The Cask of Amontillado

bs. POLIT

eakness grows u

ear me ill-i

ave lived!-Sta

awhile!-Prince

and the Tomb

! let me no

ng of my Par

ve yet-yet a

ray for life

o die!-What sa

r Bal

owing no cause of

Earl Politia

ecline yo

What dids

it you brought m

sive fragrance

nder bowers!-

worthy Ita

have seen!-what

he, Castiglione

existing,

een your lordsh

cept the

It is m

ery true. Whe

ow, Baldazzar,

ain which we

alm as this-s

aint of clouds?

e, my lord, than

stiglione wi

cause fo

Now thi

Thou art my fri

t forgotten i

ice: wilt thou

that I, the Ear

ain?-thus much,

unt-it is e

ave cause f

My lord!-m

e) 'Tis he-he

hou reaso

wouldst say-not

hink of it-I w

ave me-hither do

irs of a most

ld ad

go-to-morr

t?-at th

At the

Bald

Casti

he Earl of Le

Earl of Leiceste

not, that

My lord, s

mistake-misu

ubt arisen: tho

heat of ange

t unaccountabl

glione; the

uke of Surre

might warrant t

ee no offence.

take?-undou

r at

villain, and

?-and villain? have

ud

ra

s to the exp

ulchre, I do

name of

tig

l his sword

ity of the st

sacred hand!-

ot fight thee-i

not fight with me d

fled thus?-now

thou dares

e I dare n

hand-with tha

hy lips I will

ot-dar

Now, by m

ee!-coward, I d

a!-coward!-th

but his purpose is changed before reaching him, a

! my

most true. I

iest coward.

oftened) Alas!-I do

ione An

oundrel!-ar

deth not be-thus-t

ded knee. It w

deep humiliat

ght I will no

rl of Leicester.

g his

or hindrance

. I will no

ow's Death

not sorely-gri

t thy word? Bu

fly me thus.

sult in the s

e citizens. I'

ing spirit I'

. Before those

l taunt thee, villa

cowardice-thou w

est! th

xi

Now this ind

and most just,

By Sir Thoma

tu

ents

on Po

ems by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor; and, beyond the s

y do yo

lione

w myself. St

e were speakin

litian? Yes! i

ou and I, you

lking in t

Perfe

r it-what of

O nothing-no

othing

ngular that y

hing a

Most singu

n, Castiglio

r, at once wha

you tal

one Was

in opinion t

Him!-

hy, sir, the

Leicester! Yes!-i

indeed. If I

sed were that t

learned no

e Ha! ha!-

, sir, and well I

, it being not

om all the wor

ious man. Be

sitive

one 'Tis

I could not t

e could so mu

truth about

ing with the

rm, we met t

with his frie

ed in Rome. Ha! h

t he gave me o

ou die with laughte

ces and his

ad-such oddi

im-such flashes

such full rel

friend-who, to

avity

I not t

nd yet 'tis strange!

s mistaken! I

l a glo

, so, y

sitive. Whom

ot be t

ne The Ea

rl-but yet it

d Baldazzar. A

itian and

cond welcome

Grace the Du

is the Earl P

er in Grea

n bows h

his

of Surrey. The E

you, for Y

ha! Mos

o our palace,

oble Duke! I am

ther well, my

call your c

ke the noble

thed. You come,

onable. T

ching those

ention of-your

letters, sir, I

be, my friend

!-my friend B

to Your Grace.

tire!-s

What ho! Ben

hambers-show his

dship i

er B

his way,

llowed by

etire!

please you, s

ay-his lordsh

of the evenin

rney-the-inde

rdship. He mu

retur

Retur

very strange

on, I wish to

re mistaken i

rthful, indeed!

as a melan

eun

ents

s of

uction

r to

Point

ar

.

ve therefore herein combined 'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now omitted, whole lines, an

y, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but

akespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world ju

Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his every-day actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would neve

re-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors, improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our a

tique; whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise Regained' is by no means fairly ascertai

referred 'Comus' to

e Lake School. Some years ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a wor

ould be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still happiness. There

llow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is

allow me to express my contempt for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I s

in years; the one imbued in contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their auth

straws, upon t

rch for pearls m

where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding the goddess in a well; witness the light which Ba

liis. He goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is t

in his writings-(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his El Dorado)-but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpse

rent has faded away. His judgment consequently is too correct. This may not be understood,-but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matter

the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'-indeed? then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been done before, no genius can be evinc

l: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day

he's at the

's at the p

e now, and

stifled wi

ears does B

he pony, w

ot ... happ

never mind

con

ling fast, the-st

said,-"Drink, pret

er the hedge, b

ain lamb, with a m

as near, the lam

r cord was teth

ove a sheep from the bottom of my heart. "But there are occasions, dear B--, there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Eve

e!) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), an

wagon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a

rence. His towering intellect! his gigantic

ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu'ell

that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man's poetry, I tre

a Dr. Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B--, think of poetry, and then think

a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to which end music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet s

nvective against him who

doubt, perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the mos

prince has t

than a thief to

ents

- to

daughter of Ol

l things with t

ou thus upon t

e wings are d

ove thee? or ho

t leave him in

easure in the

red with an u

dragged Dian

he Hamadryad

lter in some

torn the Naiad

the green gra

am beneath the

8

o

ents

induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbati

sation brought against Edgar Poe th

tu

Aar

g earthly s

rom flowers) o

gardens wh

m the gems

earthly sav

in woodl

f the passi

so peacefu

he murmur i

elleth and

of the dr

beauty-all

Love, and de

world af

nderin

time for Nes

lolling on t

ght suns-a te

n desert o

id seas of r

dor o'er th' u

carce (the bill

to its dest

es, from time to

rs, the favour

ruler of an

e the sceptre-l

nse and high s

ruple light h

loveliest in y

he "Idea of Bea

aths thro' many

air 'mid pearl

s Achaian, and

into Infini

or canopies, a

of the model

beauty-not i

y glittering t

wined each star

opal'd air i

ly she knel

lilies such as

Capo Deucato

around ab

ng footsteps

v'd a mortal-

, budding wit

urple stem aro

wer, of Trebi

st stars, where

veliness: it

ectar that th

eet, was dropp

gardens of t

d-and on a

wn above that

aineth, tort

s, and unwo

d all its env

f the fairy p

nger-grief that

ies that full

ite breast to

uty, chasten'd,

oo, as sacre

erfume, perfum

ondering betw

tears adown

ng flower that

scarce exalt

dorous heart i

aven, from ga

ian lotus th

with the water

ovely purple p

ro!-Fior

bo bud that f

Cupid down t

nd fairy! to wh

ss' song, in odor

that dwel

e dee

rible a

eaut

he line

dary of

rneth at

rrier and

barrier

mets who

ide, and from

dges till

arriers

fire of t

d that ma

in that sha

st-that

rnity-

hadow of

rit shal

eings whom

enger ha

m'd for t

of the

is done

hath ri

a tempest,

thy burn

in thought

ht that

y empire

r of thy

ged Fa

assy i

cy shall k

nvirons

buried then h

the lilies t

om the fervo

s trembled a

breath'd not-for

pervading t

ilence on th

ts name "the mus

ld of words:

h is the meres

eaks, and ev'

unds from the v

when, thus, i

oice of God i

nds are wither

rlds which sight

ittle system,

love is folly

terrors but the

earthquake, and

cross me in m

orlds which ow

ime grow dimme

my resplend

rets thro' the

ss thy crystal

rain, athwart

e-flies in Sic

ther worlds a

secrets of

orbs that twi

art a barri

totter in the

aiden in the

oned eve!-on

one love-and

e of young Bea

yellow star f

den from her sh

sheeny mountai

t not yet her T

mountain of e

drowsy sheph

turage lying

eavy eyelid,

tter'd "hope t

moon is quadra

, that tower

lit ether, c

s at eve-at n

nc'd with the fai

n such heigh

lumns on th' u

Parian marble

the wave that

e young mounta

their pavement

n air, besilv

dissolution,

the dwelling

ed light from H

these column

ne circular d

bove into th

od shot down th

all the beaut

een th' Empyrea

irit flapp'd

llars Seraph

this world: tha

es the best for

cornice, round

ulptured che

marble dwell

in the shadow

tues in a w

Tadmor and

and the still

Gomorrah! O

thee-but too

o revel in a

urmur of the

pon the ear,

ild star-ga

h ever on th

gazeth on the

darkness comi

ts voice-most pal

his?-it comet

it-'tis the r

en a sweeping,

is in her h

d energy of

flushing, and

clung around h

ath the heavin

ntre of that

panted, Zanth

t that kiss'd

st, yet could bu

were whisper

s that night-an

e gushing mus

lit grove, or m

came upon ma

ight waterfalls

e that from th

o the charm th

ue-bell o

ted wi

s, from t

onbeam

ings! tha

lf-clos

rs which y

wn from

ance thro' t

wn to y

es of t

ls on y

rom your

olet

ty be

ar-litte

from you

er'd w

th of th

mber th

without y

ngels b

sses of

ll'd ye

e from y

ndering

of the

eigh down

e love

ve the

ight on th

d on th

a! Li

autif

harshe

o melo

it t

breezes

ricious

lone Al

ent on

e on t

watch wi

harmony

a! wh

mage

ic sha

sic fr

t bound

reamy

trains st

y vigila

nd of t

s down to

ances

ythm of t

ur that

growing

music of

modell

hen, my

e the

s that li

the mo

lake tha

ream of

many st

ewel its

d flowers

gled the

argin is

many

eft the coo

pt with

them, m

rland

he on the

ftly i

sical

umber'd

at can

gel s

ep hath b

the co

ell which

hery ma

thmical

ll'd him

ng, and angel

aphs burst th'

l hovering on the

but "Knowledge,

racted, thro'

eye of God u

error-sweeter s

error-ev'n wi

ims the mirr

the Simoom, and

them) avail

alsehood-or tha

death-with the

t ecstasy of

death no i

pondereth and

may my weary

Eternity-and yet h

pirit, in wha

stirring summo

ell: for heaven

ar not for thei

el and her s

e may seek the

blind, near so

fallen-'mid "tears

odly spirit

by mossy-ma

e lights that

the moonbea

r each star is

weetly down on

ev'ry mossy sp

aunted heart

found (to him

tain crag,

ends athwart

rry worlds that d

ith his love-h

aze along th

t upon her-b

to the orb o

est, see! how

tis to look

t thus upon t

eous halls-nor

eve-I should

opped, in Lemn

que carving o

, and on the d

elids-O, the

it weighed th

ore, and mist,

n Saadi in

t!-I slumbered-D

senses in th

at no single

pt-or knew tha

t of Earth's

mple called th

ung around her

glowing bosom

Time my wing

I-as the eagle

left behind

on her airy

arden of her g

s a chart u

ities of the

uty crowded

ished to be

and why of

lling-place is

elds than in y

veliness-and p

nthe! when th

pennoned spiri

ain grew dizz

te was into

r station, on

ame, the fiery

weet one, then

swiftly as

nward, tremulo

rays, this gol

measure of my

all stars was

t came, amid a

ion on the t

to thy Earth-

lady's biddin

ove; around,

of the night

eason save

us as grante

han thine gray

ry wing o'er

ittle disk, a

ee the phanto

Aaraaf knew he

herward o'er

glory swelled

uty's bust ben

fore the her

rembled-as dot

urse, the lov

aned and waned a

Heaven to them

r the beating o

8

y in the heavens-attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that

to foot

n Santa Maura

tu

te 3:

tu

y Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, fee

tu

turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dew

tu

and beautiful flower exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does

tu

isnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four f

tu

8: The

tu

as first seen floating in one of these down the river Ga

tu

ull of odors which are the pray

tu

to be understood as having really a human form.-V

heir doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one

l. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in

minor poems a

pr?esides nemo

rimus cujus

rs finxit h

corruptus,

universus e

after

undum C?cita

vidit hunc a

tu

note

en Toch

Schos

Phan

et

tu

tless-too small t

tu

of the fire-flies; they will collect in a body and f

tu

mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose

tu

note

ich, from th

mpus, by misc

lt

tu

ire, in speaking o

s-mais un palais érigé au pied d'une cha?ne de roche

tu

Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen (engulphed) -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 vest

tu

19: Eyrac

tu

ould distinctly hear the sound of the

tu

note

lowers for th

ives of

tu

n Scripture is

arm thee by day, nor

effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face expo

tu

lbatross is said t

tu

an old English tale, which I am now u

origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde

tu

verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however,

there an

ver so

an might

e beguil

tu

where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and ev

rompid

uro-alle

ie

e amor-

esperanza

once d

sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, an

cation are its less holy pleasures-the price of which, to those souls who make cho

tu

note

ears of pe

thee in

lt

tu

tire in 1687-the most

tu

note

e beauty in t

ite breasts of t

rl

tu

Pennon, for p

tu

o

ents

erl

ce in a d

, is not (no

madly dee

y shrive me

ride hath r

time to do

hope-that

t agony

hope-O Go

is holier-

call thee fo

s not a gi

the secret

ts wild prid

heart! I

g portion wi

glory whic

Jewels of

ell! and

all make me

art, for the

ne of my s

voice of tha

intermina

the spirit

emptiness

always be

ed diadem

and won

same fierce

he C?sar-

ge of a ki

spirit which

tly with

soil I fir

f the Tagla

eir dews u

eve, the wi

of the he

led in my

Heaven-that

ms of an u

th the tou

ed flashing

at hung, like

o my half-

antry of

p trumpet-t

edly upon

attle, whe

silly child!

spirit wo

ithin me a

le-cry o

ame down u

d-and the

mad and de

man, I thou

on me: and

nt of the

thin my ea

ith the capt

suitors-a

round a sover

from that h

tyranny

nce I have rea

e nature

there lived o

boyhood-whe

a still in

must, with

ho knew thi

weakness

words-al

ness of lo

I now atte

han beauty

aments, up

on th' uns

member ha

of early

ng eye, till

-with their

asies-w

worthy of

n infancy

as angel

her young he

every hope

se-then a

re childish

young exam

leave it,

fire within

age-and lov

forest, an

shield in wi

friendly sun

d mark the o

eaven-but

first lesson

sunshine, an

our little

g at her gi

on her thro

y spirit o

need to spe

to quiet

asked no

on me her

han worthy

ruggled with

e mountain

lent it a

being-but

and all it

rth-the a

s little l

ew pleasur

es of dream

othings whic

d a more sh

n their mi

confusedl

e and-a na

-yet most in

tious-have

, father? Y

r, I mark

e world as

ed at such

like any o

vapor o

past, did n

hich did wh

the hour-th

th double

together o

untain which

ts proud na

forest, on

hills! begi

g with a th

her of powe

cally-in

ht deem it n

s converse;

rhaps too

feeling wi

her bright

ecome a que

hat I shou

he wildern

yself in gr

d a visio

s not tha

her mantl

among the

ion is cha

es to a ke

eserts wher

he terribl

wn breath to

thee now o

ueen of Eart

cities?

inies? in

ich the wor

not nobly

veriest st

he pedestal

r sovereig

stonished

'er empire

emed o

ve! thou sp

f all we ho

t into the s

iroc-withe

g in thy po

the heart

h bindest

of so str

of so wil

or I have w

eagle that to

eyond him

were bent

turned his

: When the s

a sullenne

still wou

of the s

ll hate the

ovely, and

f the coming d

se spirits h

eam of night

, from a d

e moon-tho'

e splendor

s chilly-an

of drearine

u gather in

t taken a

od is a s

g is the dr

live to kno

seek to kee

n, as the day

n-day beauty

y home-my h

flown who

om out its

tread was s

from the th

m I had ea

thee, He

fire that

heart-a d

firmly d

Death who c

ns of the

is nothing

his iron

f truth yo

ing thro'

eve that

n every h

when in th

of the id

scents his

se of burn

ost unpoll

nt bowers ar

rellised ray

y shun-no

ning of hi

that Ambi

id the rev

bold, he laug

les of Love

8

o

ents

H

hy beaut

Nicean ba

, o'er a pe

wayworn w

wn nativ

seas long w

hair, thy c

irs have br

ory that

ndeur that

brilliant w

like I see

lamp withi

from the r

Holy

8

o

ents

lley o

miled a s

people did

gone unto

o the mild

om their az

tch above

dst of wh

un-light

isitor sha

lley's res

here is m

ve the air

magic s

nd are stirr

ate like th

he misty

nd those clo

through the

, from morn

iolets the

ypes of the

lilies

bove a nam

om out their

ws come do

om off their

tears desc

8

o

ents

ra

a spirit

t-strings a

g so wil

angel I

y Stars (so

r hymns, att

voice,

ring

highe

amoure

s with

listen, th

rapid Plei

were s

s in

ay (the st

her listen

srafel

g to th

he sits a

bling li

unusual

ies that a

thoughts

e's a gro

Houri gl

ith all

worship i

thou art

i, who

passion

he laurel

because t

live a

stasie

urning mea

y joy, thy ha

fervor of

the stars

n is thine

of sweets

s are mere

dow of thy

unshine

could

e Is

t, and he

ot sing so

tal m

r note than t

yre withi

8

tno

trings are a lute, and who has the s

ra

to foot

o

ents

o

that my e

le of Ear

of love hav

tred of a

ot that t

er, sweet

ou sorrow

a pas

8

ents

o

hereat, in d

nest sing

and all t

begotte

n Heaven of h

solatel

n my fun

rlight o

y heart!-I w

to dream

that gold c

ubles tha

8

ents

he R

in thy brigh

l, wander

n emblem o

-the unhi

ul mazine

lberto's

thin thy wa

ens then, a

the prettie

hipper r

heart, as i

ge deep

ich trembles

ul-search

8

ents

nt

o

e on thy

ng blush cam

iness aroun

all love b

e eye a kin

er it m

Earth my

iness co

perhaps, was

it well

w hath raised

east of h

ee on that

blush would c

iness aroun

all love b

8

ents

s of t

hall find

ughts of the

all the cr

e hour of

t in tha

ot lonelin

of the dea

efore the

ound thee-a

shadow the

ho' clear-s

rs shall no

igh thrones

ike Hope to

ed orbs, wi

ariness s

ning and

cling to t

hts thou shal

sions ne'e

pirit shal

dew-drops f

he breath of

mist upo

hadowy-ye

bol and

ngs upon

ry of m

8

ents

Dr

s of the

amed of jo

dream of li

me broke

s not a dr

hose eye

around him

ack upon

dream-that

he world we

d me as a l

spirit

t light, thro'

bled fr

here be more

th's d

8

ents

ma

o loves to

head and f

een leaves a

thin some s

painted

a most fam

my alpha

y very ea

e wild wood

th a most

eternal C

he very He

t as they

time for

ng on the u

hour with

pon my spi

time with ly

way-forbid

uld feel to

embled with

8

ents

ryl

-and shad

dy-looki

ms we can

ars that d

there wax

again-

ment of

changing

ut out the

ath from the

lve by th

filmy tha

which, u

found to b

-still dow

centre on

ntain's

wide cir

draper

lets, ov

r they

ange woods-o

rits on

ry drows

es them

yrinth o

how deep

sion of th

orning t

r moony

ng in th

empests as

most an

llow Al

that mo

ame end a

icet

think ex

mies, h

shower

those but

who seek

come do

ontented

ought a

r quiveri

8

ents

e

of youth i

the wide w

could not lo

was the

ke, with bla

pines that to

Night had t

spot, as

ystic win

ing in

then, I w

ror of the

error was

emulous

not the je

or bribe m

hough the Lo

n that pois

gulf a fi

thence could

lone im

tary soul

of that

8

ents

ing

ontide o

time of

, in thei

e, throug

ighter, c

nets her

in the

m on th

zed

cold

-too col

ssed, as

ecy c

rned awa

Evenin

y glo

r thy bea

y to m

e pro

st in Heav

ore I

istan

colder, lo

8

ents

tat

unfatho

rminabl

ry, and

y early

t dream w

d and waki

s that h

pirit hath

t them p

dream

of eart

ion on m

ghts I wou

ll upon

bright ho

ight time

rdly rest

gh as it

t though

ght I then

8

ents

appies

st day-the h

blighted hea

hope of prid

hath

said I? Yes

ve vanished

of my yout

t them

, what have I

row may e

hou hast po

ll my

est day-the

hall see-ha

glance of pr

l hav

at hope of pr

red with

felt-that br

not li

ts wing was

t flutte

-powerful

hat knew

8

ents

slation fr

stogeiton a

myrtle, my swo

ampions devot

ged in the tyr

ens delive

oes! your deat

eathing isles

hty of old ha

lles and D

yrtle my blade

us, the gall

e at the tu

of Tyrann

rers of Athe

s of Liber

shall cheri

n their ec

8

ents

ea

ung life were

t awakening,

y should brin

long dream were o

er than the

, to him whose

still, upon th

ep passion, f

t be-that dr

s dreams hav

yhood-should i

ill to hope for

elled when the

sky, in dreams

s,-have left

f my imagi

ome, with being

ght-what more co

only once-and

ance shall not

ound me-'twas

n the night, a

n my spirit

slumbers in

r the stars-

hat that night-w

happy, thoug

appy-and I lo

eir vivid col

eting, shadowy

with realit

ous eye, more

and Love-and

in his sunniest

limes of mine im

tu

ents

I have K

forget all ti

ture's univ

ilds-her mounta

rs to Our i

ve known one wi

muning held-a

nd in beauty,

lickering torch

stars, whence h

ght such for hi

spirit knew-n

rvor-what had

may be that my

the moonbeam t

believe that w

overeignty tha

ld-or is it

ied essence

ckening spell d

ght-time, o'er t

pass, when, as

bject-so the t

hich lately s

ed not be-(th

fe-but common

fore us-but

ound, as of a ha

'Tis a symbo

ther worlds sha

our God, to

ould fall from

heart's passion

of the spirit w

Faith-with godli

energy 't hat

wn deep feeli

: Query "f

tu

ents

P?

the burial r

mn song

for the lo

r died s

nds are gaz

her gau

!-oh! to

uty with

ved her for

ted her for

ew in feeb

ove her-th

l me (while

stly broid

ice is gro

uld not si

my tone

such so

ully-so m

ead may fe

he is go

g Hope at

drunk w

d, who is

e dead-de

rfum'd

death upo

ife upon

the coffin

-the mur

gray chamber

the accom

dst in thy

idst not d

t not die

too cal

than frien

and love

he untain

an thrones

re, to the

o requie

thee on t

?an of o

ents

o

olume of 1827 (which was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second published volumes of 1829

on Al

ally, as originally issued. In the edition for 1831, however, this poem, its author's longest, was

rious

ert my

ng summe

w my

clear

will I

me fro

me in

s not the dr

beauty-all

r love or de

gardens, w

idens all

ilver winds

couches

little dw

what on ea

ye is here

lsest and

etest air

sad and s

ee be brok

eacefull

cho still

murmur in

truest typ

ntly fall

framing

s not me

ents

on Ta

he poem as now published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and improvements upon the original,

ents

The Valley of Un

also "The Valley of Unrest" (as "The Valley Nis"), "I

ents

on Ro

the Preface of the 1829 volume, but wi

ears, too wi

like tropic

the garish l

ng the tr

ough vistas t

s of the gen

lackness ye

lightning's

an idle bo

acreon and

ound Anac

passionate

ange alche

s always tur

té to wil

love-his wi

g young and

love with

throw my e

all away

love excep

his with Be

Time, an

ng between

.

soul hath t

e glory and

ath mellow'

fires are

f passion ha

and I now

drunkenn

e glories o

onging ni

my very l

of those wh

, are damn

I swear I

o very shr

pon Time's

my vapid j

ss of the

imp the gre

his shadow

greybeard w

ly my dre

ents

tful

l

od's hour I

were-I hav

saw-I coul

from a com

e source I h

-I could

joy at the

loved-I lo

childhood

stormy lif

depth of

which bind

rrent, or t

d cliff of

n that roun

tumn tint

lightning

ssed me

hunder and

oud that t

est of Heav

mon in

h 17

o

ents

Isa

the vine-c

adows fa

ly cott

ilac's trem

y snowy c

e flowers

dreams, I sa

y nymph fro

s of the f

auteous

en I bade

y spiri

let eye

did overfl

deep, unt

e's se

brow, like

s the Impe

one, with st

d my soul

ever I

y, passio

the lang

e sunset's f

y clear thin

den me

d from thei

ws on the

ly the nigh

et moonli

sic heard

ns of harp

for eve

the voice

r in some

hy gentl

cometh wit

ch on my tong

lous in dr

to the

ry valle

from tree

autiful

of the rad

s accents s

hoes nev

thy sweet vo

d in thy t

!) this rude

eem a

o

ents

llage

pid, restle

alked at

ntle, sil

beauty a

there walk

auty, lik

the moon

ewy mead

very, sile

ntains far

an's star-

winds a-

ilently w

open cott

the elm's l

vement be

h the mos

dying

yriad star

, the heave

s were brigh

ight of st

llow midnig

ht's irrad

e elm-leav

pleasant

istant mur

et, love

nds were hus

rant flower

and unwon

rning all

ld my love

willows by

eart have k

was its ra

y away w

adowy twi

lent, scorn

calmly a

p serene a

auty, all

I walked

h mine eyes

een there c

mories of

e the rain

leaves, co

the elms

owly cot

ord alone w

our lip

I walked

earted e

ilently I

in the nig

uish bound

uth had ne

, like that

t's first dre

the elm-lea

cordant

elodies li

moaning wi

camores wi

the night

e the Autum

sighing foli

rning, midn

f my sor

eart, forge

l, forget

o

ents

rest R

aid th

ands

is prime

rees with g

ors by an

eir streng

irgin

nstant

that ne'e

in th

ivule

nd rare flow

ld ros

ed the

enly lily a

e sun an

winds

and the grape

en in

ove o

d like t

ne fibrils

wrong of i

ken at

n the

ings u

it doth

nge, swe

ilent

ew fountain

e earli

vers

heart whose

e fires its

hence will s

owers, e

radiant flo

o

ents

o

on

blishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide us. "Alone" is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the fac-simile given in Scribner's is alleged to be of his handwriting. If the calligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects from all the ma

ents

To Isa

al over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore." In order, doubtless, to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works in his journal over noms de plume, and as no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it is not impossible that th

ents

se

and of

m locus sin

rv

e most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively alone. The proposition in this form will be admitted at once by those who love the lyre for its own sake and for its spiritual uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach of fallen mortality, and perhaps only one, which owes even more than does music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon earth must in solitude behold that glory. To me at least the presence, not of human life only, but of life, in any other form than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are voiceless, is a stain upon the landscape, is at war with the genius of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the

date a denser population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an object with God that space itself is infinite; for there may be an infinity of matter to fill it; and since we see clearly that the endowment of matter with vitality is a principle-indeed, as far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the operations of Deity, it is scarcely logical to imagine it confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace it, and not extending to those of the august. As we

ching, and often solitary; and the interest with which I have strayed through many a dim deep valley, or gazed into the reflected heaven of many a bright lake, has been an interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and gazed alone. What flippant Fren

ithin all, that I chanced upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf beneath the branches of an

ly lost to sight, seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be absorbed by the deep green foliage of the trees to the east; while in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to

ision took in, one small circular island, profuse

bank and sh

eemed pendu

aspects. The latter was all one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed beneath the eye of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with flowers. The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and Asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful, erect, bright, slender, and graceful, of eastern

int of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed t

the race. Are these green tombs theirs?-or do they yield up their sweet lives as mankind yield up their own? In dying, do they not rather waste away mournfully, rendering unto God little by little their existence, as these trees render

ys about whom I had been pondering, made its way slowly into the darkness from out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams, her attitude seemed indicative of joy, but sorrow deformed it as she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at length rounded

And again and again she made the circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became wh

m moeurs, and its meaning is "fashiona

to foot

ides, Pomponius Mela, in his

ld is a great a

tu

in substance; I do n

tu

tno

s nare per liq

Com

tu

ents

wer of

e weakness of a spirit new

s to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuit

should be at once cognizant of all things, and

cquisition of knowledge! In forever knowing, we are fore

s not The Most

Most Happy) must be still the

urly in knowledge, must not

eep slowly through them thus-and thus-and thus! Even the spiritual vision, is it not at all points arrested by the continuous

ive that the infinity

ch is forever unquenchable within it-since to quench it would be to extinguish the soul's self. Question me then, my Oinos, freely and without fear. Come! we will leave to the left the loud harmo

I understand not what you hinted to me just now of the modes or of the methods of what during

say that the Deit

s. E

hout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only be considered as the me

, this idea would be conside

els, my Oinos, it is s

tions, give rise to that which has all the appearance of creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there were, I w

he secondary creation, and of the only species of creation which ha

nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens-are not

he mathematicians of our globe well knew. They made the special effects, indeed, wrought in the fluid by special impulses, the subject of exact calculation-so that it became easy to determine in what precise period an impulse of given extent would engirdle the orb, and impress (forever) every atom of the atmosphere circumambient. Retrograding, they found no difficulty; from a given effect, under given conditions, in determining the value of the original impulse. Now the mathematicians who saw that the resul

gathos, should th

hin the universe;- and the being of infinite understanding-the being whom we have imagined-might trace the remote undulations of the impulse-trace them upward and onward in their influences upon all particles of all matter-upward and onward forever in their modifications of old forms-or, in other words, in their creation of new-until he found them reflected-unimpressive at last-back from the throne of the Godhead. And not only could such a being do this, but at any epoch, should a given result be afforded him-sho

eak merely of imp

ral proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether-which, since it pe

otion, of whateve

long taught that the source of all motion

os.

child, of the fair Earth which lately perished

. You

oss your mind some thought of the physical power

star-which is the greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brill

es, at the feet of my beloved -I spoke it-with a few passionate sentences-into birth. Its brilliant flowers are the dea

ents

quy of Mo

gs are in

cles-

Born a

rds upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the exp

. D

r eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here

far, and no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms, how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first upspringing that our happiness would strengthe

these griefs, dear Una

h to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know

her Monos in vain? I will be minute in relating al

t what

You hav

hen, commence with the moment of life's cessation-but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you

when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness-holy, august, and blissful days, blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primeval, odorous, and unexplored. Yet these noble exceptions from the general misrule served but to strengthen it by opposition. Alas! we had fallen upon the most evil of all our evil days. The great "movement" -that was the cant term-went on: a diseased commotion, moral and physical. Art-the Arts- arose supreme, and once enthroned, cast chains upon the intellect which had elevated them to power. Man, because he could not but acknowledge the majesty of Nature, fell into childish exultation at his acquired and still-increasing dominion over her elements. Even while he stalked a God in his own fancy, an infantine imbecility came over him. As might be supposed from the origin of his disorder, he grew infected with system, and with abstraction. He enwrapped himself in generalities. Among other odd ideas, that of universal equality gained ground; and in the face of analogy and of God-in despite of the loud warning voice of the laws of gradation so visibly pervading all things in Earth and Heaven-wild attempts at an omniprevalent Democracy were made. Yet this evil sprang necessarily from the leading evil, Knowledge. Man could not both know and succumb. Meantime huge smoking cities arose, innumerable. Green leaves shrank before the hot breath of furnaces. The fair face of Nature was deformed as with the ravages of some loathsome disease. And methinks, sweet Una, even our slumbering sense of the forced and of the far-fetched might have arrested us here. But now it appears that we had worked out our own destruction in the perversion of our taste, or rather in the blind neglect of its culture in the

t purification which alone could efface its rectangular obscenities, should clothe itself anew in the verdure and the mountain-slopes and the smiling waters of Paradise, and be rendered at length a fit dwelling-p

warrant us in believing. Men lived; and died individually. You yourself sickened, and passed into the grave; and thither your constant Una speedily followed you. And though the cen

il and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while I

scence of him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to ste

the corner of the eye, producing a more vivid effect than those which struck the front or interior surface. Yet, in the former instance, this effect was so far anomalous that I appreciated it only as sound- sound sweet or discordant as the matters presenting themselves at my side were light or dark in shade -curved or angular in outline. The hearing, at the same time, although excited in degree, was not irregular in action-estimating real sounds with an extravagance of precision, not less than of sensibility. Touch had undergone a modification more peculiar. Its impressions were tardily received, but pertinaciously retained, and resulted always in the highest physical pleasure. Thus the pressure of your sweet fingers upon my eyelids, at first only recognized through vision, at length, long after their removal, filled my whole being with a sensual delight immeas

vision they affected me as forms; but upon passing to my side their images impressed me with the idea of shrieks, groans, and, oth

ith the first twilight, had grown in strength with the darkness. Suddenly lights were brought into the rooms, and this reverberation became forthwith interrupted into frequent unequal bursts of the same sound, but less dreary and less distinct. The ponderous oppression was in a great measure relieved; and, issuing from the flame of each lamp (for there were many), there flowed unbrokenly into my ears a strain of melodious monotone. And when now, dear Una, approaching the bed upon which I lay outstretched, you sat gently by my

the moral embodiment of man's abstract idea of Time. By the absolute equalization of this movement-or of such as this-had the cycles of the firmamental orbs themselves been adjusted. By its aid I measured the irregularities of the clock upon the mantel, and of the watches of the attendants. Their tickings came sonorously to my ears. The slightest deviations from the true proportion-and these deviations were omniprevalent-affected me just as violations of abstract truth were wont on earth to affect the moral sense. Although no two of the

diminished in distinctness and in volume. Finally they ceased. The perfume in my nostrils died away. Forms affected my vision no longer. The oppression of the Darkness uplifted itself from my bosom. A dull shot like that of electricity pervaded my frame, an

of the bodily presence of one who leans over him, so, sweet Una, I still dully felt that you sat by my side. So, too, when the noon of the second day came, I was not unconscious of those movements which displaced you from my side, which confined me

days and weeks and months; and the soul watched narrowly each second as it flew,

d him into awaking, yet left him half enveloped in dreams-so to me, in the strict embrace of the Shadow, came that light which alone might have had power to startle-the light of enduring Love. Men toiled at the grave in which I lay darkling. They upthrew the damp earth. Upon my mouldering bones there descended the coffin of Una. And now again all was void. That nebulous light had been extinguished. That feeble thrill had vibrated itself into quiescence. Many lustra had supervened. Dust had ret

tno

h the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this may be s

b. l

the soul, taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with beauty and making the man beautiful-minded. ... He will praise a

es of time and of tune, but the poetic diction, sentiment and creation, each in its widest sense. The study of music was with them, in fact,

to foot

ents

tion of Eiro

ring fir

des.-A

do you ca

s be called. You must forget, too, my ea

s is indee

al. The film of the shadow has already passed from off your eyes. Be of heart, and fear nothing. Your allotted days

eft me, and I hear no longer that mad, rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many wate

t is now ten earthly years since I underwent what you undergo-yet the remembrance of it han

. In

on. In

he majesty of all things-of the unknown now known-of the s

cise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward-but back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event which th

ly, fearfully!-this

e no more. Was I mu

last hour of all there hung a cloud of inten

When, coming out from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave-at that period, if I remember aright, the cal

in which the comets were divested of the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not in any degree

any manner grasp. But the truth of a vitally important fact soon makes its way into the understanding of even the most stolid. Finally, all men saw that astronomical knowledge lies not, and they awaited the comet. Its approach was not at first seemingly rapid, nor was its appearance of very unusual character. It was of a dull red, and had little perceptible train. For seven or eight days we saw no material increase in its apparent diameter, and but a partial alteration in its color. Meantime, the ordinary affairs of me

and which served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a

quently in vegetation; of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such discussions were g

their terror was gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms. A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes had disappeared

ivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly alt

and horror. The first sense of pain lay in a rigorous construction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of th

of animal life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the

ed tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now upon us;-even here in Aidenn I shudder while I speak. Let me be brief-brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating all t

ents

- a P

k through the val

of D

s shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will

e, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of A

of his companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way-which was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon-which are madness; and drank deeply-although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay, enshrouded;-the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such an interest in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teos. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies, where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and undefiled shadow-a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draper

ents

ce -

slumber; valleys, crags

"The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the b

on. For many miles on either side of the river's oozy bed is a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long and g

trees rock eternally hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the roots, strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed slumber. And overhead, with a rus

was blood. And I stood in the morass among the tall lilies, and the rain fell upon m

as gray and ghastly, and tall,-and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters engraven in the stones; and I walked through the morass of water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might read the characters

ers to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct-but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovere

shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And I lay close within she

ale legions of the water-lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that came up from among them. And I lay

in the recesses of the morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and fearfully beneath

at upon the head of the man-and the floods of the river came down-and the river was tormented into foam-and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds-and the forest crumbled before the wind-and the thunder rolled

moon ceased to totter up its pathway to heaven-and the thunder died away -and the lightning did not flash-and the clouds hung motionless-and the waters sunk to their level and remained-and the trees ceased to rock-and the water-lilie

is hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters

.

n the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona-but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an e

ents

sa

etic P

r American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "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 somewha

t 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 sustained throughout a comp

f 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 critical prejudgment can force us to admire;

nly that the work is based in an imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of th

shion 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 "sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplished 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 thai common sense, in the time to come,

ever produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in

depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view

rom dream

t sweet sle

nds are bre

rs are shin

rom dream

pirit i

me-who k

amber-win

ring airs

k the sile

mpak od

thoughts

ingale's

upon h

st die

ved as

me from

I faint

ove in ki

s and eye

cold and w

beats lou

close to t

will brea

yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by him who h

r written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept b

s lay alon

r the twi

y there a

ing in h

d she; but,

irits at

the street ben

r charm'

ir looked k

d her goo

od ever g

with ch

h care her b

ers warm

as cold to

ich came

well her cha

ts the s

there was on

girl, l

had unse

the spir

d Scorn she w

ing coul

ow can cle

world's pe

wild prayer di

's heart

orgiven by Ch

is curs

society." The lines are not only richly ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an

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

that with which she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the

so faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the offices of the trio marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is rega

, and colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind-he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave,

t of souls fittingly constituted-has given to the world all that which it (

s of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected-is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles-the creation of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then, attained in fact. We are

f Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only colla

ion of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore-using the word as inclusive of the sublime-I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible from their causes:-no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable

shall present for your consideration, than by

done, and t

the wings

er is waft

agle in h

lights of

h the rain a

of sadness c

oul canno

f sadness a

not akin

mbles so

t resemble

d to me s

e and hear

othe this res

the thoug

he grand o

the bards

tant foot

e corridor

trains of m

hty thoug

ess toil an

ght I lon

some hum

gushed fro

rom the clou

rom the ey

h long day

ts devoi

in his sou

erful m

have powe

ess pulse

like the

lows aft

rom the tre

m of th

the rhyme

ty of th

shall be fil

es that inf

heir tents l

lently st

justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of

ards s

tant foot

corridors

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 mus

o much impressed me as the one which he ent

the long, lon

n light s

g herbs and gr

their b

should bu

e, close bes

le but

im there, and

fe-bee and

cheerful sh

m the vil

maids, benea

ry laugh

, in the ev

lovers wal

low mo

e lovely s

o sadder sig

know I sho

n's glori

s brightness

wild mus

und my plac

love should

t not has

song, and li

them lingeri

soften'd hear

ht of wha

f one who c

ness of

n all the po

t of the s

is grave

ould their h

ain his li

yings 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 yo

of sadness

not akin

mbles so

t resemble

ble even in a poem so full of brilliancy and s

s cup to o

elines

of her

eming

he better

y stars h

air, that l

of earth t

tone is mu

e of morn

ing more t

ver in h

of her hea

her lips

see the b

sue from

are as thou

ures of

gs have th

ess of you

passions, c

her, she

f themselve

l of pa

face one gla

re on t

voice in ec

must lon

, such as

much e

is nigh my

be life's

his cup to

elines

of her

eming

d would on ear

e of suc

might be a

riness

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; b

ts 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 wor

duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It

t 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

his bosom, my o

fled from thee, thy

smile, that no c

a hand all thy

e made for, if '

ough torment, throu

k not, if guilt'

I love thee, w

me thy Angel in

ll be,'mid the h

e, unshrinking, th

and save thee,-or

tes 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

t singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood.

e not f

ne into

when the s

the worl

ur dayligh

s that we

g blushes o

s upon he

gain, fa

he fall

moon should

unrivall

ed will t

beneath t

the love agai

not eve

ad been,

llant c

o gaily by

er'd thee

no bonny da

rue lov

ld cross the

est of t

ee, love

along th

of noble

ers-wave

youth and m

plumes t

e been a bea

ad been

las, fa

away wi

waiting o

ings of t

e sad and fe

y Music

t sang Farewe

u've love

farewell,

ssel ne

lady on

d so ligh

pleasure

ow on th

at blest one

ken man

f the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal-imaginative. I regret that its le

e Unfor

of b

impor

o her

r up te

er wit

'd so s

and so

t her

like ce

he wave

om her c

r up in

not lo

r not sc

her mou

and h

he stain

t remai

pure

deep s

her m

nd und

ll dis

as left

he bea

he lamp

in th

many

dow and

ret to b

d, with

ess by

ak wind

tremble a

the da

ack flowi

life's

death's

to be

re, an

f the

plunged

ter ho

gh rive

e brink

it,-thin

olut

it, dr

if y

r all sli

Eve's

e poor li

so cl

p her

from t

auburn

ondermen

was he

s her

s her

he a

e a br

here a d

and a n

han al

for th

istian

r th

was p

whole c

he had

ly, br

ly, mo

s had c

harsh e

rom its

d's pro

g estr

r up te

er wit

'd so s

and s

limbs

n too

ly,-ki

nd compo

eyes, cl

g so b

ully s

muddy

with t

ok of d

on fut

ing gl

by con

inhum

ng in

her r

er hand

raying

her b

her w

il beh

ng, with

to her

n, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is never

which has never received from the critics

ay of my des

of my fate

art refused

hich so many

with my grief

ot to share

which my spir

ath found

ture around

le which ans

elieve it

reminds m

s are at war

ts I believe

llows excit

they bear m

k of my last h

ents are sunk

that my soul

shall not b

ny a pang t

, but they sha

re, but shall

that I thin

thou didst n

, thou didst

thou forborest

ed, thou never

, thou didst n

ed, it was

ul, 'twas not

at the world

t the world, n

of the man

as not fitte

y not soon

y that error

an I once c

that whatev

ot deprive

f the past, whic

I at least

me that which I

o be deare

t a fountain

aste there st

in the soli

s to my spi

o nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider hi

oblest of poets, not because the impressions he produces are at all times the most profound-not because the poetical excitement which he induces is at all times the most intense-but because it

rs, I know not

depth of some

art, and gathe

n the happy

f the days tha

rst beam glitte

friends up fro

ast which re

h all we love

sh, the days t

range as in da

pipe of half-

rs, when un

owly grows a gl

nge, the days t

mber'd kisse

hose by hopele

re for others;

ove, and wild w

e, the days th

al effect; but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest. We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the harp of ?olus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice of

ng of the Cavalier." With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to symp

teed! of mat

of met

noble heart

on earth

e of the war

eing of

of the tru

from heaven

undering press

eir war-cr

m heaven an

a fiend

en mounte, brav

our helme

iers, Fame an

he fiel

teares shall

ord-hilt's

e'll part, an

ayrest of

waine, and c

e and pul

s is like m

o-like

ents

sophy of

ys-"By the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his Caleb Williams backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of difficu

ot 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 dénouement before anything be attempted with the pen. It i

e 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, general

effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) 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 inci

use. Most writers-poets in especial-prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy-an ecstatic intuition-and would positively shudder at letting the 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 t

at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In g

ered 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 "The Raven" as most

the necessity-which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention of co

then, with th

nything that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say 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 ele

ntageously 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 poe

e the popular, while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper l

en, 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 contemplating "the beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province 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 best adapted for their attainment-no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded 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, alt

ll experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, i

en so universally employed as that of the refrain. The universality 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 forc

refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length.

ollary, the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admit

e in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it

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 reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. H

on at all points, I asked myself-"Of all melancholy topics what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death, was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at som

reply "Nevermore"-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 nonchalance 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 passionately 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 believes in the proph

l works of art should begin; for it was here at this point of my preconsi

ing of evil! prophet s

bends above us-by th

orrow laden, if withi

nted maiden whom the

iant maiden whom the

Raven, "

that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, 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

f variety in mere rhythm, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre 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 (unless i

of a long syllable followed by a short; the first line of the stanza 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 has been employed before, and what o

estion might seem to be a forest, or the fields-but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident-

ies of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished-this in mere pursuanc

instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a des

ven's seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of

t being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird-the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as m

pening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic-approaching as nearly to the ludi

e made he-not a moment

d or lady, perched a

follow, the design is m

rd beguiling my sa

ern decorum of the

rn and shaven, thou," I

ent Raven wandering f

ly name is on the nig

Raven, "

ungainly fowl to hea

little meaning-lit

agreeing that no

with seeing bird ab

he sculptured bust a

name as "N

the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness-this tone comme

lonely on that placid

, 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 ind

pouring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The casement being thrown open at the fluttering 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, in jest and with out looking for a reply, its name. The Raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"-a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasi

daptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness, some undercurrent, 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 o

suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has prece

my heart, and take thy

Raven, "

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

flitting, still is si

of Pallas just ab

the seeming of a dem

him streaming throws

that shadow that lies

lifted-

ents

glish

art from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction a very commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against the poets then. There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless, sincere and although very learned, still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by a p

acter, the attempt might have been considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their antiquity. The criticisms of the editor do not pa

ut awkwardly concealed. No prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry

pherd's Hunting" by Withers-a poem partaking, in a remarkable degree, o

urmur of

st boughs

whose lea

Titan go

dy bush

more inf

ature's be

other wi

help I

churlish p

hat may swe

ry gall o

neness, the

hanging vau

e music of

these hol

den which r

with eld

ortals tha

error tha

chamber

out with

hese and t

ject for

aught me b

omfort an

Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's "Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer-not only as a specimen of the

ndrous thin

ose little

pretty ski

d challenge

had left

, and run ag

nimbler muc

if on the

garden

th roses

that you w

little w

spring-tim

loved to

e beds o

t oft where i

t, till itse

though befo

flaxen li

bank of li

roses it

ps even seem

me 'twould

those rose

chief deli

thus itse

e virgin li

sheets of l

long, it wo

hout, rose

a very lofty order. Every line is an idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief, or the fragrance and warmth and appropriateness of the little nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on he

s if on the

" so overgrown, entangled with roses and lilies, as to be "a little wilderness"-the fawn loving to be there, and there "only"-the maiden seeking it "where it should lie"-

re virgin l

sheets of l

ding lines, whose very hyperbole only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, th

d long, it w

hout, rose

Book of Gems." Ed

to foot

ents

of