The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe / Including Essays on Poetry
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. Therellow-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 sin 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 authstraws, 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 meand 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 veryflitting, 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 pacter, 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