all " — the Echoes answer me — " not all ! 
 
 Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 
 
 From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, 
 
 As melody from Memnon to the Sun. 
 
 We rule the hearts of mightiest men — we rule 
 
 With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
 
 We are not impotent — we pallid stones. 
 
 Not all our power is gone — not all our fame — 
 
 Not all the magic of our high renown — 
 
 Not all the wonder that encircles us — 
 
 Not all the mysteries that in us lie — 
 
 Not all the memories that hang upon 
 
 And cling around about us as a garment, 
 
 Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." 
 
144 TO HELEN. 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 SAW thee once — - once only — years ago : 
 I must not say how many — but not many. 
 It was a July midnight ; and from out 
 A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, 
 Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, 
 There fell a silvery silken veil of light, 
 With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 
 Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand 
 Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, 
 Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — 
 Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses 
 That gave out, in return for the love-light, 
 Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 
 Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses 
 That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted 
 By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. 
 
 Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 
 
 I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon 
 
 Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, 
 
 And on thine own, upturn'd — alas, in sorrow ! 
 
 Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — 
 Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) 
 That bade me pause before that garden-gate, 
 To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? 
 No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, 
 Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven ! — oh, God ! 
 
TO HELEN. 145 
 
 How my heart beats in coupling those two words !) 
 Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 
 And in an instant all things disappeared. 
 (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 
 
 The pearly lustre cf the moon went out : 
 
 The mossy banks and the meandering paths, 
 
 The happy flowers and the repining trees, 
 
 Were seen no more : the very roses' odors 
 
 Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 
 
 All — all expired save thee — save less than thou : 
 
 Save only the divine light in thine eyes — 
 
 Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 
 
 I saw but them — they were the world to me. 
 
 I saw but them — saw only them for hours — 
 
 Saw only them until the moon went down. 
 
 What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten 
 
 Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! 
 
 How dark a w r oe ! yet how sublime a hope ! 
 
 How silently serene a sea of pride ! 
 
 How daring an ambition ! yet how deep — 
 
 How fathomless a capacity for love ! 
 
 But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, 
 Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; 
 And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
 Didst glide way. Only thine eyes remained. 
 They would not go — they never yet have gone* 
 
146 TO . 
 
 Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
 
 They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
 
 They follow me — they lead me through the years • 
 
 They are my ministers — yet I their slave, 
 
 Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
 
 My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
 
 And purified in their electric fire, 
 
 And sanctified in their elysian fire. 
 
 They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), 
 
 And are far up in Heaven — the stars I kneel to 
 
 In the sad, silent watches of my night; 
 
 While even in the meridian glare of day 
 
 I see them still — two sweetly scintillant 
 
 Venuses, unextinguished by the sun ! 
 
 TO 
 
 OT long ago, the writer of these lines, 
 
 In the mad pride of intellectuality, [that ever 
 Maintained " the power of words " — denied 
 A thought arose within the human brain 
 Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : 
 And now, as if in mockery of that boast, 
 Two words — two foreign soft dissyllables — 
 Italian tones, made only to be murmured 
 By angels dreaming in the moonlit " dew 
 That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," — 
 
ULALUME. 147 
 
 Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, 
 
 Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, 
 
 Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 
 
 Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, 
 
 (Who has " the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") 
 
 Could hope to utter. And I ! my spells are broken. 
 
 The pen fall's powerless from my shivering hand. 
 
 With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, 
 
 I cannot write — I cannot speak or think — 
 
 Alas, I cannot feel ; for 't is not feeling, 
 
 This standing motionless upon the golden 
 
 Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, 
 
 Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, 
 
 And thrilling as I see, upon the right, 
 
 Upon the left, and all the way along, 
 
 Amid unpurpled vapors, far away 
 
 To where the prospect terminates — thee only \ 
 
 ULALUME. 
 
 HE skies they were ashen and sober \ 
 The leaves they were crisped and sere — 
 The leaves they were withering and sere — 
 It was night in the lonesome October 
 Of my most immemorial year ; 
 
1 48 ULALUME. 
 
 It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
 In the misty mid region of Weir — 
 
 It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
 
 In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
 Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
 
 Of cypress, I roamed with my soul — 
 Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
 
 These were days when my heart was volcanic 
 As the scoriae rivers that roll — , 
 As the lavas that restlessly roil — 
 
 Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
 In the ultimate climes of the pole — 
 
 That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
 In the realms of the boreal pole. 
 
 Our talk had been serious and sober, 
 
 But our thoughts they were palsied and sere - 
 Our memories were treacherous and sere — 
 
 For we knew not the month was October, 
 
 And we marked not the night of the year — 
 (Ah, night of all nights in the year !) 
 
 We noted not the dim lake of Auber — 
 
 (Though once we had journeyed down here) 
 
 Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
 
 Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
ULALUME. 149 
 
 And now, as the night was senescent 
 
 And star-dials pointed to morn — 
 
 As the star-dials hinted of morn — 
 At the end of our path a liquescent 
 
 And nebulous lustre w T as born, 
 Out of which a miraculous crescent 
 
 Arose with a duplicate horn — 
 Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
 
 Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
 
 And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 
 
 She rolls through an ether of sighs — 
 
 She revels in a region of sighs : 
 She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
 
 These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
 And has come past the stars of the Lion 
 
 To point us the path to the skies — 
 
 To the Lethean peace of the skies — 
 Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
 
 To shine on us with her bright eyes- — 
 Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
 
 With love in her luminous eyes/' 
 
 But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
 
 Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust — 
 Her pallor I strangely mistrust : — 
 
 Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger ! 
 
 Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — ■ for we must." 
 
15° ULALUME. 
 
 In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
 
 Wings until they trailed in the dust — 
 
 In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
 
 Plumes till they trailed in the dust — 
 Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 
 
 I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 
 
 Let us on by this tremulous light ! 
 
 Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
 Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 
 
 With Hope and in Beauty to-night : — 
 
 See ! - — it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
 Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
 
 And be sure it will lead us aright — 
 We safely may trust to a gleaming 
 
 That cannot but guide us aright, 
 
 Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.' ' 
 
 Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
 And tempted her out of her gloom — 
 And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 
 
 And we passed to the end of the vista, 
 
 But were stopped by the door of a tomb — 
 By the door of a legended tomb ; 
 
 And I said — " What is written, sweet sister, 
 On the door of this legended tomb ? " 
 She replied — " Ulalume — Ulalume — 
 'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 
 
THE BELLS. 151 
 
 Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
 
 As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
 As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
 
 And I cried — " It was surely October 
 On this very night of last year 
 That I journeyed — I journeyed down here — 
 That I brought a dread burden down here — 
 On this night of all nights in the year, 
 Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 
 
 Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber — 
 This misty mid region of Weir — 
 
 Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
 This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 1. 
 
 j|EAR the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells ! 
 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
l S 2 THE BELLS. 
 
 To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 
 Golden bells ! 
 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 
 From the molten golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells 1 
 
THE BELLS. I 53 
 
 III. 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Nov/ — now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 . Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flow ? s \ 
 
154 THE BELLS. 
 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone, 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 
THE BELLS. 155 
 
 They are. neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls 
 A paean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances, and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the paean of the bells — 
 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells — 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
I5 6 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 AN ENIGMA. 
 
 jjELDOM we find," says Solomon Don Dunce, 
 " Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. 
 Through all the flimsy things we see at once 
 As easily as through a Naples bonnet — 
 Trash of all trash ! — how can a lady don it ! 
 Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff — 
 Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff 
 
 Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it." 
 And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
 The general tuckermanities are arrant 
 Bubbles — ephemeral and so transparent — 
 
 But this is, now, — you may depend upon it — 
 Stable, opaque, immortal — all by dint 
 Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 ijT was many and many a year ago, 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
ANNABEL LEE. I 57 
 
 / was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea : 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love — 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee • 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling • 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 So that her high-born kinsman came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we — 
 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven above. 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
 
158 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
 
 In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 ECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, 
 
 The angels, whispering to one another, 
 Can find, among their burning terms of love, 
 None so devotional as that of " Mother," 
 Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — 
 
 You who are more than mother unto me, 
 And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, 
 
 In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
 My mother — my own mother, who died early, 
 
 Was but the mother of myself ; but you 
 Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 
 
 And thus are dearer than the mother I knew 
 By that infinity with which my wife 
 
 Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life. 
 
THE HAUNTED PALACE. 1 59 
 
 THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 N the greenest of our valleys 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace — 
 
 Radiant palace — reared its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion — 
 
 It stood there ! 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair ! 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow, 
 (This — all this — was in the olden 
 
 Time long ago,) 
 And every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley, 
 
 Through two luminous windows, saw 
 Spirits moving musically, 
 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 Round about a throne where, sitting 
 
 (Porphyrogene ! ) 
 In state his glory well befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
160 THE HAUNTED PALACE. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door, 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow. 
 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
 (Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
 And round about his home the glory 
 
 That blushed and bloomed, 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 And travellers, now, within that valley, 
 
 Through the red-litten windows see 
 Vast forms, that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody, 
 While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
 
 Through the pale door 
 A hideous throng rush out forever 
 
 And laugh — but smile no more. 
 
THE CONQUEROR WORM. 1 6 I 
 
 THE CONQUEROR WORM. 
 
 O ! 't is a gala night 
 
 Within the lonesome latter years. 
 An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 
 In veils, and drowned in tears, 
 Sit in a theatre, to see 
 
 A play of hopes and fears, 
 While the orchestra breathes fitfully 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
 Mimes, in the form of God on high, 
 
 Mutter and mumble low, 
 And hither and thither fly — 
 
 Mere puppets they, who come and go 
 At bidding of vast formless things 
 
 That shift the scenery to and fro, 
 Flapping from out their Condor wings 
 
 Invisible Woe ! 
 
 That motley drama — oh, be sure 
 
 It shall not be forgot ! 
 With its Phantom chased for evermore, 
 
 By a crowd that seize it not, 
 Through a circle that ever returneth in 
 
 To the self-same spot, 
 And much of Madness, and more of Sin } 
 
 And Horror the soul of the plot. 
 
1 62 TO F — S S. O — D. 
 
 But see, amid the mimic rout 
 
 A crawling shape intrude ! 
 A blood-red thing that writhes from out 
 
 The scenic solitude ! 
 It writhes ! — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs 
 
 The mimes become its food, 
 And the angels sob at vermin fangs 
 
 In human gore imbrued. 
 
 Out — out are the lights — out all ! 
 
 And, over each quivering form, 
 The curtain, a funeral pall, 
 
 Comes down with the rush of a storm, 
 And the angels, all pallid and wan, 
 
 Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
 That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 
 
 And its hero the Conqueror Worm. 
 
 TO F S S. O D. 
 
 |HOU wouldst be loved? — then let thy heart 
 
 From its present pathway part not ! 
 Being everything which now thou art, 
 
 Be nothing which thou art not. 
 So with the world thy gentle ways, 
 
 Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
 Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
 
 And love — a simple duty. 
 
TO ONE IN PARADISE. 1 63 
 
 TO ONE IN PARADISE. 
 
 HOU wast that all to me, love, 
 
 For which my soul did pine — 
 A green isle in the sea, love, 
 A fountain and a shrine, 
 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
 And all the flowers w r ere mine. 
 
 Ah, dream too bright to last ! 
 
 Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise 
 But to be overcast ! 
 
 A voice from out the Future cries, 
 " On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past 
 
 (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
 Mute, motionless, aghast ! 
 
 For, alas ! alas ! with me 
 
 The light of Life is o'er ! 
 " No more — no more — no more — " 
 (Such language holds the solemn sea 
 
 To the sands upon the shore) 
 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 
 
 Or the stricken eagle soar ! 
 
 And all my days are trances, 
 
 And all my nightly dreams 
 Are where thy dark eye glances, 
 
 And where thy footstep gleams — 
 In what ethereal dances, 
 
 By what eternal streams. 
 
1 64 THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 
 
 \NCE it smiled a silent dell 
 
 Where the people did not dwell ; 
 They had gone unto the wars, 
 Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
 Nightly, feom their azure towers, 
 To keep watch above the flowers, 
 In the midst of which all day 
 The red sunlight lazily lay. 
 Now each visitor shall confess 
 The sad valley's restlessness. 
 Nothing there is motionless — 
 Nothing save the airs that brood 
 Over the magic solitude. 
 Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
 That palpitate like the chill seas 
 Around the misty Hebrides ! 
 Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 
 That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 
 Uneasily, from morn till even, 
 Over the violets there that lie 
 In myriad types of the human eye — 
 Over the lilies there that wave 
 And weep above a nameless grave ! 
 They wave : — from out their fragrant tops 
 Eternal dews come down in drops. 
 They wxep : — from off their delicate stems 
 Perennial tears descend in gems. 
 
THE CITY IN THE SEA. 1 6 = 
 
 THE CITY IN THE SEA. 
 
 JO! Death has reared himself a throne 
 In a strange city lying alone 
 Far down within the dim West, [best 
 
 Where the good and the bad and the worst and the 
 Have gone to their eternal rest. 
 There shrines and palaces and towers 
 (Time-eaten towers that tremble not !) 
 Resemble nothing that is ours. 
 Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
 Resignedly beneath the sky 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
 No rays from the holy heaven come down 
 On the long night-time of that town ; 
 But light from out the lurid sea 
 Streams up the turrets silently — 
 Gleams up the pinnacles far and free — 
 Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls — 
 Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls — 
 Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
 Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers — 
 Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
 Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
 The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
 
 Resignedly, beneath the sky 
 The melancholy waters lie. 
 
1 66 THE CITY IN THE SEA. 
 
 So blend the turrets and shadows there 
 That all seem pendulous in air, 
 While, from a proud tower in the town, 
 Death looks gigantically down. 
 
 There open fanes and gaping graves 
 
 Yawn level with the luminous waves, 
 
 But not the riches there that lie 
 
 In each idol's diamond eye — 
 
 Not the gayly-jewelled dead 
 
 Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
 
 For no ripples curl, alas ! 
 
 Along that wilderness of glass — 
 
 No swellings tell that winds may be 
 
 Upon some far-off happier sea — 
 
 No heavings hint that winds have been 
 
 On scenes less hideously serene. 
 
 But low ! a stir is in the air ! 
 The wave — there is a movement there ! 
 As if the towers had thrust aside, 
 In slightly sinking, the dull tide — 
 As if their tops had feebly given 
 A void within the filmy Heaven. 
 The waves have now a redder glow, 
 The hours are breathing faint and low — » 
 And when, amid no earthly moans, 
 Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
 Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
 Shall do it reverence. 
 
THE SLEEPER. 1 67 
 
 THE SLEEPER. 
 
 j]T midnight, in the month of June, 
 I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
 An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
 Exhales from out her golden rim, 
 And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
 Upon the quiet mountain-top, 
 Steals drowsily and musically 
 Into the universal valley. 
 The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 
 The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
 Wrapping the fog about its breast, 
 The ruin moulders into rest ; 
 Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 
 A conscious slumber seems to take, 
 And would not, for the world, awake. 
 All Beauty sleeps ! — and lo ! where lies 
 (Her casement open to the skies) 
 Irene, with her Destinies ! 
 Oh, lady bright ! can it be right — 
 This window open to the night ? 
 The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
 Laughingly through the lattice drop — 
 The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, 
 Flit through thy chamber in and out, 
 And wave the curtain canopy 
 So fitfully — so fearfully — 
 
1 68 T KE SLEEPER. 
 
 Above the closed and fringed lid 
 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, 
 That, o'er the floor and down the wall, 
 Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! 
 Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 
 Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 
 Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 
 A wonder to these garden trees ! 
 Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dress ! 
 Strange, above all, thy length of tress, 
 And this all solemn silentness ! 
 
 The lady sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
 Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
 Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
 This chamber changed for one more holy, 
 This bed for one more melancholy, 
 I pray to God that she may lie 
 Forever with unopened eye, 
 While the dim sheeted ghosts go by ! 
 
 My love, she sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
 
 As it is lasting, so be deep ! 
 
 Soft may the worms about her creep ! 
 
 Far in the forest, dim and old, 
 
 For her may some tall vault unfold — 
 
 Some vault that oft hath flung its black 
 
 And winged panels fluttering back, 
 
SILENCE. 1 69 
 
 Triumphant, o'er the crested palls 
 Of her grand' family funerals — 
 Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 
 Against whose portal she hath thrown, 
 In childhood, many an idle stone — 
 Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
 She ne'er shall force an echo more, 
 Thrilling to think, poor child of sin ! 
 It was the dead who groaned within. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 HERE are some qualities — some incorporate 
 things, 
 That have a double life, which thus is made 
 A type of that twin entity which springs 
 
 From matter and light, evinced in solid and 
 shade. 
 There is a twofold Silence — sea and shore — 
 Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, 
 Newly with grass o'ergiown ; some solemn graces, 
 Some human memories and tearful lore, 
 Render him terrorless : his name's "No More." 
 He is the corporate Silence : dread him not ! 
 
 No power hath he of evil in himself; 
 But should some urgent fate (untimely lot !) 
 
 Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, 
 That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod 
 No foot of man), commend thyself to God ! 
 
170 A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. 
 
 A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM- 
 
 |AKE this kiss upon the brow ! 
 And, in parting from you now, 
 Thus much let me avow — 
 You are not wrong, who deem 
 That my days have been a dream ; 
 Yet if hope has flown away 
 In a night, or in a day, 
 In a vision, or in none, 
 Is it therefore the less gone ? 
 All that we see or seem 
 Is but a dream within a dream. 
 
 I stand amid the roar 
 Of a surf-tormented shore, 
 And I hold within my hand 
 Grains of the golden sand — 
 How few ! yet how they creep 
 Through my fingers to the deep, 
 While I weep — while I weep ! 
 O God ! can I not grasp 
 Them with a tighter clasp ? 
 O God ! can I not save 
 One from the pitiless wave ? 
 Is all that we see or seem 
 But a dream within a dream? 
 
DREAM-LAND, 171 
 
 DREAM-LAND. 
 
 [ Y a route obscure and lonely. 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have reached these lands but newly 
 From an ultimate dim Thule — 
 From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, 
 Out of Space — out of Time. 
 
 Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
 And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, 
 With forms that no man can discover 
 For the dews that drip all over ; 
 Mountains toppling evermore 
 Into seas without a shore ; 
 Seas that restlessly aspire, 
 Surging, unto skies of fire ; 
 Lakes that endlessly outspread 
 Their lone waters — lone and dead, — 
 Their still waters — still and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily. 
 
 By the lakes that thus outspread 
 Their lone waters, lone and dead, — 
 Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
 With the snows of the lolling lily, — 
 
*7* DREAM-LAND. 
 
 By the mountains — near the river 
 Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, — 
 By the gray woods, — by the swamp 
 Where the toad and the newt encamp, — 
 By the dismal tarns and pools 
 Where dwell the Ghouls, — 
 By each spot the most unholy — 
 In each nook most melancholy, — 
 There the traveller meets aghast 
 Sheeted Memories of the Past — 
 Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
 As they pass the wanderer by — 
 White-robed forms of friends long given, 
 In agony, to the Earth — and Heaven. 
 
 For the heart whose woes are legion 
 'T is a peaceful, soothing region — 
 For the spirit that walks in shadow 
 'T is — oh 't is an Eldorado ! 
 But the traveller, travelling through it, 
 May not — dare not openly view it ; 
 Never its mysteries are exposed 
 To the weak human eye unclosed ; 
 So wills its King, who hath forbid 
 The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 
 And thus the sad Soul that here passes 
 Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 
 
TO ZANTE. 173 
 
 By a route obscure and lonely, 
 Haunted by ill angels only, 
 Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
 On a black throne reigns upright, 
 I have wandered home but newly 
 From this ultimate dim Thule. 
 
 TO ZANTE. 
 
 ) AIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, 
 Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! 
 How many memories of what radiant hours 
 At sight of thee and thine at once awake ! 
 How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 
 
 How many thoughts of what entombed hopes ! 
 How many visions of a maiden that is 
 
 No more — no more upon thy verdant slopes ! 
 No more! alas, that magical sad sound 
 
 Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please no more- 
 Thy memory no more ! Accursed ground 
 
 Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 
 O hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante ! 
 " Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante ! " 
 
r 74 EULALIE. 
 
 EULALIE. 
 
 DWELT alone 
 
 In a world of moan, 
 
 And my soul was a stagnant tide, 
 Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing 
 
 bride — 
 Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling 
 bride. 
 
 Ah, less — less bright 
 The stars of the night 
 Than the eyes of the radiant girl ; 
 And never a flake 
 That the vapor can make 
 With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, 
 Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded 
 
 curl — 
 Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble 
 and careless curl. 
 
 Now Doubt — now Pain 
 Come never again, 
 For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, 
 And all day long 
 Shines bright and strong, 
 Astarte within the sky, 
 While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye — 
 While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. 
 
ELDORADO. 1 75 
 
 ELDORADO. 
 
 IJAYLY bedight, 
 A gallant knkrht, 
 
 In sunshine and in shadow, 
 Had journeyed long, 
 Singing a song, 
 
 In search of Eldorado. 
 
 But he grew old — 
 This knight so bold — 
 
 And o'er his heart a shadow 
 Fell as he found 
 No spot of ground 
 
 That looked like Eldorado. 
 
 And, as his strength 
 Failed him at length, 
 
 He met a pilgrim shadow — 
 " Shadow," said he, 
 " Where can it be — 
 
 This land of Eldorado ? " 
 
 " Over the Mountains 
 
 Of the Moon, 
 Down the Valley of the Shadow, 
 
 Ride, boldly ride," 
 
 The shade replied, — 
 " If you seek for Eldorado ! " 
 
1 76 ISRAFEL. 
 
 ISRAFEL* 
 
 N Heaven a spirit doth dwell 
 
 " Whose heart-strings are a lute ; " 
 None sing so wildly well 
 As the angel Israfel, 
 And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 
 Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 
 Of his voice, all mute. 
 
 Tottering above 
 
 In her highest noon, 
 
 The enamored moon 
 Blushes with love, 
 
 While, to listen, the red levin 
 
 (With the rapid Pleiades, even, 
 
 Which were seven), 
 
 Pauses in Heaven. 
 
 And they say (the starry choii 
 
 And the other listening things) 
 That Israfeli's fire 
 Is owing to that lyre 
 
 By which he sits and sings — 
 The trembling living wire 
 Of those unusual strings. 
 
 * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweet- 
 est voice of all God's creatures. — Koran. 
 
ISRAFEL. 177 
 
 But the skies that angel trod, 
 
 Where deep thoughts are a duty — 
 
 Where Love 's a grown-up God — 
 Where the Houri glances are 
 
 Imbued with all the beauty 
 Which we worship in a star. 
 
 Therefore, thou art not wrong, 
 
 Israfeli, who despisest 
 An unimpassioned song ; 
 To thee the laurels belong, 
 
 Best bard, because the wisest ! 
 Merrily live, and long ! 
 
 The ecstasies above 
 
 With thy burning measures suit — 
 
 Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
 With the fervor of thy lute — 
 Well may the stars be mute ! 
 
 Yes, Heaven is thine • but this 
 Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
 Our flowers are merely — flowers, 
 
 And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
 Is the sunshine of ours. 
 
 If I could dwell 
 Where Israfel 
 
 Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
 
1?8 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 He might not sing so wildly well 
 
 A mortal melody, 
 While a bolder note than this might swell 
 
 From my lyre within the sky. 
 
 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 HANK Heaven ! the crisis — 
 
 The danger is past, 
 And the lingering illness 
 
 Is over at last — 
 And the fever called " Living " 
 Is conquered at last. 
 
 Sadly, I know, 
 
 I am shorn of my strength, 
 And no muscle I move 
 
 As I lie at full length — 
 But no matter ! — I feel 
 
 I am better at length. 
 
 And I rest so composed 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 That any beholder 
 
 Might fancy me dead — 
 Might start at beholding me, 
 
 Thinking me dead. 
 
FOR ANNIE. 17c 
 
 The moaning and groaning, 
 
 The sighing and sobbing 
 Are quieted now, 
 
 With that horrible throbbing 
 At heart : — ah, that horrible, 
 
 Horrible throbbing ! 
 
 The sickness — the nausea — 
 
 The pitiless pain — 
 Have ceased, with the fever 
 
 That maddened my brain — 
 With the fever called " Living " 
 
 That burned in my brain. 
 
 And oh ! of all tortures 
 
 That torture the worst 
 Has abated — the terrible 
 
 Torture of thirst 
 For the napthaline river 
 
 Of Passion accurst : — 
 I have drank of a water 
 
 That quenches all thirst : — 
 
 Of a water that flows, 
 
 With a lullaby sound, 
 From a spring but a very few 
 
 Feet under ground — 
 From a cavern not very far 
 
 Down under ground. 
 
180 FOR ANNIE. 
 
 And ah ! let it never 
 
 Be foolishly said 
 That my room it is gloomy 
 
 And narrow my bed ; 
 For man never slept 
 
 In a different bed — 
 And, to sleep, you must slumber 
 
 In just such a bed. 
 
 My tantalized spirit 
 Here blandly reposes, 
 
 Forgetting, or never 
 Regretting its roses — 
 
 Its old agitations 
 
 Of myrtles and roses : 
 
 For now, while so quietly 
 
 Lying, it fancies 
 A holier *odor 
 
 About it, of pansies — 
 A rosemary odor, 
 
 Commingled with pansies — 
 With rue and the beautiful 
 
 Puritan pansies. 
 
 And so it lies happily, 
 
 Bathing in many 
 A dream of the truth 
 
 And the beauty of Annie — 
 
FOR ANNIE. i8l 
 
 Drowned in a bath 
 
 Of the tresses of Annie. 
 
 She tenderly kissed me, 
 
 She fondly caressed, 
 And then I fell gently 
 
 To sleep on her breast — 
 Deeply to sleep 
 
 From the heaven of her breast. 
 
 When the light was extinguished, 
 
 She covered me warm, 
 And she prayed to the angels 
 
 To keep me from harm — 
 To the queen of the angels 
 
 To shield me from harm. 
 
 And I lie so composedly, 
 
 Now, in my bed, 
 (Knowing her love) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 And I rest so contentedly, 
 
 Now in my bed, 
 (With her love at my breast) 
 
 That you fancy me dead — 
 That you shudder to look at me, 
 
 Thinking me dead : — 
 
1 82 BRIDAL BALLAD. 
 
 But my heart it is brighter 
 
 Than all of the many 
 Stars in the sky, 
 
 For it sparkles with Annie - 
 It glows with the light 
 
 Of the love of my Annie — 
 With the thought of the light 
 
 Of the eyes of my Annie. 
 
 TO 
 
 HEED not that my earthly lot 
 
 Hath — little of Earth in it — 
 That years of love have been forgot 
 
 In the hatred of a minute : — 
 I mourn not that the desolate 
 Are happier, sweet, than I, 
 But that you sorrow for my fate 
 Who am a passer-by. 
 
 BRIDAL BALLAD. 
 
 HE ring is on my hand, 
 
 And the wreath is on my brow ; 
 Satins and jewels grand 
 Are all at my command, 
 And I am happy now. 
 
BRIDAL BALLAD. 1 83 
 
 And my lord he loves me well \ 
 
 But, .when first he breathed his vow, 
 
 I felt my bosom swell — 
 
 For the words rang as a knell, 
 
 And the voice seemed his who fell 
 
 In the battle down the dell, 
 And who is happy now. 
 
 But he spoke to reassure me, 
 
 And he kissed my pallid brow, 
 While a reverie came o'er me, 
 And to the church-yard bore me, 
 And I sighed to him before me, 
 Thinking him dead D'Elormie, 
 
 " Oh, I am happy now ! " 
 
 And thus the words were spoken, 
 
 And this the plighted vow, 
 And, though my faith be broken, 
 And, though my heart be broken, 
 Behold the golden token 
 
 That proves me happy now ! 
 
 Would God I could awaken ! 
 
 For I dream I know not how, 
 And my soul is sorely shaken 
 Lest an evil step be taken, — 
 Lest the dead who is forsaken 
 
 May not be happy now. 
 
TO F- 
 
 TO F . 
 
 fELOVED ! amid the earnest woes 
 
 That crowd around my earthly path- 
 (Drear path, alas ! where grows 
 Not even one lonely rose) ■ — 
 
 My soul at least a solace hath 
 In dreams of thee, and therein knows 
 An Eden of bland repose. 
 
 And thus my memory is to me 
 
 Like some enchanted far-off isle 
 In some tumultuous sea — 
 Some ocean throbbing far and free 
 
 With storms — but where meanwhile 
 Serenest skies continually 
 
 Just o'er that one bright island smile. 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. i$$ 
 
 SCENES FROM "POLITIAN"; 
 
 AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 
 
 I. 
 ROME. — A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione. 
 
 LESSANDRA. Thou art sad, Castiglione, 
 
 Castiglione. Sad ! — not I. 
 
 Oh, I 'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome ! 
 A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 
 Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! 
 
 A less. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing 
 Thy happiness ! - — what ails thee, cousin of mine ? 
 Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? 
 
 Cas. Did I sigh ? 
 I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 
 A silly — a most silly fashion I have 
 When I am very happy. Did I sigh ? {Sighing.) 
 
 Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast 
 indulged 
 Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
 Late hours and wine, Castiglione, — these 
 Will ruin thee ! thou art already altered — 
 Thy looks are haggard — nothing so wears away 
 The constitution as late hours and wine. 
 
J 86 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN, 
 
 >> 
 
 Cas. (musing). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing — not 
 even deep sorrow — 
 Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
 I will amend. 
 
 A/ess. Do it ! I would have thee drop 
 Thy riotous company, too — fellows low born — 
 111 suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir 
 And Alessandra's husband. 
 
 Cas. I will drop them. 
 
 A/ess. Thou wilt — thou must. . Attend thou also 
 more 
 To thy dress and equipage — they are over plain 
 For thy lofty rank and fashion — much depends 
 Upon appearances. 
 
 Cas, I '11 see to it. 
 
 A/ess. Then see to it ! — pay more attention, sir, 
 To a becoming carriage — much thou wantest 
 In dignity. 
 
 Cas. Much, much, oh much I want 
 In proper dignity. 
 
 A/ess. (haughtily) . Thou mockest me, sir ! 
 
 Cas. (abstractedly) . Sweet, gentle Lalage ! 
 
 A/ess. Heard I aright ? 
 I speak to him — he speaks of Lalage ! 
 Sir Count ! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art 
 
 thou dreaming ? he 's not well ! 
 What ails thee, sir ? 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 187 
 
 Cas, {starting). Cousin ! fair cousin ! — madam ! 
 I crave thy pardon — indeed I am not well — 
 Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 
 This air is most oppressive ! — Madam — the Duke ! 
 
 Enter Di Broglio. 
 
 Di Broglio. My son, I've news for thee ! — hey? — 
 what 's the matter ? (observing Alessandra.) 
 V the pouts ? Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her, 
 You dog ! and make it up, I say, this minute ! 
 I Ve news for you both. Politian is expected 
 Hourly in Rome — Politian, Earl of Leicester ! 
 We '11 have him at the wedding. 'T is his first visit 
 To the imperial city. 
 
 A/ess. What ! Politian 
 Of Britain, Earl of Leicester ? 
 
 Di Brog. The same, my love. 
 We '11 have him at the wedding. A man quite young 
 In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him, 
 But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy 
 Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth, 
 And high descent. We '11 have him at the wedding. 
 
 A/ess. I have heard much of this Politian. 
 Gay, volatile, and giddy — is he not ? 
 And little given to thinking. 
 
 Di Brog. Far from it, love. 
 No branch, they say, of all philosophy 
 So deep, abstruse he has not mastered it. 
 Learned as few are learned. 
 
l8S SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 A/ess. 'T is very strange ! 
 I have known men have seen Politian 
 And sought his company. They speak of him 
 As of one who entered madly into life, 
 Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. 
 
 Cas. Ridiculous! Now /have seen Politian 
 And know him well — nor learned nor mirthful he. 
 He is a dreamer and a man shut out 
 From common passions. 
 
 Di Brog. Children, we disagree. 
 Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air 
 Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear 
 Politian was a melancholy man ? {Exeunt) 
 
 II. 
 
 ROME. — A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking 
 into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on 
 which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the background 
 Jacinta (a servant-maid) leans carelessly upon a chair. 
 
 Lai. Jacinta ! is it thou ? 
 Jac. {pertly) . Yes, ma'am, I 'm here. 
 Lai. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
 Sit down ! — let not my presence trouble you — 
 Sit down! — for I am humble, most humble. 
 Jac. {aside), 'T is time. 
 
 ( Jacinta seats herself in a sidelong manner upon 
 the chair, resting her elbows ipon the back, and 
 regarding her mistress with a contemptuous 
 look. Lalage continues to read.) 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 1 89 
 
 Lai. " It in another climate, so he said, 
 Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil ! " 
 
 {Pauses — turns over some leaves ', and resumes.} 
 " No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor show T er — 
 But Ocean ever to refresh mankind 
 Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." 
 Oh, beautiful ! — most beautiful ! — how like 
 To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven ! 
 O happy land! {pauses). She died! — the maiden 
 
 died! 
 O still more happy maiden who couldst die ! 
 Jacinta ! 
 
 {Jacinta returns no aiiswer, and Lalage presently 
 resumes. ) 
 Again ! a similar tale 
 
 Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea ! 
 Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play, 
 " She died full young " — one Bossola answers him — 
 u I think not so — her infelicity 
 
 Seemed to have years too many " — Ah, luckless lady ! 
 Jacinta ! {Still no answer.) 
 
 Here 's a far sterner story 
 But like — oh, very like in its despair — 
 Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily 
 A thousand hearts — losing at length her own.. 
 She died. Thus endeth the history — and her maids 
 Lean over her and weep — two gentle maids 
 
19° SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 With gentle names — Eiros and Charmion ! 
 Rainbow and dove ! Jacinta ! 
 
 Jac. {pettishly). Madam, what is it ? 
 
 LaL Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind 
 As go down in the library and bring me 
 The Holy Evangelists ? 
 
 Jac. Pshaw ! {Exit.) 
 
 LaL If there be balm 
 For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there ! 
 Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble 
 Will there be found — " dew sweeter far than that 
 Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." 
 
 {Re-enter Jacinta^ and throzus a volume on the 
 table?) 
 There, ma'am, 's the book. {Aside.) Indeed she is 
 very troublesome. 
 
 Lai. {astonished). What didst thou say, Jacinta ? 
 Have done aught 
 To grieve thee or to vex thee ? — I am sorry. 
 For thou hast served me long and ever been 
 Trustworthy and respectful. {Resumes her reading?) 
 
 Jac. {aside). I can't believe 
 She has any more jewels — no — no — she gave me all. 
 
 LaL What didst thou say, Jacinta ? Now I bethink 
 me 
 Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
 How fares good Ugo ? — and when is it to be ? 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. ' 191 
 
 Can I do aught ! — is there no further aid 
 Thou needest, Jacinta ? 
 
 Jac. {aside). Is there no further aid ! 
 That 's meant for me. — I 'm sure, madam, you need not 
 Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 
 
 Lai. Jewels ! Jacinta, — now indeed, Jacinta, 
 I thought not of the jewels. 
 
 Jac. Oh ! perhaps not ! 
 But then I might have sworn it. After all 
 There 's Ugo says the ring is only paste, 
 For he 's sure the Count Castiglione never 
 Would have given a real diamond to such as you ; 
 And at the best I 'm certain, madam, you cannot 
 Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 {Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon 
 the table — after a short pause raises it.) 
 
 LaL Poor Lalage ! — and is it to come to this ? 
 Thy servant-maid ! — but courage ! — 't is but a viper 
 Who thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! 
 
 {Taking up the mirror.) 
 Ha ! here at least 's a friend — too much a friend 
 In earlier days — a friend will not deceive thee 
 Fair mirror and true ! now tell me (for thou canst) 
 A tale — a pretty tale — and heed thou not 
 Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. 
 It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, 
 
192 
 
 And Beauty long deceased — remembers me 
 
 Of Joy departed — Hope, the Seraph Hope, 
 
 Inurned and intombed ! now, in a tone 
 
 Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, 
 
 Whispers of early grave untimely yawning 
 
 For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true! — thou liest 
 
 not ! 
 Thou hast no end to gain — no heart to break — 
 
 Castiglione lied who said he loved 
 
 Thou true — he false ! — false ! — false ! 
 
 ( While she speaks, a rnonk e?iters her apartment, 
 and app?'oaches unobserved. ) 
 
 Monk. Refuge thou hast, 
 Sweet daughter ! in Heaven. Think of eternal things ! 
 Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray ! 
 
 Lai. {a?'ising hurriedly). I cannot pray! — My soul 
 is at war with God ! 
 The frightful sounds of merriment below 
 Disturb my senses — go ! I cannot pray — 
 The sweet airs from the garden w r orry me ! 
 Thy presence grieves me — go ! — thy priestly raiment 
 Fills me with dread — thy ebony crucifix 
 With horror and awe ! 
 
 Monk. Think of thy precious soul ! 
 
 Lai. Think of my early days ! — think of my father 
 And mother in Heaven ! think of our quiet home, 
 And the rivulet that ran before the door ! 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." l 93 
 
 Think of my little sisters — think of them ! 
 
 And think of me ! — think of my trusting love 
 
 And confidence — his vows — my ruin — think — think 
 
 Of my unspeakable misery ! begone ! 
 
 Yet stay ! yet stay ! — what was it thou saidst of prayer 
 And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith 
 And vows before the throne ? 
 
 Monk. I did. 
 
 Lai. 'T is well. 
 There is a vow were fitting should be made — 
 A sacred vow, imperative and urgent, 
 A solemn vow ! 
 
 Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well ! 
 
 LaL Father, this zeal is anything but well ! 
 Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing ? 
 A crucifix whereon to register 
 This sacred vow ? (He hands her his own.) 
 Not that — Oh ! no ! — no ! — no ! (Shuddering.) 
 Not that ! Not that ! — I tell thee, holy man, 
 Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me ! 
 Stand back ! I have a crucifix mvself, — 
 I have a crucifix ! Methinks 't were fitting 
 The deed — the vow — the symbol of the deed — 
 And the deed's register should tally, father ! 
 
 (Draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.) 
 Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine 
 Is written in Heaven ! 
 
J 94 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter, 
 And speak a purpose unholy — thy lips are livid — 
 Thine eyes are wild — tempt not the wrath divine ! 
 Pause ere too late ! — Oh be not — be not rash ! 
 Swear not the oath — oh swear it not ! 
 
 Lai. 'T is sworn ! 
 
 III. 
 
 An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar. 
 
 Baldazzar. — Arouse thee now, Politian ! 
 Thou must not — nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not 
 Give way unto these humors. Be thyself ! 
 Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
 And live, for now thou diest ! 
 
 Politian. Not so, Baldazzar ! 
 Surely I live. 
 
 Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me 
 To see thee thus. 
 
 Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
 To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. . 
 Command me, sir ! what wouldst thou have me do ? 
 At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
 Which from my forefathers I did inherit, 
 Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, 
 And be no more Pol'tian, but some other. 
 Command me, sir ! 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." x 95 
 
 Bal. To the field, then — to the field — 
 To the senate or the field. 
 
 Pol. Alas ! alas ! 
 There is an imp would follow me even there ! 
 There is an imp hath followed me even there ! 
 There is what voice was that? 
 
 Bal. I heard it not. 
 I heard not any voice except thine own, 
 And the echo of thine own. 
 
 Pol. Then I but dreamed. 
 
 Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams : the camp — the 
 court 
 Befit thee — Fame awaits thee — Glory calls — 
 And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear 
 In hearkening to. imaginary sounds 
 And phantom voices. 
 
 Pol. It is a phantom voice ! 
 Didst thou not hear it then ? 
 
 Bal. I heard it not. 
 
 Pol. Thou heardst it not ! — Baldazzar, speak no 
 more 
 To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 
 Oh ! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, 
 Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities 
 Of the populous Earth ! Bear with me yet awhile ! 
 We have been boys together — school-fellows — 
 And now are friends — yet shall not be so long — 
 
196 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 
 A kind and gentle office, and a Power — 
 A Power august, benignant, and supreme — 
 Shall then absolve thee of all further duties 
 Unto thy fiend. 
 
 BaL Thou speakest a fearful riddle 
 I will not understand. 
 
 PoL Yet now as Fate 
 Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, 
 The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, 
 And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas ! alas ! 
 I cannot die, having within my heart 
 So keen a relish for the beautiful 
 As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air 
 Is balmier now than it was wont to be — 
 Rich melodies are floating in the winds — 
 A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth — 
 And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 
 Sitteth in Heaven. — Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say 
 Thou nearest not now, Baldazzar ? 
 
 BaL Indeed I hear not. 
 
 PoL Not hear it ? — listen now — listen ! — the 
 faintest sound 
 And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! 
 A lady's voice ! — and sorrow in the tone ! 
 Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! 
 Again ! — again ! — how solemnly it falls 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 1 97 
 
 Into my heart of hearts ! that eloquent voice 
 Surely I never heard — yet it were well 
 Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones 
 In earlier days ! 
 
 BaL I myself hear it now. 
 Be still ! — the voice, if I mistake not greatly, 
 Proceeds from yonder lattice — which you may see 
 Very plainly through the window — it belongs, 
 Does it not ? unto this palace of the Duke. 
 The singer is undoubtedly beneath 
 The roof of his Excellency — and perhaps 
 Is even that Alessandra of whom he spake 
 As the betrothed of Castiglione, 
 His son and heir. 
 
 Pol. Be still ! — it comes again ! 
 
 Voice " And is thy heart so strong 
 (very faintly) . As for to leave me thus 
 
 Who hath loved thee so long 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay — say nay ! " 
 
 BaL The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
 In merry England — never so plaintively — 
 Hist ! hist ! it comes again ! 
 
J 9% SCENES FROM " POLITIAtf." 
 
 Voice "Is it so strong 
 
 {more loudly). As for to leave me thus 
 
 Who hath loved thee so long 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 Say nay — say nay ! " 
 
 BaL 'T is hushed and all is still ! 
 
 Pol. All is not still. 
 
 BaL Let us go down. 
 
 Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go ! 
 
 BaL The hour is growing late — the Duke awaits 
 us, — 
 Thy presence is expected in the hall 
 Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian ? 
 
 Voice " Who hath loved thee so long, 
 
 {distinctly). In wealth and woe among, 
 And is thy heart so strong ? 
 Say nay — say nay ! " 
 
 BaL Let us descend ! — 't is time. Politian, give 
 These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, 
 Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness 
 Unto the Duke. Arouse thee ! and remember ! 
 
 Pol. Remember ? I do. Lead on ! I do remember. 
 
 {Going.) 
 Let us descend. Believe me I would give, 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 1 99 
 
 Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 
 To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice — 
 " To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear 
 Once more that silent tongue." 
 
 Bal. Let me beg you, sir, 
 Descend with me — the Duke may be offended. 
 Let us go down, I pray you. 
 
 Voice {loudly). Say nay ! — say nay ! 
 
 Pol. {aside). 'T is strange! — 'tis very strange — 
 methought the voice 
 Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay ! 
 
 {Approaching the window?) 
 Sweet voice ! I heed thee, and will surely stay. 
 Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate, 
 Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make 
 Apology unto the Duke for me ; 
 I go not down to-night. 
 
 Bal. Your lordship's pleasure 
 Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. 
 
 Pol. Good-night, my friend, good-night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The gardens of a palace — Moonlight. Lalage and Politian. 
 
 Lalage. And dost thou speak of love 
 To me> Politian ? dost thou speak of love 
 
200 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 
 
 To Lalage ? — ah woe — ah woe is me ! 
 
 This mockery is most cruel — most cruel indeed ! 
 
 Politian. Weep not ! oh, sob not thus ! — thy bitter 
 tears 
 Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage — 
 Be comforted ! I know — I know it all, 
 And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest, 
 And beautiful Lalage ! turn here thine eyes ! 
 Thou askest me if I could speak of love, 
 Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen. 
 Thou askest me that — and thus I answer thee — 
 Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. 
 
 {Kneeling.) 
 Sweet Lalage, I love thee — love thee — love thee; 
 Thro' good and ill — thro' weal and woe I love thee. 
 Not mother, with her first-born on her knee, 
 Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 
 Not on God's altar, in any time or clime, 
 Earned there a holier fire than burnetii now 
 Within my spirit for thee. And do I love ? 
 
 {Arising.) 
 Even for thy woes I love thee — even for thy woes — 
 Thy beauty and thy woes. 
 
 LaL Alas, proud Earl, 
 Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me ! 
 How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens 
 Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 201 
 
 Could the dishonored Lalage abide ? 
 
 Thy wife, and with a tainted memory — 
 
 My seared and blighted name, how would it tally 
 
 With the ancestral honors of thy house, 
 
 And with thy glory ? 
 
 Pol. Speak not to me of glory ! 
 I hate — I loathe the name ; I do abhor 
 The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
 Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ? 
 Do I not love ? — art thou not beautiful ? — 
 What need we more ? Ha ! glory ! — now speak not of it 
 By all I hold most sacred and most solemn — 
 By all my wishes now — my fears hereafter — - 
 By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven — 
 There is no deed I would more glory in, 
 Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory 
 And trample it under foot. What matters it — 
 What matters it, my fairest, and my best, 
 That we go down unhonored and forgotten 
 Into the dust — so we descend together ? 
 Descend together — and then — and then perchance — 
 
 Lai. Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 
 
 Pol. And then perchance 
 Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
 The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, 
 And still — 
 
 LaL Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 
 
202 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 
 
 PoL And still together — together. 
 
 Lai. Now, Earl of Leicester ! 
 Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts 
 I feel thou lovest me truly. 
 
 Pol. Oh, Lalage ! {Throwing himself upon his knee.) 
 And lovest thou me ? 
 
 Lai. Hist I hush ! Within the gloom 
 Of yonder trees methought a figure past — 
 A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless — 
 Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. 
 
 ( Walks across and returns. ) 
 I was mistaken — 't was but a giant bough 
 Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! 
 
 PoL My Lalage — my love ! why art thou moved ? 
 Why dost thou turn so pale ? Not Conscience' self, 
 Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, 
 Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night-wind 
 Is chilly — and these melancholy boughs 
 Throw over all things a gloom. 
 
 Lai. Politian ! 
 Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land 
 With which all tongues are busy — a land new found — 
 Miraculously found by one of Genoa — 
 A thousand leagues within the golden west ? 
 A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, 
 And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests, [winds 
 
 And mountains, around whose towering summits the 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 203 
 
 Of Heaven untrammelled flow — which air to breathe 
 Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter 
 In days that are to come ? 
 
 Pol. O, wilt thou — wilt thou 
 Fly to that Paradise — my Lai age, wilt thou 
 Fly thither with me ? There Care shall be forgotten, 
 And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 
 And life shall then be mine, for I will live 
 For thee, and in thine eyes — and thou shalt be 
 No more a mourner — but the radiant Joys 
 Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope 
 Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee 
 And worship thee, and call thee my beloved, 
 My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, 
 My all ; — oh, wilt thou — wilt thou, Lai age, 
 Fly thither with me ? 
 
 Lai. A deed is to be done — 
 Castiglione lives ! 
 
 Pol. And he shall die ! (Exit) 
 
 Lai. {after a pause). And — he — shall — die — alas ! 
 Castiglione die ? Who spoke the words ? 
 Where am I ? — what was it he said ? — Politian ! 
 Thou art not gone — thou art not gone, Politian ! 
 I feel thou art not gone — yet dare not look, 
 Lest I behold thee not ; thou couldst not go 
 With those words upon thy lips — O, speak to me ! 
 And let me hear thy voice — one word — one word, 
 
2 °4 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 To say thou art not gone, — one little sentence, 
 
 To say how thou dost scorn — how thou dost hate 
 
 My womanly weakness. Ha ! ha ! thou art not gone — 
 
 speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go ! 
 
 1 knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. 
 Villain, thou art not gone — thou mockest me ! 
 
 And thus I clutch thee — thus ! He is gone, he is 
 
 gone — 
 Gone — gone. Where am I ? — 't is well — 't is very 
 
 well ! 
 So that the blade be keen — the blow be sure, 
 'T is well, 't is very well — alas ! alas ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The suburbs. Politian alone. 
 
 Politian. This weakness grows upon me, I am faint, 
 And much I fear me ill — it will not do 
 To die ere I have lived ! — Stay — stay thy hand, 
 O Azrael, yet awhile i — Prince of the Powers 
 Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me ! 
 O pity me ! let me not perish now, 
 In the budding of my Paradisal Hope ! 
 Give me to live yet — yet a little while : 
 'T is I who pray for life — I who so late 
 Demanded but to die ! — what sayeth the Count ? 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 205 
 
 . Enter Baldazzar. 
 
 Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of 
 feud 
 Between the Earl Politian and himself. 
 He doth decline your cartel. 
 
 Pol. What didst thou say? 
 What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ? 
 With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 
 Laden from yonder bowers ! — a fairer day, 
 Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 
 No mortal eyes have seen ! — what said the Count ? 
 
 BaL That he, Castiglione, not being aware 
 Of any feud existing, or any cause 
 Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, 
 Cannot accept the challenge. 
 
 Pol. It is most true — 
 All this is very true. When saw you, sir, 
 When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid 
 Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, 
 A heaven so calm as this — so utterly free 
 From the evil taint of clouds ? — and he did say? 
 
 BaL No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir : 
 The Count Castiglione will not fight, 
 Having no cause or quarrel. 
 
 Pol. Now this is true — 
 All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, 
 And I have not forgotten it — thou 'It do me 
 A piece of service ; wilt thou go back and say 
 
206 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. ,, 
 
 Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
 Hold him a villain ? — thus much, I pry thee, say 
 Unto the Count — it is exceeding just 
 He should have cause for quarrel. 
 
 Bal. My lord ! — my friend — 
 
 Pol. {aside). 'Tishe — he comes himself ! {Aloud.) 
 Thou reasonest well. 
 I know what thou wouldst say — not send the message — 
 Well ! — I will think of it — I will not send it. 
 Now prithee, leave me — hither doth come a person 
 With whom affairs of a most private nature 
 I would adjust. 
 
 Bal. I go — to-morrow we meet, 
 Do we not ? — at the Vatican. 
 
 Pol. At the Vatican. {Exit Bal.) 
 
 Enter Castiglione. 
 
 Cas. The Earl of Leicester here ! 
 
 Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, 
 Dost thou not ? that I am here. 
 
 Cas. My lord, some strange, 
 Some singular mistake — misunderstanding — 
 Hath without doubt arisen : thou hast been urged 
 Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
 Some words most unaccountable, in writing, 
 To me, Castiglione ; the bearer being 
 Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 
 Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, 
 
SCENES FROM " POLITIAN. 207 
 
 Having given thee no offence. Ha ! — am I right ? 
 'T was a mistake ? — undoubtedly — we all 
 Do err at times 
 
 Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more ! 
 
 Cos Ha i — draw ! — - and villain ! have at thee then 
 at once, 
 Proud Earl ! {Draws.) 
 
 Pol {drawing). Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
 Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee 
 In the name of Lalage ! 
 
 Cas. {letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity 
 of the stage). 
 Of Lalage ! 
 
 Hold off — thy sacred hand ! — avaunt I say ! 
 Avaunt — I will not fight thee — indeed I dare not. 
 
 Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count ? 
 Shall I be baffled thus ? — now this is well ; 
 Didst say thou darest not ? Ha ! 
 
 Cas. I dare not — dare not — 
 Hold off thy hand — with that beloved name 
 So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee — 
 I cannot — dare not. 
 
 Pol. Now by my halidom 
 I do believe thee ! — coward, I do believe thee ! 
 
 Cas. Ha ! — coward ! — this may not be ! 
 
 {Clutches his sword, and staggers towards Politian, but 
 his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he 
 falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl.) 
 
2o3 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 
 
 Alas ! my lord, 
 It is — it is — most true. In such a cause 
 I am the veriest coward. O pity me ! [thee. 
 
 Pol. {greatly softened}. Alas ! — I do — indeed I pity 
 
 Cas. And Lai age — 
 
 Fol. Scoundrel / — arise and die ! 
 
 Cas. It needeth not be — thus — thus — O let me die 
 Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting 
 That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
 For in the fight I will not raise a hand 
 Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home — 
 
 (baring his bosom). 
 Here is no let or hinderance to thy weapon — 
 Strike home. I will not fight thee. 
 
 Pol. Now s'Death and Hell ! 
 Am I not — am I not sorely — grievously tempted 
 To take thee at thy w T ord ? But mark me, sir : 
 Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare 
 For public insult in the streets — before 
 The eyes of the citizens. I '11 follow thee — 
 Like an avenging spirit I '11 follow thee 
 Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest — 
 Before all Rome I '11 taunt thee, villain — I '11 taunt thee, 
 Dost hear? with cowardice — thou wilt not fight me ? 
 Thou liest ! thou shall! {Exit.) 
 
 Cas. Now this indeed is just ! 
 Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.* 
 
 SONNET — TO SCIENCE. 
 
 CIENCE ! true daughter of Old Time thou art ! 
 Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. 
 Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, 
 Vulture, whose wings are dull realities ? 
 How should he love thee ? or how deem thee w r ise, 
 
 Who w r ouldst not leave him in his wandeiing 
 To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, 
 
 Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing ? 
 Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car ? 
 
 And driven the Hamadryad from the wood 
 To seek a shelter in some happier star? 
 
 Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, 
 The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 
 The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree ? 
 
 * Private reasons — some of which have reference to the sin of. plagiarism, 
 and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems — have induced me, after some 
 hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. 
 They are printed verbatim, without alteration from the original edition, the date 
 of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged. E. A. P. 
 
2IO AL AARAAF. 
 
 AL AARAAF * 
 
 PART I. 
 
 NOTHING earthly save the ray 
 
 (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, 
 
 As in those gardens where the day 
 
 Springs from the gems of Circassy — 
 
 O ! nothing earthly save the thrill 
 
 Of melody in woodland rill — 
 
 Or (music of the passion-hearted) 
 
 Joy's voice so peacefully departed 
 
 That like the murmur in the shell, 
 
 Its echo dwelleth and w r ill dwell — 
 
 O ! nothing of the dross of ours — 
 
 Yet all the beauty — all the flowers 
 
 That list our Love, and deck our bowers — 
 
 Adorn yon world afar, afar — 
 
 The wandering star. 
 
 'Twas a sweet time for Nesace — for there 
 Her world lay lolling on the golden air, 
 Near four bright suns — a temporary rest — 
 An oasis in desert of the blest. 
 
 * A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe, which appeared suddenly in the heav- 
 ens ; attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter ; then as sud« 
 denly disappeared, and has never been seen since. 
 
AL AARAAF. 211 
 
 Away — away— 'mid seas of rays that roll 
 Empyrean splendor o'er the unchained soul — 
 The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) 
 Can struggle to its destin'd eminence — 
 To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, 
 And late to ours, the f avor'd one of God — 
 But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, 
 She throws aside the sceptre — leaves the helm, 
 And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, 
 Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs. 
 
 Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, 
 Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty " into birth, 
 (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, 
 Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, 
 It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) 
 She look'd into Infinity — and knelt. 
 Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled — 
 Fit emblems of the model of her world — 
 Seen but in beauty — not impeding sight 
 Of other beauty glittering thro' the light — 
 A wreath that twined each starry form around, 
 And all the opal'd air in color bound. 
 
 All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed 
 Of flowers : of lilies such as rear'd the head 
 On the fair Capo Deucato, # and sprang 
 So eagerly around about to hang 
 
 * On Santa Maura — olira Deucadia. 
 
212 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Upon the flying footsteps of — deep pride — 
 Of her who lov'd a mortal — and so died.* 
 The Sephalica, budding with young bees, 
 Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees : 
 And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'df — 
 Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd 
 All other loveliness : its honied dew 
 (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) 
 Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, 
 And fell on gardens of the unforgiven 
 In Trebizond — and on a sunny flower. 
 So like its own above that, to this hour, 
 It still remaineth, torturing the bee 
 With madness, and unwonted reverie : 
 In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 
 And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief 
 Disconsolate linger — grief that hangs her head, 
 Repenting follies that full long have fled, 
 Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, 
 Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair : 
 Nyctanthes- too, as sacred as the light 
 She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : 
 And Clytia t pondering between many a sun, 
 While pettish tears adown her petals run : 
 
 * Sappho. 
 
 t This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, 
 feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated. 
 
 t Clytia, — the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known 
 term, the Turnsol, — which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like 
 
AL AARAAF. 213 
 
 And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth 
 And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, 5 * 
 Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing 
 Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king : 
 And Valisnerian lotus t thither flown 
 From struggling with the waters of the Rhone : 
 And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante ! $ 
 Isola d'oro ! Fior di Levante ! 
 And the Nelumbo bud § that floats for ever 
 With Indian Cupid down the holy river — 
 Fair flowers, and fairy ! to whose care is given 
 To bear the Goddess' song in odors, up to Heaven : || 
 "Spirit! that dwellest where, 
 
 In the deep sky, 
 The terrible and fair, 
 
 In beauty vie ! 
 
 Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh 
 its flowers during the most violent heat of the day. — B. de St. Pierre. 
 
 * There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris a species of serpentine aloes 
 without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower exhales a strong odor of the 
 vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow 
 till towards the month of July : you then perceive it gradually open its petals, ex- 
 pand them, fade and die. — St. Bierre. 
 
 t There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its 
 stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet, thus preserving its head above 
 water in the swellings of the river. 
 
 % The Hyacinth. 
 
 § It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these 
 down the river Ganges, and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood. 
 
 II And golden vials full of odors which are the piayers of the saints. — Rev. SU 
 John. 
 
214 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Beyond the line of blue — 
 
 The boundary of the star 
 Which turneth at the view 
 
 Of thy barrier and thy bar — 
 Of the barrier overgone 
 
 By the comets who were cast 
 From their pride, and from their throne 
 
 To be drudges till the last — 
 To be carriers of fire 
 
 (The red fire of their heart) 
 With speed that may not tire 
 
 And with pain that shall not part — 
 Who livest — that we know — 
 
 In Eternity — we feel — 
 But the shadow of whose brow 
 
 What spirit shall reveal ? 
 Thro' the beings whom thy Nesace, 
 
 Thy messenger hath known 
 Have dream'd for thy Infinity 
 
 A model of their own # — 
 
 * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a 
 human form. — Vide Clarke' s Sermons, vol. z, page 26, fol. edit. 
 
 The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which would 
 appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine ; but it will be seen immediately, 
 that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most 
 ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church. — Dr. Sumner's Notes o?i Milton's 
 Christian Doctrine. 
 
 This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have 
 been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned for the 
 
AL AARAAF. 215 
 
 Thy will is done, O God ! 
 
 The star hath ridden high 
 Thro' many a tempest, but she rode 
 
 Beneath thy burning eye ; 
 And here, in thought, to thee — 
 
 In thought that can alone 
 Ascend thy empire and so be 
 A partner of thy throne — 
 By winged Fantasy,* 
 
 My embassy is given, 
 Till secrecy shall knowledge be 
 In the environs of Heaven. " 
 She ceas'd — and buried then her burning cheek 
 Abash'd amid the lilies there, to seek 
 A shelter from the fervor of His eye ; 
 For the stars trembled at the Deity. 
 She stirr'd not — breath'd not — for a voice was there 
 How solemnly pervading the calm air ! 
 
 opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His 
 disciples were called Anthropomorphites. — Vide Du Pin. 
 Among Milton's minor poems are these lines : 
 
 Dicite sacrorum praesides nemorum Deae, etc. 
 Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine 
 Natura solers finxit humanum genus? 
 Eternus, incorruptus, sequaevus polo, 
 
 Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. — And afterwards, I 
 
 Non cui profundum Czecitas lumen dedit 
 Dircaeus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc. 
 * Seltsamen Tochter Jovis 
 Seinem Schosskinde | 
 
 Der Phantasie. — Goethe. 
 
2l6 AL AARAAF. 
 
 A sound of silence on the startled ear 
 
 Which dreamy poets name " the music of the sphere." 
 
 Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call 
 
 " Silence " — which is the merest word of all. 
 
 All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things 
 
 Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings — 
 
 But ah ! not so when, thus, in realms on high 
 
 The eternal voice of God is passing by, 
 
 And the red winds are withering in the sky ! 
 
 " What tho' in worlds which sightless # cycles run, 
 Link'd to a little system, and one sun — 
 Where all my love is folly, and the crowd 
 Still think my terrors but the thunder-cloud, 
 The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath — 
 (Ah ! will they cross me in my angrier path ?) 
 What tho* in worlds which own a single sun 
 The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, 
 Yet thine is my resplendency, so given 
 To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven, 
 Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, 
 With all thy train, athwart the moony sky — 
 Apart — like fire-flies t in Sicilian night, 
 And wing to other worlds another light ! 
 Divulge the secrets of thy embassy 
 To the proud orbs that twinkle — and so be 
 
 * Sightless — too small to be seen. — Legge. 
 
 t I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies. They will collect 
 in a body and fly off, from a, common centre, into innumerable radii. 
 
AL AARAAF. 217 
 
 To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban 
 
 Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man ! " 
 
 Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, 
 The single-mooned eve ! — on Earth we plight 
 Our faith to one love — and one moon adore — 
 The birthplace of young Beauty had no more. 
 As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, 
 Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers, 
 And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain 
 Her way — but left not yet her Therassean* reign. 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 High on a mountain of enamell'd head — 
 
 Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed 
 
 Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, 
 
 Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees 
 
 With many a mutter'd " hope to be forgiven " 
 
 What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven — 
 
 Of rosy head, that towering far away 
 
 Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray 
 
 Of sunken suns at eve — at noon of night, 
 
 While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light ■ 
 
 * Therasasa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,, which, in a moment, 
 arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. 
 
2l8 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile 
 
 Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air, 
 
 Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile 
 
 Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, 
 
 And nursled the young mountain in its lair. 
 
 Of molten stars # their pavement, such as fall 
 
 Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall 
 
 Of their own dissolution, while they die — 
 
 Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. 
 
 A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, 
 
 Sat gently on these columns as a crown — 
 
 A window of one circular diamond, there, 
 
 Look'd out above into the purple air, 
 
 And rays from God shot down that meteor chain 
 
 And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, 
 
 Save when, between th 1 Empyrean and that ring, 
 
 Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing. 
 
 But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen 
 
 The dimness of this world : that grayish green 
 
 That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave 
 
 Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave — 
 
 And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout 
 
 That from his marble dwelling peered out, 
 
 Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche — 
 
 Achaian statues in a world so rich ? 
 
 * Some star which, from the ruin'd roof 
 Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall. — Milton. 
 
AL AARAAF. 219 
 
 Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis * — 
 From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 
 Of beautiful Gomorrah ! f Oh ! the wave 
 Is now upon thee — but too late to save ! 
 
 Sound loves to revel in a summer night : 
 Witness the murmur of the gray twilight 
 That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,$ 
 Of many a wild star-gazer long ago — 
 That stealeth ever on the ear of him 
 Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. 
 And sees the darkness coming as a cloud — 
 Is not its form — its voice — most palpable and loud ? § 
 
 But what is this ? — it cometh — and it brings 
 A music with it — J t is the rush of wings — 
 
 * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says. "Je connois bien 1' admiration qu'- 
 inspirentces ruines — maisunpalais erige au pied d'une chaine des rochers sterils 
 
 — peut il etre mi chef d'oeuvre des arts ! " 
 
 t "Oh! the wave"— Uia Deguisi is the Turkish appellation ; but, on its own 
 shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more 
 than two cities engulfed in the " dead sea." In the valley of Siddim were five, 
 
 — Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom, and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions 
 eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulfed) — but the last is out of all reason. 
 
 It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrell, 
 Troilo, D'Arvieux] that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, 
 etc , are seen above the surface. At any season, such remains may be discovered 
 by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue 
 the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the "Asphaltites." 
 
 % Eyraco — Chaldea. 
 
 § I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it 
 stole over the horizon. 
 
220 AL AARAAF. 
 
 A pause — and then a sweeping, falling strain 
 And Nesace is in her hails again. 
 From the wild energy of wanton haste 
 
 Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart ; 
 And zone that clung around her gentle waist 
 
 Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. 
 Within the centre of that hall to breathe 
 She paus'd and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath, 
 - The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair 
 And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there ! 
 
 Young flowers # were whispering in melody 
 To happy flowers that night — and tree to tree \ 
 Fountains were gushing music as they fell 
 In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell ; 
 Yet silence came upon material things — 
 Fair flowers, bright waterfalls, and angel wings — 
 And sound alone that from the spirit sprang 
 Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang : — 
 
 " 'Neath blue-bell or streamer — 
 Or tufted wild spray 
 That keeps, from the dreamer, 
 The moonbeam away f — 
 
 * Fairies use flowers for their charactery. — Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 t In Scripture is this passage : " The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the 
 moon by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has 
 the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its 
 rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes. 
 
AL AARAAF. 221 
 
 Bright beings ! that ponder. 
 
 With half-closing eyes, 
 On the stars which your wonder 
 
 Hath drawn from the skies, 
 Till they glance thro' the shade, and 
 
 Come down to your brow 
 Like — eyes of the maiden 
 
 Who calls on you now — 
 Arise ! from your dreaming 
 
 In violet bowers, 
 To duty beseeming 
 
 These star-litten hours — 
 And shake from your tresses 
 
 Encumber'd with dew 
 The breath of those kisses 
 
 That cumber them too — 
 (O ! how, without you, Love ! 
 
 Could angels be blest ?) 
 Those kisses of true love 
 
 That lull'd ye to rest ! 
 Up ! shake from your wing 
 
 Each hindering thing : 
 The dew of the night — 
 
 It would weigh down your flight ; 
 And true love caresses — 
 
 O ! leave them apart ! 
 They are light on the tresses, 
 
 But lead on the heart. 
 
222 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Ligeia ! Ligeia ! 
 
 My beautiful one ! 
 Whose harshest idea 
 
 Will to melody run, 
 O ! is it thy will 
 
 On the breezes to toss ? 
 Or, capriciously still, 
 
 Like the lone Albatross,* 
 Incumbent on night 
 
 (As she on the air) 
 To keep watch with delight 
 
 On the harmony there ? 
 
 " Ligeia ! wherever 
 
 Thy image may be, 
 No magic shall sever 
 
 Thy music from thee. 
 Thou hast bound many eyes 
 
 In a dreamy sleep — 
 But the strains still arise 
 
 Which thy vigilance keep — 
 The sound of the rain 
 
 Which leaps down to the flower, 
 And dances again 
 
 In the rhythm of the shower — 
 
 * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. 
 
AL AARAAF. 223 
 
 The murmur that springs* 
 
 From the growing of grass 
 Are the music of things — 
 
 But are modell'd, alas ! — 
 Away, then, my dearest, 
 
 O ! hie the away 
 To springs that lie clearest 
 
 Beneath the moon-ray — 
 To lone lake that smiles, 
 
 In its dream of deep rest, 
 At the many star-isles 
 
 That enjewel its breast — 
 Where wild flow T ers, creeping, ' 
 
 Have mingled their shade, 
 On its margin- is sleeping 
 
 Full many a maid — 
 Some have left the cool glade, and 
 
 Have slept with the bee f — 
 
 * I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain 
 and quote from memory : " The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade 
 and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the 
 forest do make when they growe." 
 
 t The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. 
 
 The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance 
 of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claude 
 Halero — in whose mouth I admired its effect : — 
 
 O ! were there an island, 
 
 Tho' ever so wild 
 Where woman might smile, and 
 
 No man be beguil'd, etc. 
 
224 AL AARAAF. 
 
 Arouse them my maiden, 
 
 On moorland and lea — 
 Go ! breathe on their slumber, 
 
 All softly in ear, 
 The musical number 
 
 They slumber'd to hear — 
 For what can awaken 
 
 An angel so soon, 
 Whose sleep hath been taken 
 
 Beneath the cold moon, 
 As the spell which no slumber 
 
 Of witchery may test, 
 The rhythmical number 
 
 Which luird him to rest ? " 
 
 Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, 
 
 A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro', 
 
 Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight 
 
 Seraphs in all but " Knowledge," the keen light 
 
 That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar 
 
 O Death ! from eye of God upon that star : 
 
 Sweet was that error — sweeter still that death — 
 
 Sweet was that error — ev'n with us the breath 
 
 Of Science dims the mirror of our joy — 
 
 To them 't were the Simoom, and would destroy — 
 
 For what (to them) availeth it to know 
 
 That Truth is Falsehood — or that Bliss is Woe ? 
 
AL AARAAF. 2 2 5 
 
 Sweet was their death — with them to die was rife 
 
 With the last ecstacy of satiate life — 
 
 Beyond that death no immortality — 
 
 But sleep that pondereth and is not " to be " — 
 
 And there — oh ! may my weary spirit dwell — 
 
 Apart from Heaven's Eternity — and yet how far from 
 
 Hell ! * 
 What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim, 
 Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn ? 
 But two : they fell : for Heaven no grace imparts 
 To those w 7 ho hear not for their beating hearts. 
 A maiden-angel and her seraph -lover — 
 O i where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) 
 Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known ? 
 Unguided Love hath fallen — 'mid " tears of perfect 
 moan."t 
 
 * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men 
 suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness 
 which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment. 
 Un no rompido sueno — 
 Un dia puro — allegre — libre 
 Quiera — 
 
 Libre de amor — de zelo — 
 
 De odio — de esperanza — de rezelo. — Luis Ponce de Leon. 
 Sorrow is not excluded from " Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the liv- 
 ing love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the 
 delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of 
 spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures — the price of which, 
 to those souls who make choice of " Al Aaraaf' 1 as the residence after life, is finaJ 
 death and annihilation. 
 
 t There be tears of perfect moan 
 Wept for thee in Helicon. — Milton* 
 
2 26 AL AARAAF. 
 
 He was a goodly spirit — he who fell : 
 
 A wanderer by mossy-mantled well — 
 
 A gazer on the lights that shine above — 
 
 A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love ! 
 
 What wonder ? for each star is eye-like there, 
 
 And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair — 
 
 And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy 
 
 To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. 
 
 The night had found (to him a night of woe) 
 
 Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo — 
 
 Beetling, it bends athwart the solemn sky, 
 
 And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie, 
 
 Here sate he with his love — his dark eye bent 
 
 With eagle gaze along the firmament : 
 
 Now turn'd it upon her — but ever then 
 
 It trembled to the orb of Earth again. 
 
 "Ianthe, dearest, see ! how dim that ray ! 
 How lovely 't is to look so far away ! 
 She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve 
 I left her gorgeous halls — nor mourned to leave. 
 That eve — that eve — I should remember well — 
 The sun-ray dropp'd, in Lemnos, with a spell 
 On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall 
 Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall — 
 And on my eyelids — oh the heavy light ! 
 How drowsily it weigh'd them into night ! 
 
AL AARAAF. 227 
 
 On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran 
 
 With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan : 
 
 But oh that light ! — I slumber'd — Death, the while, 
 
 Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle 
 
 So softly that no single silken hair 
 
 Awoke that slept — or knew that he w r as there. 
 
 " The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon 
 Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon # — 
 More beauty clung around her column'd wall 
 Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,t 
 And when old Time my wing did disenthral 
 Thence sprang I — as the eagle from his tower, 
 And years I left behind me in an hour. 
 What time upon her airy bounds I hung 
 One half the garden of her globe was flung 
 Unrolling as a chart unto my view — 
 Tenantless cities of the desert too ! 
 Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then, 
 And half I wish'd to be again of men. " 
 
 " My Angelo ! and why of them to be ? 
 A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee — 
 And greener fields than in yon world above, _ 
 And woman's loveliness — and passionate love." 
 
 1 It was entire in 1687 — the most elevated spot in Athens, 
 t Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 
 Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. — Marlowe* 
 
228 
 
 AL AARAAF. 
 
 " But, list, Ianthe ! when the air so soft 
 FaiFd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,* 
 Perhaps my brain grew dizzy — but the world 
 I left so late was into chaos hurFd — 
 Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, 
 And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 
 Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar, 
 And fell — not swiftly as I rose before, 
 But with a downward, tremulous motion thro' 
 Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto ! 
 Nor long the measure of my falling hours. 
 For nearest of all stars was thine to ours — 
 Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth, 
 A red Daedalion on the timid Earth. 
 
 " We came — and to thy Earth — but not to us 
 Be given our lady's bidding to discuss : 
 We came, my love \ around, above, below, 
 Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go, 
 Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod 
 She grants to us, as granted by her God — 
 But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurl'd 
 Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world ! 
 Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes 
 Alone could see the phantom in the skies, 
 
 * Pennon — for pinion. — Milton* 
 
TO THE RIVER . 229 
 
 When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be 
 
 Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea — 
 
 But when its glory swell'd upon the sky, 
 
 As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, 
 
 We paus'd before the heritage of men, 
 
 And thy star trembled — as doth Beauty then ! " 
 
 Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away [day. 
 The night that waned and waned and brought no 
 They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts 
 Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 
 
 TO THE RIVER 
 
 AIR river ! in thy bright, clear flow 
 Of crystal, wandering water, 
 
 Thou art an emblem of the glow 
 
 Of beauty — the unhidden heart- 
 
 The playful maziness of art 
 
 In old Alberto's daughter ; 
 1 
 But when within thy wave she looks — 
 
 Which glistens then, and trembles — 
 Why, then, the prettiest of brooks 
 
 Her worshipper resembles ; 
 For in his heart, as in thy stream, 
 
 Her image deeply lies — 
 His heart which trembles at the beam 
 
 Of her soul-searching eyes. 
 
230 TAMERLANE. 
 
 TAMERLANE. 
 
 |]IND solace in a dying hour ! 
 
 Such, father, is not (now) my theme — 
 I will not madly deem that power 
 
 Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
 Unearthly pride hath revell'd in — 
 I have no time to dote or dream : 
 You call it hope — that fire of fire ! 
 It is but agony of desire : 
 If I can hope — oh God ! I can — 
 
 Its fount is holier — more divine — 
 I would not call thee fool, old man, 
 But such is not a gift of thine. 
 
 Know thou the secret of a spirit 
 
 Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. 
 O yearning heart ! I did inherit 
 
 Thy withering portion with the fame, 
 The searing glory which hath shone 
 Amid the jewels of my throne, 
 Halo of Hell ! and with a pain 
 Not Hell shall make me fear again — 
 O craving heart, for the lost flowers 
 And sunshine of my summer hours ! 
 The undying voice of that dead time, 
 With its interminable chime, 
 Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
 Upon thy emptiness — a knell. 
 
TAMERLANE. 23 I 
 
 I have not always been as now : 
 The fever'd diadem on my brow 
 
 I claim'd and won usurpingly — 
 Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
 
 Rome to the Cassar — this to me ? 
 The heritage of a kingly mind, 
 And a proud spirit which hath striven 
 
 Triumphantly with human kind. 
 On mountain soil I first drew life : 
 
 The mists of the Taglay have shed 
 Nightly their dews upon my head, 
 And, I believe, the winged strife 
 And tumult of the headlong air 
 Have nestled in my very hair. 
 
 So late from Heaven — that dew — it fell 
 
 ('Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
 Upon me with the touch of Hell, 
 
 While the red flashing of the light 
 From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, 
 
 Appeared to my half-closing eye 
 
 The pageantry of monarchy, 
 And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 
 
 Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
 Of human battle, where my voice, 
 
 My own voice, silly child ! — was swelling 
 (O ! how my spirit would rejoice, 
 And leap within me at the cry) 
 The battle-cry of Victory ! 
 
2 $2 TAMERLANE. 
 
 The rain came down upon my head 
 Unshelter'd — and the heavy wind 
 Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. 
 It was but man, I thought, who shed 
 Laurels upon me : and the rush — 
 The torrent of the chilly air 
 Gurgled within my ear the crush 
 
 Of empires — with the captive's prayer — 
 The hum of suitors — and the tone 
 Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 
 
 My passions, from that hapless hour, 
 
 Usurp'd a tyranny which men 
 Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, 
 My innate nature — be it so : 
 
 But, father, there liv'd one who, then, 
 Then — in my boyhood — when their fire 
 
 Burn'd with a still intenser glow 
 (For passion must, with youth, expire) 
 
 E'en then who knew this iron heart 
 
 In woman's weakness had a part. 
 
 I have no words — alas ! — to tell 
 The loveliness of loving well ! 
 Nor Avould I now attempt to trace 
 The more than beauty of a face 
 Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 
 Are — shadows on th' unstable wind : 
 
TAMERLANE. 
 
 Thus I remember having dwelt 
 
 Some page of early lore upon, 
 With loitering eye, till I have felt 
 The letters — with their meaning — melt 
 
 To fantasies — with none. 
 
 O, she was worthy of all love ! 
 
 Love — as in infancy was mine — 
 'T was such as angel minds above 
 
 Might envy y her young heart the shrine 
 On which my every hope and thought 
 
 Were incense — then a goodly gift, 
 For they were childish and upright — 
 Pure — as her young example taught : 
 
 Why did I leave it, and, adrift, 
 Trust to the fire within, for light ? 
 
 We grew in age — and love — together — 
 Roaming the forest and the wild \ 
 
 My breast her shield in wintry weather — 
 And when the friendly sunshine smil'd, 
 
 And she would mark the opening skies, 
 /saw no Heaven — but in her eyes. 
 
 Young Love's first lesson is — the heart : 
 For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles, 
 
 When, from our little cares apart, 
 And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
 
 m> 
 
234 TAMERLANE. 
 
 I 'd throw me on her throbbing breast, 
 And pour my spirit out in tears — 
 
 There was no need to speak the rest — 
 No need to quiet any fears 
 
 Of her — who ask'd no reason why, 
 
 But turn'd on me her quiet eye ! 
 
 Yet more than worthy of the love 
 My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
 When, on the mountain-peak, alone, 
 Ambition lent it a new tone — 
 I had no being — but in thee : 
 
 The world, and all it did contain 
 In the earth — the air — the sea — 
 
 Its joy — its little lot of pain 
 That was new pleasure — the ideal, 
 
 Dim vanities of dreams by night — 
 And dimmer nothings which were real — 
 
 (Shadows — and a more shadowy light !) 
 Parted upon their misty wings, 
 And so, confusedly, became 
 Thine image and — a name — a name ! 
 Two separate — yet most intimate things. 
 
 I was ambitious — have you known 
 
 The passion, father ? You have not : 
 A cottager, I mark'd a throne ♦ 
 Of half the world as all my own, 
 
TAMERLANE. 235 
 
 And miirmur'cl at such lowly lot — 
 But, just like any other dream, 
 
 Upon the vapor of the dew 
 My own had past, did not the beam 
 
 Of beauty- which did while it thro 5 
 The minute — the hour — the day — oppress 
 My mind with double loveliness. 
 
 We walk'd together on the crown 
 
 Of a high mountain which look'd down 
 
 Afar from its proud natural towers 
 
 Of rock and forest, on the hills — 
 The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers 
 
 And shouting with a thousand rills. 
 
 I spoke to her of power and pride, 
 
 But mystically — in such guise 
 That she might deem it nought beside 
 
 The moment's converse \ in her eyes 
 I read, perhaps too carelessly, 
 
 A mingled feeling with my ow r n ; 
 The flush on her bright cheek, to me 
 
 Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
 Too well that I should let it be 
 
 Light in the wilderness alone. 
 
 I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then 
 And donn'd a visionary crown — 
 
236 TAMERLANE. 
 
 Yet it was not that Fantasy 
 Had thrown her mantle over me — 
 But that, among the rabble — men, 
 
 Lion ambition is chain'd down — 
 And crouches to a keeper's hand — 
 Not so in deserts where the grand — 
 The wild — the terrible conspire 
 With their own breath to fan his fire. 
 
 Look 'round thee now on Samarcand ! 
 
 Is she not queen of Earth ? her pride 
 Above all cities ? in her hand 
 
 Their destinies ? in all beside 
 Of glory which the world hath known 
 Stands she not nobly and alone ? 
 Falling — her veriest stepping-stone 
 Shall form the pedestal of a throne — 
 And who her sovereign ? Timour — he 
 
 Whom the astonished people saw 
 Striding o'er empires haughtily 
 
 A diadem'd outlaw ! 
 
 O, human love ! thou spirit given, 
 On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven ! 
 Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
 Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, 
 And, failing in thy power to bless, 
 But leav'st the heart a wilderness ! 
 
TAMERLANE. 
 
 237 
 
 Idea ! which bindest life around 
 With music of so strange a sound 
 And beauty of so wild a birth — 
 Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. 
 
 When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see 
 
 No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
 His pinions were bent droopingly — 
 
 And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 
 'T was sunset ; when the sun will part 
 There comes a sullenness of heart 
 To him who still would look upon 
 The glory of the summer sun. 
 That soul will hate the ev'ning mist 
 So often lovely, and will list 
 To the sound of the coming darkness (known 
 To those whose spirits harken) as one 
 Who, in a dream of night, would fly 
 But cannot from a danger nigh. 
 
 What tho' the moon — the white moon 
 Shed all the splendor of her noon, 
 Her smile is chilly — and her beam, 
 In that time of dreariness, will seem 
 (So like you gather in your breath) 
 A portrait taken after death. 
 And boyhood is a summer sun 
 Whose waning is the dreariest one — 
 
238 TAMERLANE. 
 
 For all we live to know is known, 
 And all we seek to keep hath flown — 
 Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
 With the noonday beauty — which is all. 
 
 I reach'd my home — my home no more - 
 For all had flown who made it so. 
 
 I pass'd from out its mossy door, 
 
 And, tho' my tread was soft and low, 
 
 A voice came from the threshold stone 
 
 Of one whom I had earlier known — 
 O, I defy thee, Hell, to show 
 On beds of fire that burn below, 
 A humbler heart — a deeper woe. 
 
 Father, I firmly do believe — 
 
 I know — for Death who comes for me 
 From regions of the blest afar, 
 Where there is nothing to deceive, 
 Hath left his iron gate ajar, 
 And rays of truth you cannot see 
 Are flashing thro' Eternity — 
 I do believe that Eblis hath 
 A snare in every human path — 
 Else how, when in the holy grove, 
 I wandered of the idol, Love, 
 Who daily scents his snowy wings 
 With incense of burnt offerings 
 
239 
 
 From the most unpolluted things, 
 Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
 Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven, 
 No mote may shun — no tiniest fly — 
 The lightning of his eagle eye — 
 How w r as it that Ambition crept, 
 
 Unseen, amid the revels there, 
 Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt 
 
 In the tangles of Love's very hair ? 
 
 TO 
 
 HE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see 
 
 The wantonest singing birds, 
 Are lips — and all thy melody 
 
 Of lip-begotten words. 
 
 Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined, 
 
 Then desolately fall, 
 O God ! on my funereal mind 
 
 Like starlight on a pall. 
 
 Thy heart — thy heart — I wake and sigh, 
 
 And sleep to dream till day 
 Of the truth that gold can never buy — 
 
 Of the baubles that it may. 
 
240 ROMANCE. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 N visions of the dark night 
 
 I have dreamed of joy departed — 
 
 But a waking dream of life and light 
 Hath left me broken-hearted. 
 
 Ah ! what is not a dream by day 
 
 To him whose eyes are cast 
 On things around him with a ray 
 
 Turned back upon the past? 
 
 That holy dream — that holy dream, 
 While all the world were chiding, 
 
 Hath cheered me as a lovely beam, 
 A lonely spirit guiding. 
 
 What though that light, thro' storm and night, 
 
 So trembled from afar — 
 What could there be more purely bright 
 
 In Truth's day-star ? 
 
 m 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 OMANCE, who loves to nod and sing, 
 With drowsy head and folded wing, 
 Among the green leaves as they shake 
 Far down within some shadowy lake, 
 
FAIRY-LAND. 24 1 
 
 To me a painted paroquet 
 Hath been — a most familiar bird — 
 Taught me my alphabet to say — 
 To lisp my very earliest word 
 While in the wild wood I did lie, 
 A child — with a most knowing eye. 
 
 Of late, eternal Condor years 
 So shake the very Heaven on high 
 With tumult as they thunder by, 
 I have no time for idle cares 
 Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 
 And when an hour with calmer wings 
 Its down upon my spirit flings — 
 That little time with lyre and rhyme 
 To while away — forbidden things ! 
 My heart would feel to be a crime 
 Unless it trembled with the strings. 
 
 y _ 
 
 P 
 
 FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 IM vales — and shadowy floods — 
 And cloudy-looking woods, 
 Whose forms we can't discover 
 For the tears that drip all over : 
 Huge moons there wax and wane — 
 Again — again — again — 
 
242 FAIRY-LAND. 
 
 Every moment of the night — 
 
 Forever changing places — 
 
 And they put out the star-light 
 
 With the breath from their pale faces. 
 
 About twelve by the moon-dial 
 
 One more filmy than the rest 
 
 (A kind which, upon trial, 
 
 They have found to be the best) 
 
 Comes down — still down — and down 
 
 With its centre on the crown 
 
 Of a mountain's eminence, 
 
 While its wide circumference 
 
 In easy drapery falls 
 
 Over hamlets, over halls, 
 
 Wherever they may be — 
 
 O'er the strange woods — o'er the sea- 
 
 Over spirits on the wing — 
 
 Over every drowsy thing — 
 
 And buries them up quite 
 
 In a labyrinth of light — 
 
 And then, how deep ! — oh, deep 
 
 Is the passion of their sleep. 
 
 In the morning they arise, 
 
 And their moony covering 
 
 Is soaring in the skies, 
 
 With the tempests as they toss, 
 
 Like — almost anything — 
 
 Or a yellow Albatross. 
 
THE LAKE. — TO . 243 
 
 They use that moon no more 
 For the same end as before — 
 Videlicet a tent — 
 Which I think extravagant : 
 Its atomies, however, 
 Into a shower dissever, 
 Of which those butterflies, 
 Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
 And so come down again 
 (Never-contented things !) 
 Have brought a specimen 
 Upon their quivering wings. 
 
 THE LAKE. — TO 
 
 N spring of youth it was my lot 
 To haunt of the wide world a spot 
 
 The which I could not love the less - 
 So lovely was the loneliness 
 Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
 And the tall pines that towered around. 
 But when the Night had thrown her pall 
 Upon that spot, as upon all, 
 And the mystic wind went by 
 Murmuring in melody — 
 Then — ah, then I would awake 
 To the terror of the lone lake. 
 
2 44 SONG. 
 
 Yet that terror was not fright, 
 
 But a tremulous delight — 
 
 A feeling not the jewelled mine 
 
 Could teach or bribe me to define — 
 
 Nor Love — although the Love were thine. 
 
 Death was in that poisonous wave, 
 
 And its gulf a fitting grave 
 
 For him who thence could solace bring 
 
 To his lone imagining — 
 
 Whose solitary soul could make 
 
 An Eden of that dim lake. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SAW thee on the bridal day, 
 
 When a burning blush came o'er thee, 
 Though happiness around thee lay, 
 
 The world all love before thee : 
 
 And in thine eye a kindling light 
 
 (Whatever it might be) 
 Was all on Earth my aching sight 
 
 Of Loveliness could see. 
 
 That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame — 
 
 As such it well may pass — 
 Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame 
 
 In the breast of him, alas ! 
 
TO M. L. S . 245 
 
 Who saw thee on that bridal day, 
 
 When that deep blush would come o'er thee, 
 Though happiness around thee lay, 
 
 The world all love before thee. 
 
 TO M. L. S- 
 
 F all who hail thy presence as the morning — 
 Of all to whom thine absence is the night — 
 The blotting utterly from out high heaven 
 The sacred sun — of all who, weeping, bless thee 
 Hourly for hope — for life - — ah ! above all, 
 For the resurrection of deep-buried faith 
 In Truth — in Virtue — in Humanity — 
 Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed 
 Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen 
 At thy soft-murmured words, " Let there be light ! " 
 At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled 
 In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes — 
 Of all who owe thee most — whose gratitude 
 Nearest resembles worship — oh, remember 
 The truest — the most fervently devoted, 
 And think that these weak lines are written by him - 
 By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think 
 His spirit is communing with an angel's. 
 
246 SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. 
 
 HY soul shall find itself alone 
 
 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone — 
 Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 
 Into thine hour of secresy. 
 
 Be silent in that solitude 
 
 Which is not loneliness — for then 
 The spirits of the dead who stood 
 
 In life before thee are again 
 In death around thee — and their will 
 Shall overshadow thee : be still. 
 
 The night — tho' clear — shall frown — 
 And the stars shall not look down 
 From their high thrones, in Heaven, 
 With light like Hope to mortals given — 
 But their red orbs, without beam, 
 To thy weariness shall seem 
 As a burning and a fever 
 Which would cling to thee forever. 
 
 Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish — 
 Now are visions ne'er to vanish — 
 From thy spirit shall they pass 
 No more — like dew-drops from the grass. 
 
TO HELEN. 247 
 
 The breeze — the breath of God — is still — 
 And the mist upon the hill 
 Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken, 
 Is a symbol and a token — 
 How it hangs upon the trees, 
 A mystery of mysteries ! 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 jELEN, thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
 That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
 The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
 
 Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
 To the glory that was Greece 
 And the grandeur that was Rome. 
 
 Lo ! in yon brilliant window-niche 
 How statue-like I see thee stand ! 
 
 The agate lamp within thy hand, 
 
 Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which 
 Are Holy Land ! 
 
248 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 MONK 
 
 ROM childhood's hour I have not been 
 As others were — I have not seen 
 As others saw — I could not bring 
 
 My passions from a common spring. 
 From the same source I have not taken 
 .My sorrow ; I could not awaken 
 My heart to joy at the same tone ; 
 And all I lov'd, / lov'd alone. 
 Then — in my childhood — in the dawn 
 Of a most stormy life — was drawn 
 From ev'ry depth of good and ill 
 The mystery which binds me still : 
 From the torrent, or the fountain, 
 From the red cliff of the mountain, 
 From the sun that 'round me roll'd 
 In its autumn tint of gold — 
 From the lightning in the sky 
 As it pass'd me flying by — 
 From the thunder and the storm, 
 And the cloud that took the form 
 (When the rest of Heaven was blue) 
 Of a demon in my view. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design 
 to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, 
 very much at random, the essentiality of what we call 
 Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consid- 
 eration some few of those minor English or American 
 poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my 
 own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By 
 11 minor poems " I mean, of course, poems of little 
 length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say 
 a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, 
 which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had 
 its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. 
 I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain 
 that the phrase " a long poem " is simply a flat contra- 
 diction in terms. 
 
 I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title 
 only inasmuch as it excites by elevating the soul. The 
 value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating ex- 
 citement. But all excitements are, through a psychal 
 necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which 
 would entitle a poem to be so called at all cannot be 
 
2 5 2 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 sustained throughout a composition of any great length. 
 After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it 
 flags, fails, a revulsion ensues ; and then the poem is, in 
 effect and in fact, no longer such. 
 
 There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty 
 in reconciling the critical dictum that the " Paradise 
 Lost" is to be devoutly admired throughout with the 
 absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during 
 perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical 
 dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to 
 be regarded as poetical only when, losing sight of that 
 vital requisite in all works of art, unity, we view it 
 merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its 
 unity, — its totality of effect or impression, — we read it 
 (as would be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is 
 but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. 
 After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there 
 follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no crit- 
 ical pre-judgment can force us to admire ; but if, upon 
 completing the work, we read it again, omitting the first 
 book, — that is to say, commencing with the second, — 
 we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable 
 which we before condemned, that damnable which 
 we had previously so much admired. It follows from 
 all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect 
 of even the best epic under the sun is a nullity : and 
 this is precisely the fact. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 253 
 
 In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, 
 at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a 
 series of lyrics ; but granting the epic intention, I can 
 say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of 
 art. The modern epic is of the suppositious ancient 
 model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. 
 But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at 
 any time, any very long poem were popular in reality, — 
 which I doubt, — it is at least clear that no very long 
 poem will ever be popular again. 
 
 That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, 
 the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we 
 thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd ; yet we 
 are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely 
 there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered, 
 there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume 
 is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admira- 
 tion from these saturnine pamphlets ! A mountain, to 
 be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude 
 which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the 
 sublime ; but no man is impressed after this fashion 
 by the material grandeur of even " The Columbiad." 
 Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so 
 impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our 
 estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by 
 the pound ; but what else are we to infer from their 
 continual prating about " sustained effort " ? If by 
 
254 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 " sustained effort " any little gentleman has accom- 
 plished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the 
 effort, — if this indeed be a thing commendable, — but 
 let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account. 
 
 It is to be hoped that common-sense, in the time to 
 come, will prefer deciding upon a work of art rather 
 by the impression it makes, by the effect it produces, 
 than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by 
 the amount of " sustained effort " which had been found 
 necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that 
 perseverance is one thing and genius quite another, 
 nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound 
 them. By and by this proposition, with many which I 
 have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. 
 In the mean time, by being generally condemned as 
 falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths. 
 
 On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be 
 improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere 
 epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and 
 then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a 
 profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady 
 pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger 
 has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit- 
 stirring ; but, in general, they have been too imponder- 
 ous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention ; 
 and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown 
 aloft only to be whistled down the wind. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 255 
 
 A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity 
 in depressing a poem, — in keeping it out of the popular 
 view, is afforded by the following exquisite little sere- 
 nade : — 
 
 I arise from dreams of thee 
 
 In the first sweet sleep of night, 
 When the winds are breathing low 
 
 And the stars are shining bright. 
 I arise from dreams of thee, 
 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Has led me — who knows how? — 
 
 To thy chamber- window, sweet ! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 
 On the dark, the silent stream ; 
 The champak odors fail 
 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 The nightingale's complaint, 
 
 It dies upon her heart, 
 As I must die on thine, 
 
 Oh, beloved, as thou art ! 
 
 Oh, lift me from the grass ! 
 
 I die, I faint, I fail ! 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 
256 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 
 My heart beats loud and fast : 
 Oh ! press it close to thine again, 
 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
 Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines, yet 
 no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their 
 warm yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be 
 appreciated by all; but by none so thoroughly as by 
 him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one 
 beloved to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern mid- 
 summer night. 
 
 One of the finest poems by Willis — the very best, in 
 my opinion, which he has ever written — has, no doubt 
 through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept 
 back from its proper position, not less in the critical 
 than in the popular view. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 
 'T was near the twilight tide, 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 Alone walked she, but viewlessly 
 
 Walked spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
 And Honor charmed the air, 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 257 
 
 And all astir looked kind on her, 
 
 And called her good as fair ; 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 
 From lovers warm and true, 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
 
 And the rich came not to woo : 
 But honored well are charms to sell 
 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair, — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make. the spirit quail : 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 
 For this world's peace to pray; 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
 
 Her woman's heart gave way ! — 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven 
 
 By man is cursed alway ! 
 
 In this composition we find it difficult to recognize 
 the Willis who has written so many mere "verses of 
 society. " The lines are not only richly ideal, but full 
 
258 
 
 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident 
 sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain through- 
 out all the other works of this author. 
 
 While the epic mania — while the idea that to merit, 
 in poetry, prolixity is indispensable — has, for some 
 years past, been gradually dying out of the public mind 
 . by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded 
 by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but 
 one which, in the brief period it has already endured, 
 may be said to have accomplished more in the corruption 
 of our poetical literature than all its other enemies 
 combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It 
 has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and 
 indirectly, that the ultimate object of all poetry is truth. 
 Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral ; and 
 by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be 
 adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized 
 this happy idea; and we Bostonians, very especially, 
 have developed it in full. We have taken it into our 
 heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's sake, 
 and to acknowledge such to have been our design, 
 would be to confess ourselves radically wanting in the 
 true poetic dignity and force ; but the simple fact is 
 that, would we but permit ourselves to look into our own 
 souls, we should immediately there discover that under 
 the sun there neither exists nor can exist any work more 
 thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, , than this 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 2 59 
 
 very poem ; this poem per se; this poem which is a 
 poem and nothing more ; this poem written solely for 
 the poem's sake. 
 
 With as deep a reverence for the True as ever in- 
 spired the bosom of man, I would nevertheless limit, 
 in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would 
 limit, to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by 
 dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She 
 has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is so 
 indispensable in Song is precisely all that with which 
 she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her 
 a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. 
 In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than efflo- 
 rescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse ; 
 we must be cool, calm, unimpassioned ; in a word, we 
 must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the 
 exact converse of the poetical. Zfemust be blind indeed 
 who does not perceive the radical and chiasmal differ- 
 ences between the truthful and the poetical modes of 
 inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemp- 
 tion who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist 
 in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters 
 of Poetry and Truth. 
 
 Dividing the world of mind into its three most imme- 
 diately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, 
 Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the mid- 
 dle because it is just this position which, in the mind, 
 
260 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either 
 extreme, but from the Moral Sense is separated by so 
 faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to 
 place some of its operations among the virtues them- 
 selves. Nevertheless, we find the offices of the trio 
 marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intel- 
 lect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of 
 the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. 
 Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, 
 and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with 
 displaying the charms ; waging war upon Vice solely 
 on the ground of her deformity, her disproportion, her 
 animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the har- 
 monious — in a word, to Beauty. 
 
 An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, 
 is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is 
 which administers to his delight in the manifold forms 
 and sounds and odors and sentiments amid which he 
 exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or 
 the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral 
 or written repetition of these forms and sounds and 
 colors and odors and sentiments a duplicate source of 
 delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He 
 who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusi- 
 asm or with however vivid a truth of description, of the 
 sights and sounds and odors and colors and senti- 
 ments which greet him in common with all mankind, — 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 261 
 
 he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There 
 is still a something in the distance which he has been 
 unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, 
 to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. 
 This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at 
 once a consequence and an indication of his perennial 
 existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It 
 is no mere appreciation of the beauty before us, but 
 a wild effort to reach the beauty above. Inspired by an 
 ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we 
 struggle, by multiform combinations among the things 
 and thoughts of time, to attain a portion of that love- 
 liness whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity 
 alone. And thus when by poetry — or when by music, 
 the most entrancing of the poetic moods — we find 
 ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not, as the 
 Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess of pleasure, 
 but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our 
 inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once 
 and forever, those divine and rapturous joys, of which 
 through the poem or through the music, we attain to but 
 brief and indeterminate glimpses. 
 
 The struggle to apprehend the supernal loveliness, 
 this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted, 
 has given to the world all that which it (the world) has 
 ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as 
 poetic. 
 
262 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 The poetic sentiment, of course, may develop itself 
 in various modes, — in painting, in sculpture, in archi- 
 tecture, in the dance, very especially in music, and 
 very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition 
 of the landscape garden. Our present theme, how- 
 ever, has regard only to its manifestation in words. 
 And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. 
 Contenting myself with the certainty that music, in its 
 various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so 
 vast a moment in poetry as never to be wisely rejected, 
 is so vitally important an adjunct that he is simply silly 
 who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to 
 maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in music, per- 
 haps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for 
 which, when inspired by the poetic sentiment, it struggles, 
 — the creation of supernal beauty. It may be, indeed, 
 that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained, in 
 fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, 
 that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot 
 have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can 
 be little doubt that in the union of poetry with music 
 in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for the 
 poetic development. The old bards and minnesingers 
 had advantages which we do not possess ; and Thomas 
 Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate 
 manner, perfecting them as poems. 
 
 To recapitulate, then : — I would define, in brief, the 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 2 &3 
 
 poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty. 
 Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the intellect or with the 
 conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless in- 
 cidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty 
 or with Truth. 
 
 A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure 
 which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and 
 the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the con- 
 templation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of 
 Beauty, we alone find it possible to attain this pleasur- 
 able elevation or excitement of the soul which we recog- 
 nize as the poetic sentiment, and which is so easily dis- 
 tinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the 
 Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the 
 heart. I make Beauty, therefore, using the word as 
 inclusive of the sublime, — I make Beauty the province 
 of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of art 
 that effects should be made to spring as directly as pos- 
 sible from their causes, — no one .as yet having been 
 weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in ques- 
 is at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by no 
 means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion 
 or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, 
 may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage ; 
 for they may subserve, incidentally, in various ways, the 
 general purposes of the work : but the true artist will 
 always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection 
 
264 
 
 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the rea 
 essence of the poem. 
 
 I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall 
 present for your consideration than by the citation of 
 the proem to Mr. Longfellow's "Waif." 
 
 The day is done, and the darkness 
 
 Falls from the wings of Night, 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
 That my soul cannot resist, — 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing, 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles rain. 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 Not from the grand old masters, 
 
 Not from the bards sublime, 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 
 Through the corridors of Time ; 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 265 
 
 For, like strains of martial music, 
 
 Their mighty thoughts suggest 
 Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer 
 Or tears from the eyelids start ; 
 
 Who, through long days of labor 
 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 Such songs have power to quiet 
 
 The restless pulse of care, 
 And come like the benediction 
 
 That follows after prayer. 
 
 Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice, 
 And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice. 
 
 And the night shall be filled with music, 
 
 And the cares that infest the day 
 Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
 
 And as silently steal away. 
 
266 
 
 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 With no great range of imagination, these lines have 
 been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. 
 Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be 
 better than 
 
 The bards sublime, 
 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 Down the corridors of Time. 
 
 The idea of the last quartrain is also very effective. 
 The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be 
 admired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well 
 in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and 
 especially for the ease of the general manner. This 
 Ci ease," or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long 
 been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone, 
 — as a point of really difficult attainment. But not 
 so : a natural manner is difficult only to him who 
 should never meddle with it, — to the unnatural. It is 
 but the result of writing with the understanding, or with 
 the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should always 
 be that which the mass of mankind would adopt, and 
 must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. 
 The author who, after the fashion of " The North 
 American Review," should be, upon all occasions, 
 merely " quiet," must necessarily, upon many occasions, 
 be simply silly or stupid ; and has no more right to be 
 considered "easy" or "natural," than a cockney ex- 
 quisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the wax-works. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 267 
 
 Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much 
 impressed me as the one which he entitles " June." I 
 quote only a portion of it : — 
 
 There, through the long, long summer hours 
 
 The golden light should lie, 
 And thick, young herbs and groups of flowers 
 
 Stand in their beauty by. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-tale, close beside my cell ; 
 
 The idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be heard 
 The housewife-bee and humming-bird. 
 
 And what if cheerful shouts, at noon, 
 
 Come, from the village sent, 
 Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 
 
 With fairy laughter blent ? 
 And what if, in the evening light, 
 Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
 
 Of my low monument ? 
 I would the lovely scene around 
 Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 
 
 I know, I know I should not see 
 
 The season's glorious show, 
 Nor would its brightness shine for me, 
 
 Nor its wild music flow ; 
 
20b THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 But if around my place of sleep, 
 
 The friends I love should come to weep, 
 
 They might not haste to go. 
 Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 
 Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 
 
 These to their softened hearts should bear 
 
 The thought of what has been, 
 And speak of one who cannot share 
 
 The gladness of the scene ; 
 Whose part in all the pomp that fills 
 The circuit of the summer hills, 
 
 Is — that his grave is green ; 
 And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
 To hear again his living voice. 
 
 The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous — noth- 
 ing could be more melodious. The poem has always 
 affected me in a remarkable manner. The intense 
 melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the 
 surface of all the poet's cheerful sayings about his 
 grave, we find thrilling us to the soul, while there is 
 the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression 
 left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the 
 remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, 
 there be more or less of a similar tone always apparent, 
 let me remind you that (how or why we know not) this 
 certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 269 
 
 all the higher manifestations of true beauty. It is, 
 nevertheless, 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain 
 
 The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible 
 even in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as 
 the " Health " of Edward Coate Pinkney : — 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair that, like the air 
 
 'T is less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds, 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burden'd bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
2 JO THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — 
 
 The idol of past years ! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I filPd this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon. 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a frame, 
 That life might be all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 2JI 
 
 It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been 
 born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it 
 is probable that he would have been ranked as the 
 first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal 
 which has so long controlled the destinies of American 
 Letters in conducting the thing called " The North 
 American Review." The poem just cited is especially 
 beautiful ; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we 
 must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's en- 
 thusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident 
 earnestness with which they are uttered. 
 
 It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate 
 upon the merits of what I should read you. These will 
 necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his 
 " Advertisements- from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus 
 once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a 
 very admirable book, whereupon the god asked him 
 for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only 
 busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, 
 Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade 
 him pick out all the chaff for his reward. 
 
 Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the 
 critics; but I am by no means sure that the god was 
 in the right. I am by no means certain that the 
 true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunder- 
 stood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be con- 
 sidered in the light of an axiom, which need only be 
 
272 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 properly//// to become self-evident. It is not excellence 
 if it require to be demonstrated as such : and thus, to 
 point out too particularly the merits of a work of art is 
 to admit that they are not merits altogether. 
 
 Among the " Melodies " of Thomas Moore, is one 
 whose distinguished character as a poem proper, seems 
 to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to 
 his lines beginning " Come, rest in this bosom. " The 
 intense energy of their expression is not surpassed 
 by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in 
 which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in 
 all of the divine passion of love, — a sentiment which, 
 perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more pas- 
 sionate human hearts, than any other single sentiment 
 ever embodied in words : — 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, 
 Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still 
 
 here ; 
 Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, 
 And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 
 
 Oh ! what was love made for, if 9 t is not the same 
 Through joy and through torment, through glory and 
 
 shame ? 
 I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart : 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 273 
 
 Thou hast calPd me thy angel in moments of bliss, 
 And thy angel I ? 11 be, 'mid the horrors of this, — 
 Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, 
 And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too ! 
 
 It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore 
 imagination, while granting him fancy, — a distinction 
 originating with Coleridge, than whom no man more 
 fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The 
 fact is that the fancy of this poet so far predominates 
 over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all 
 other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea 
 that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater 
 mistake, never was a grosser wrong done the fame of 
 a true poet. In the compass of the English language 
 I can call to mind no poem more profoundly, more 
 weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines 
 commencing " I would I were by that dim lake," which 
 are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I 
 am unable to remember them. 
 
 One of the noblest — and, speaking of fancy, one 
 of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets — was 
 Thomas Hood. His " Fair Ines " had always, for me, 
 an inexpressible charm : — 
 
 Oh, saw ye not Fair Ines ? 
 
 She 's gone into the West, 
 To dazzle when the sun is down, 
 
 And rob the world of rest. 
 
2 74 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 She took our daylight with her, 
 The smiles that we love best, 
 
 With morning blushes on her cheek 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 Oh, turn again, fair Ines, 
 
 Before the fall of night, 
 For fear the moon should shine alone, 
 
 And stars unrivall'd bright : 
 And blessed will the lover be 
 
 That walks beneath their light, 
 And breathes the love against thy cheek 
 
 I dare not even write ! 
 
 Would I had been, fair Ines, 
 
 That gallant cavalier 
 Who rode so gayly by thy side, 
 
 And whispered thee so near ! 
 Were there no bonny dames at home, 
 
 Or no true lovers here, 
 That he should cross the seas to win 
 
 The dearest of the dear ? 
 
 I saw thee, lovely Ines, 
 
 Descend along the shore, 
 With a band of noble gentlemen, 
 
 And banners wav'd before ; 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 275 
 
 And gentle youth and maidens gay, 
 
 And snowy plumes they wore ; 
 It would have been a beauteous dream, 
 
 — If it had been no more ! 
 
 Alas, alas, fair Ines ! 
 
 She went away with song, 
 With Music waiting on her steps, 
 
 And shoutings of the throng ; 
 But some were sad and felt no mirth, 
 
 But only Music's wrong, 
 In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, 
 
 To her you Ve loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines ! 
 
 That vessel never bore 
 So fair a lady on its deck, 
 
 Nor danced so light before. 
 Alas for pleasure on the sea 
 
 And sorrow on the shore ! 
 The smile that blest one lover's heart 
 
 Has broken many more ! 
 
 " The Haunted House," by the same author, is one 
 of the truest poems ever written, one of the truest, 
 one of the most unexceptionable, one of the most 
 thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execu- 
 
276 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 tion. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal, imaginative. 
 I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the 
 purposes of this Lecture. In place of it, permit me to 
 offer the universally appreciated " Bridge of Sighs " : — 
 
 One more Unfortunate, 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate, 
 Gone to her death. 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care, — 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments, 
 Clinging like cerements ; 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing. 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing. — 
 
 Touch her not scornfully, 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 Gently and humanly ; 
 Not of the stains of her, 
 All that remains of her 
 Now, is pure womanly. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. *77 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny- 
 Rash and undutiful ; 
 Past all dishonor, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family, 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
 Oozing so clammily ; 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb, 
 Her fair auburn tresses, 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 Where was her home ? 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 Who was her mother ? 
 Had she a sister ? 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 
278 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 Oh, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed ; 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a light 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 From garret to basement, 
 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver, 
 But not the dark arch, 
 Or the black flowing river : 
 Mad from life's history, 
 Glad to death's mystery 
 Swift to be hurl'd — 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 279 
 
 In she plunged boldly, 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran, — - 
 Over the brink of it, 
 Picture it, think of it, 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care, — 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 
 Decently, — kindly, — 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 
2 8o THE POETIC ' PRINCIPLE. 
 
 Cold inhumanity. 
 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest. 
 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 
 Her evil behavior, 
 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its 
 pathos. The versification, although carrying the fanci- 
 ful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless 
 admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the 
 thesis of the poem. 
 
 Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which 
 has never received from the critics the praise which it 
 undoubtedly deserves: — 
 
 Though the day of my destiny 's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 201 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not believe it beguiling, 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me, 
 If their billows excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is delivered 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn ; 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me : 
 
 'T is of thee that I think — not of them. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 
 Though slandered, thou never couldst shake ; 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 
 
 Nor mute, that the world might belie. 
 
2 82 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one : 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'T was folly not sooner to shun ; 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me, 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that which I most cherished, 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
 Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difficult, 
 the versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler 
 theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-ele- 
 vating idea that no man can consider himself entitled 
 to complain of fate, while in his adversity he still retains 
 the unwavering love of woman. 
 
 From Alfred Tennyson — although in perfect sincerity 
 I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived — I 
 have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. 
 I call him and think him the noblest of poets, — not 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 283 
 
 because the impressions he produces are, at all times, 
 the most profound ; not because the poetical excitement 
 which he induces is, at all times, the most intense ; but 
 because it is, at all times, the most ethereal, in other 
 words, the most elevating and the most pure. No poet 
 is so little of the earth, earthv. What I am about to 
 read is from his last long poem, "The Princess": — 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ! 
 Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, 
 In looking on the happy Autumn fields, 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
 That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge, — 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 
 
 Ah ! sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square, — 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 
 
 Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
 
284 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret. 
 O Death in Life ! the days that are no more. 
 
 Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect man- 
 ner, I have endeavored to convey to you my conception 
 of the Poetic Principle, It has been my purpose to 
 suggest that, while this principle itself is, strictly and 
 simply, the human aspiration for supernal beauty, the 
 manifestation of the principle is always found in an 
 elevating excitement of the sou/, quite independent of that 
 passion which is the intoxication of the heart, or of 
 that truth which is the satisfaction of the reason ; for, 
 in regard to passion, alas ! its tendency is to degrade 
 rather than to elevate the soul. Love, on the contrary, 
 — Love, the true, the divine Eros, the Uranian as dis- 
 tinguished from the Dionsean Venus, — is unquestionably 
 the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in 
 regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment 
 of a truth we are led to perceive a harmony where none 
 was apparent before, we experience at once the true 
 poetical effect ; but this effect is referrible to the har- 
 mony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth 
 which merely served to render the harmony manifest. 
 
 We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct 
 conception of what the true poetry is by mere refer- 
 ence to a few of the simple elements which induce in 
 
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 285 
 
 the poet himself the true poetical effect. He recog- 
 nizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the 
 bright orbs that shine in Heaven, in the volutes of 
 the flower, in the clustering of low shrubberies, in the 
 waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall, 
 eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the 
 grouping of clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden 
 brooks, in the gleaming of silver rivers, in the re- 
 pose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring depths 
 of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, 
 in the harp of ^Eolus, in the sighing of the night- 
 wind, in the repining voice of the forest, in the 
 surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh breath 
 of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptu- 
 ous perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor 
 that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undis- 
 covered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unex- 
 plored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all 
 unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chiv- 
 alrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels 
 it in the beauty of woman, — in the grace of her step, 
 in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice, 
 in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of 
 the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her 
 winning endearments, in her burning enthusiasms, in 
 her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional en- 
 durances ; but above all, ah ! far above all, he kneels 
 
286 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 
 
 to it, he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the 
 strength, in the altogether divine majesty of her love. 
 
 Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another 
 brief poem, one very different in character from any 
 that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and is 
 called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern 
 and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and im- 
 piety of warfare, we are not precisely, in that frame of 
 mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, 
 and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. 
 To do this fully, we must identify ourselves, in fancy, 
 with the soul of the old cavalier. 
 
 Then mounte, then mounte, brave gallants all, 
 
 And don your helmes amaine ! 
 Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 
 
 Us to the field againe. 
 No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 
 
 When the sword-hilt 's in our hand ; 
 Heart-whole we '11 part, and no whit sighe 
 
 For the fayrest of the land. 
 Let piping swaine and craven wight 
 
 Thus weepe and puling crye : 
 Our business is like men to fight, 
 
 And hero-like to die. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 jIHARLES DICKENS, in a note now lying before 
 me, alluding to an examination I once made 
 of the mechanism of c 'Barnaby Rudge," says : 
 " By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his 
 * Caleb Williams ' backward ? He first involved his hero 
 in a web of difficulties, forming the second volume, and 
 then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of ac- 
 counting for what had been done." 
 
 I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the 
 part of Godwin — and indeed what he himself acknowl- 
 edges is not altogether in accordance with Mr. Dickens's 
 idea — but the author of " Caleb Williams " was too good 
 an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at 
 least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear 
 than that every plot, worth the name, must be elaborated 
 to its denouement before anything be attempted with the 
 pen. It is only with the denouement constantly in view 
 that we can give a plot its indispensable air of conse- 
 quence, or causation, by making the incidents, and espe- 
 
2 6 6 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 daily the tone, at all points, tend to the development of 
 the intention. 
 
 There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of 
 constructing a story. Either history affords a thesis, or 
 one is suggested by an incident of the day — or, at best, 
 the author sets himself to work in the combination of 
 striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative — 
 designing, generally, to fill in, with description, dialogue, 
 or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, 
 may, from page to page, render themselves apparent. 
 
 I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. 
 Keeping originality always in view — for he is false to 
 himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so 
 easily attainable a source of interest — I say to myself, in 
 the first place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impres- 
 sions, of w 7 hich the heart, the intellect, or (more gener- 
 ally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the 
 present occasion, select ? " Having chosen a novel, first, 
 and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can be 
 best wrought by incident or tone — whether by ordinary 
 incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by pecu- 
 liarity both of incident and tone ; afterward looking about 
 me (or rather within) for such combinations of event or 
 tone as shall best aid me in the construction of the effect. 
 
 I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper 
 might be written by any author who would — that is to 
 say, who could — detail, step by step, the processes by 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 289 
 
 which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate 
 point of completion. Why such a paper has never been 
 given to the world I am much at a loss to say ; but, per- 
 haps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with the 
 omission than any one other cause. Most writers — poets 
 in especial — prefer having it understood that they com- 
 pose by a species of fine frenzy — an ecstatic intuition — 
 and would positively shudder at letting the public 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 histrio. 
 
 I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no 
 means common, in which an author is at all in condition 
 to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been 
 attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell- 
 mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. 
 
 For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the 
 repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least diffi- 
 culty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of 
 *3 
 
29O THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 my compositions ; and since the interest of an analysis, 
 or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, 
 is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in 
 the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of 
 decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which 
 some one of my own works was put together. I select 
 1 ' The Raven " as most generally known. It is my de- 
 sign to render it manifest that no one point in its com- 
 position is referable either to accident or intuition — that 
 the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with 
 the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical 
 problem. 
 
 Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se y the 
 circumstance — or say the necessity — which, in the first 
 place, gave rise to the intention of composing a poem 
 that should suit at once the popular and the critical taste. 
 
 We commence, then, with this intention. 
 
 The initial consideration was that of extent. If any 
 literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we 
 must be content to dispense with the immensely impor- 
 tant effect derivable from unity of impression — for, if two 
 sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and 
 everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, 
 seteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with any- 
 thing that may advance his design, it but remains to be 
 seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to coun- 
 terbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 29 1 
 
 no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, 
 merely a succession of brief ones — that is to say, of brief 
 poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem 
 is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating, 
 the soul ; and all intense excitements are, through a psy- 
 chal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one-half 
 of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose — a succes- 
 sion of poetical excitements interspersed, inevitably, with 
 corresponding depressions — the whole being deprived, 
 through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly im- 
 portant artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect. 
 
 It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, 
 as regards length, to all works of literary art — the limit 
 of a single sitting — and that, although in certain classes 
 of prose composition, such as "Robinson Crusoe" (de- 
 manding no unity), this limit may be advantageously 
 overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. 
 Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to 
 bear mathematical relation to its merit — in other words, 
 to the excitement or elevation — again, in other words, to 
 the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable 
 of inducing ; for it is clear that the brevity must be in 
 direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect : this, 
 with one proviso— that a certain degree of duration is ab- 
 solutely requisite for the production of any effect at all. 
 
 Holding in view these considerations, as well as that de- 
 gree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, 
 
292 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 while not below the critical, taste, I reached at once what 
 I conceived the proper length for my intended poem — a 
 length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hun- 
 dred and eight. 
 
 My next thought concerned the choice of an impres- 
 sion, or effect to be conveyed : and here I may as well ob- 
 serve that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in 
 view the design of rendering the work universally appre- 
 ciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate 
 topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have re- 
 peatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not 
 in the slightest need of demonstration — the point, I mean, 
 that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. 
 A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, 
 which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to 
 misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most 
 intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I be- 
 lieve, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, 
 indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not 
 a quality, as is supposed, but an effect — they refer, in 
 short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul — not 
 of intellect or of heart — upon which I have commented, 
 and which is experienced in consequence of contemplat- 
 ing " the beautiful/' Now I designate Beauty as the pro- 
 vince of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule 
 of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct 
 causes — that objects should be attained through means 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION'. 293 
 
 best adapted for their attainment — no one as yet having 
 been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation al- 
 luded to is most readily attained in the poem. Now the 
 object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the 
 object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, al- 
 though attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more 
 readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a pre- 
 cision, and Passion a homeliness (the truly passionate will 
 comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that 
 Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement or pleasur- 
 able elevation of the soul. It by no means follows from 
 anything here said, that passion, or even truth, may not 
 be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a 
 poem — for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the gen- 
 eral effect, as do discords in music, by contrast — but the 
 true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into 
 proper subservience to the predominant aim, and, second- 
 ly, to envail them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which 
 is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem. 
 
 Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next 
 question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation — 
 and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sad- 
 ness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme develop- 
 ment, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melan- 
 choly is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones. 
 
 The length, the province, and the tone being thus de- 
 termined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the 
 
2 94 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might 
 serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem — 
 some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. 
 In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects, 
 or more properly points, in the theatrical sense, I did not 
 fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so uni- 
 versally employed as that of the refrain. The univer- 
 sality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its 
 intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting 
 it to analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its 
 susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a 
 primitive condition. As commonly 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 con- 
 tinuously novel effects by the variation of the application 
 of the refrain — the refrain itself remaining, for the most 
 part, unvaried. 
 
 These points being settled, 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 insurmountable 
 difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sen- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 295 
 
 tence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sen- 
 tence, 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 arose as to the character of the word. 
 Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the 
 poem into stanzas 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 pro- 
 tracted emphasis, admitted no doubt : and these consid- 
 erations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonor- 
 ous vowel, in connection with r as the most producible 
 consonant. 
 
 The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it be- 
 came necessary to select a word embodying this sound, 
 and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with 
 that melancholy which I had predetermined as the tone 
 of the poem. In such a search it would have been abso- 
 lutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." 
 In fact, it was the very first which presented itself. 
 
 The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous 
 use of the one word "nevermore." In observing the 
 difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently 
 plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not 
 fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the 
 pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously 
 or monotonously spoken by a human being — I did not 
 fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the 
 
296 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of rea- 
 son on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, 
 then, immediately arose the idea of a ;z0«-reasoning crea- 
 ture capable of speech ; and, very naturally, 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 intended tone, 
 
 I had now gone so far as the conception of a raven — 
 the bird of ill omen — monotonously repeating the one 
 word. "Nevermore," at the conclusion of each stanza, 
 in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length afrout one 
 hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object 
 supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself 
 — " Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the 
 universal understanding of mankind, is the most melan- 
 choly ? " Death — was the obvious reply. "And when/' 
 I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poeti- 
 cal ? " From what I have already explained at some 
 length, the answer, here also, is obvious — "When it 
 most closely allies itself to Beauty. The death, then, of a 
 beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical 
 topic in the world— and equally is it beyond doubt that 
 the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved 
 lover." 
 
 I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lament- 
 ing his deceased mistress, and a raven continuously re- 
 peating the word "Nevermore." I had to combine these. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 297 
 
 bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the 
 application of the word repeated ; but the only intelligible 
 mode of such combination is that of imagining the raven 
 employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. 
 And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded 
 for the effect on which I had been depending — that is to 
 say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that 
 I could make the first query propounded by the lover, 
 the first query to which the raven should reply ' ' Never- 
 more ; " that I could make this first query a commonplace 
 one, the second less so, the third still less, and so on — 
 until at length the lover — startled from his original non- 
 chalance by the melancholy character of the word itself, 
 by its frequent repetition, and by a consideration of the 
 ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it — is at length 
 excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a 
 far different character — queries whose solution he has pas- 
 sionately at heart — propounds them, half in superstition 
 and half in that species of despair which delights in self- 
 torture — propounds them not altogether because he be- 
 lieves in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird 
 (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson 
 learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied 
 pleasure in so modeling his questions as to receive from 
 the expected " Nevermore" the most delicious because the 
 most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity 
 thus afforded me — or, more strictly, thus forced upon me 
 13* 
 
290 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 in the progress of the construction — I first established in 
 mind the climax, or concluding query, that query to 
 which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer 
 — that query in reply to which this word " Nevermore " 
 should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow 
 and despair. 
 
 Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning 
 — at the end, where all works of art should begin — for it 
 was here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first 
 put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza : 
 
 " Prophet," said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still if bird or devil ! 
 By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore, 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore ? " 
 Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 
 
 I composed this stanza, at this point, first, that, by es- 
 tablishing the climax, I might the better vary and grad- 
 uate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preced- 
 ing queries of the lover ; and, secondly, that I might 
 definitely settle the rhythm, the meter, and the length and 
 general arrangement of the stanza — as well as graduate 
 the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them 
 might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, 
 in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigor- 
 ous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely en- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 299 
 
 feebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric 
 effect. 
 
 And here I may as well say a few words of the versifi- 
 cation. My first object (as usual) was originality. The 
 extent to which this has been neglected, in versification, is 
 one of the most unaccountable things in the world. Ad- 
 mitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere 
 rhyth?ji, it is still clear that the possible varieties of meter 
 and stanza are 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, that originality (un- 
 less in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a mat- 
 ter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, 
 to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and, although 
 a positive merit of the highest class, demands in its at- 
 tainment less of invention than negation. 
 
 Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the 
 rhythm or meter of " The Raven." The former is trocha- 
 ic ; the latter isoctometer acatalectic, alternating with hep- 
 tameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, 
 and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedanti- 
 cally — the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of 
 a long syllable followed by a short ; the first line of the stan- 
 za consists of eight of these feet — the second of seven and 
 a half (in effect two-thirds) — the third of eight — the fourth 
 of seven and a half — the fifth the same — the sixth three 
 and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, 
 
300 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 has been employed before, and what originality "The 
 Raven " has, is in their combination into stanzas ; nothing 
 even remotely approaching this combination has ever been 
 attempted. The effect of this originality of combination 
 is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel ef- 
 fects arising from an extension of the application of the 
 principles of rhyme and alliteration. 
 
 The next point to be considered was the mode of 
 bringing together the lover and the raven, and the first 
 branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the 
 most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the 
 fields ; but it has always appeared to me that a close cir- 
 cumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect 
 of insulated incident ; it has the force of a frame to a pic- 
 ture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping , 
 concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be 
 confounded with mere unity of place. 
 
 I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber — 
 in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her 
 who had frequented it. The room is represented as 
 richly furnished ; this, in mere pursuance of the ideas I 
 have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the 
 sole true poetical thesis. 
 
 The locale being thus determined, I had now to intro- 
 duce the bird, and the thought of introducing him 
 through the window was inevitable. The idea of mak- 
 ing the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flap- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 3OI 
 
 ping of the wings of the bird against the shutter rs a 
 " tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, 
 by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to 
 admit the incidental effect arising from the lover's throw- 
 ing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting 
 the half fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that 
 knocked. 
 
 I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the 
 raven's seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of 
 contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber. 
 
 I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also, for 
 the effect of contrast between the marble and the plum- 
 age — it being understood that the bust was absolutely 
 suggested 'by the bird — the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, 
 as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and, 
 secondly, for the sonorousness of the word Pallas itself. 
 
 About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed 
 myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening 
 the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the 
 fantastic, approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was 
 admissible, is given to the raven's entrance. He comes 
 in " with many a flirt and flutter." 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he — not a moment stopped or stayed he, 
 But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. 
 
 In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more 
 obviously carried out : 
 
302 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no 
 
 craven, 
 Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore- 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ? " 
 Quoth the Raven " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 The effect of the denouement being thus provided for, I 
 immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most pro- 
 found seriousness ; this tone commencing in the stanza 
 directly following the one last quoted, with the line, 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc. 
 
 From this epoch the lover no longer jests ; no longer sees 
 anything even of the fantastic in the raven's demeanor. 
 He speaks of him as a "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
 and ominous bird of yore/' and feels the "fiery eyes " 
 burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of 
 thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to 
 induce a similar one on the part of the reader — to 
 bring the mind into a proper frame for the denouement — 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 303 
 
 which is now brought about as rapidly and as directly as 
 possible. 
 
 With the denouement proper — with the raven's reply, 
 "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if he shall 
 meet his mistress in another world — the poem, in its ob- 
 vious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to 
 have its completion. So far, everything is within the 
 limits of the accountable — of the real. A raven, having 
 learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and hav- 
 ing escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at 
 midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek ad- 
 mission at a window from which a light still gleams — the 
 chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring 
 over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress de- 
 ceased. The casement being thrown open at the flutter- 
 ing of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most 
 convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, 
 who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's 
 demeanor, demands of it, m jest and without looking for 
 a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its 
 customary word, "Nevermore " — a word which finds im- 
 mediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, 
 giving utterance loud to certain thoughts suggested by 
 the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of 
 " Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the 
 case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the 
 human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superstition, 
 
304 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, 
 the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the 
 anticipated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, 
 to the extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what 
 I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural ter- 
 mination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the 
 limits of the real. 
 
 But in subjects so handled, however skillfully, or with 
 however vivid an array of incident, there is always a cer- 
 tain hardness or nakedness, which repels the artistical- eye. 
 Two things are invariably required — first, some amount 
 of complexity, or, more properly, adaptation ; and sec- 
 ondly, some amount of suggestiveness — some under-cur- 
 rent, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in 
 especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that 
 richness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which 
 we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the 
 excess of the suggested meaning — it is the rendering this 
 the upper instead of the under-current of the theme — 
 which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest 
 kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcenden- 
 talists. 
 
 Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding 
 stanzas of the poem — their suggestiveness being thus 
 made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded 
 them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first 
 apparent in the lines, 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 305 
 
 *' Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 
 my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven l< Nevermore ! " 
 
 It will be observed that the words, "from out my 
 heart," involve the first metaphorical expression in the 
 poem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore," dispose 
 the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously 
 narrated. The reader begins now to regard the raven 
 as emblematical — but it is not until the very last line of 
 the very last stanza, that the intention of making him 
 emblematical of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance 
 is permitted distinctly to be seen : 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 
 
 floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore." 
 
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