These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random “the rounds of the press.” I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not—they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations of mankind.
E. A. P.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— PAGE THE RAVEN 1 LENORE 9 A VALENTINE 12 THE COLISEUM 13 TO —— —— 15 TO HELEN 17 AN ENIGMA 22 ULALUME 23 TO —— 28 TO MY MOTHER 29 THE BELLS 30 THE CONQUEROR WORM 39 ANNABEL LEE 42 THE VALLEY OF UNREST 46 ISRAFEL 48 SILENCE 52 TO ZANTE 53 TO F——S S. O——D 55 BRIDAL BALLAD 56 THE HAUNTED PALACE 58 EULALIE 62 TO F—— 64 TO ONE IN PARADISE 65 DREAM-LAND 67 HYMN 71 THE SLEEPER 72 FOR ANNIE 76 ELDORADO 82 A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 85 THE CITY IN THE SEA 87 SCENES FROM “POLITIAN;” AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 91
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH:— AL AARAAF 149 SONNET—TO SCIENCE 173 TO THE RIVER —— 174 TAMERLANE 176 TO —— 192 A DREAM 194 ROMANCE 195 FAIRY-LAND 197 THE LAKE.——TO—— 201 SONG 203 TO M. L. S. 204 TO HELEN 205
NOTES TO AL AARAAF 207
THE POETIC PRINCIPLE 217
ILLUSTRATIONS.
ARTIST. ENGRAVER. PAGE Portrait of Edgar Allan Poe. DAGUERREOTYPE _J. Cooper_ xvii
THE RAVEN. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 1
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 3
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!” JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 6
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door. JOHN TENNIEL _J. Cooper_ 8
LENORE. The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 9
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride. FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 11
THE COLISEUM. But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts. JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 13
TO HELEN. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, ... There fell a silvery-silken veil of light. BIRKET FOSTER _W. T. Green_ 17
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 19
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 21
ULALUME. It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 23
That I brought a dread burden down here— On this night of all nights in the year. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 27
THE BELLS. Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 30
Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 32
Hear the loud alarum bells—
* * * * *
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. FELIX DARLEY _J. Cooper_ 34
In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 36
ANNABEL LEE. _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child, In this kingdom by the sea. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 42
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 44
ISRAFEL. In heaven a spirit doth dwell “Whose heart-strings are a lute.” P. DUGGAN _W. J. Linton_ 48
TO ZANTE. Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 53
THE HAUNTED PALACE. Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. A. M. MADOT _E. Evans_ 58
EULALIE. Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 62
TO ONE IN PARADISE. Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore. BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 65
DREAM-LAND. Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 69
THE SLEEPER. At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 72
FOR ANNIE. And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 78
ELDORADO. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 83
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 85
THE CITY IN THE SEA. Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone. JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 87
The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low. JASPER CROPSEY _W. J. Linton_ 89
SCENES FROM “POLITIAN.” View of Rome. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 93
Heard I aright? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! F. R. PICKERSGILL _Hammond_ 97
A garden. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 102
Think of eternal things; Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! F. R. PICKERSGILL _E. Evans_ 110
Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus. A. M. MADOT _E. Evans_ 114
Listen now—listen!—the faintest sound, And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone! A. M. MADOT _H. Harral_ 120
Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage! BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 127
Hist! hush! within the gloom Of yonder trees methought a figure passed. F. R. PICKERSGILL _E. Evans_ 132
The suburbs of Rome. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 136
AL AARAAF. O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 149
Of her who loved a mortal—and so died. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 152
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours, Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers. A. M. MADOT _W. Thomas_ 157
High on a mountain of enamelled head— . . . . . . arose a pile Of gorgeous columns. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Whymper_ 159
On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid. F. R. PICKERSGILL _W. J. Linton_ 166
Was a proud temple called the Parthenon. PERCIVAL SKELTON _J. Cooper_ 170
TO THE RIVER. For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies. BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 174
TAMERLANE. We grew in age—and love—together— Roaming the forest, and the wild. A. M. MADOT _W. J. Linton_ 181
We walked together on the crown Of a high mountain. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 185
A voice came from the threshold stone Of one whom I had earlier known. A. M. MADOT _W. J. Linton_ 189
TO ——. The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds. BIRKET FOSTER _E. Evans_ 192
FAIRY-LAND. Dim vales—and shadowy floods— And cloudy-looking woods. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 198
THE LAKE. A wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around. BIRKET FOSTER _J. Cooper_ 201
The Head and Tail-pieces and Initial Letters. W. HARRY ROGERS _E. Evans_
_Under the Superintendence of_ JOSEPH CUNDALL.
MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE.
It would be well for all poets if nothing more were known of their lives than what they themselves infuse into their poetry. Too close a knowledge of the weaknesses and errors of the inspired children of Parnassus, cannot but impair, in some degree, the delicate aroma of their songs. The inner life of the poet, the secrets of his inspiration, the mysterious processes by which his pearls of thought are produced, can never be made known, and the accidents of his daily life have but little more interest than those which fall to common men. Under all circumstances the poet is a mystery, and the utterances of his fancy are but the drapery of the veiled statue which still leaves the figure itself unknown. A dissection of the song-bird gives us no insight into the secret of his melodious notes. Some of the great modern poets have had their whole lives exposed with minute accuracy; but in what are we the wiser for the knowledge we have obtained of them? We only know they lived and suffered like other men, and their inspirations are still a cause of wonder and delight. The subtle secret of their power is still hidden from our search; and though we know more of the daily habits of the men, we know no more of the hidden power of the poet. But there is still a yearning to know how the men lived whose genius has charmed and instructed us, and a vague feeling exists, that in probing the lives of poets we may learn something of the art by which they produced their works. But it is like the useless labour of Reynolds, who scraped a painting by Titian to learn the secret of his colouring.
Of all the poets whose lives have been a puzzle and a mystery to the world, there is no one more difficult to be understood than Edgar Allan Poe. It is impossible to carry in the mind a double idea of a man, and to believe him to be both a saint and a fiend; yet such is the embarrassment felt by those who have first read the poems of this strange being, and then read any of the biographies of him which pretend to anything like an accurate account of his life. Like his own Raven, he is, to his readers, “bird or fiend,” they know not which. But a close study of his works will reveal the fact, which may serve in some degree to remove this embarrassment, that there is nowhere discoverable in them a consciousness of moral responsibility. They are full of the subtleties of passion, of grief, despair, and longing, but they contain nothing that indicates a sense of moral rectitude. They are the productions of one whose religion was a worship of the Beautiful, and who knew no beauty but that which was purely sensuous. There were but two kinds of beauty for him, and they were Form and Colour. He revelled in an ideal world of perfect shows, and was made wretched by any imperfections of art. The Leonore whose loss he deplored was a being fair to the eye, a beautiful creature, like Undine, without a soul. With this key to the character of the poet, there is no difficulty in fully comprehending the strange inconsistencies, the basenesses and nobleness which his wayward life exhibited.
Some of the biographers of Poe have been harshly judged for the view given of his character, and it has naturally been supposed that private pique has led to the exaggeration of his personal defects. But such imputations are unjust; a truthful delineation of his career would give a darker hue to his character than it has received from any of his biographers. In fact, he has been more fortunate than most poets in his historians. Lowell and Willis have sketched him with gentleness and a reverent feeling for his genius; and Griswold, his literary executor, in his fuller biography, has generously suppressed much that he might have given. This is neither the proper time nor place to write a full history of this unhappy genius; those who scan his marvellous poems closely, may find therein the man, for it is impossible for the true poet to veil himself from his readers. What he writes he is.
The waywardness of Poe was an inheritance; though descended from a family of great respectability, his immediate parents were dissolute in their morals, and members of a profession which almost always begets irregularity of habits. The paternal grandfather of the poet was a distinguished officer in the Maryland line during the war of the Revolution, and his great grandfather, John Poe, married a daughter of Admiral McBride, of the British Navy. His father, the fourth son of the Revolutionary officer, was a native of Maryland, and studied for the bar; but becoming enamoured of a beautiful actress named Elizabeth Arnold, he abandoned the law and adopted the stage as a profession. They lived together six or seven years, wandering from theatre to theatre, when they both died within a very short time of each other, in Richmond, Virginia, leaving three children in utter destitution. Edgar, the second child, who was born in Baltimore in January 1811, was a remarkably bright and beautiful boy; and he attracted the attention of a wealthy merchant in Richmond, who had known his parents, and who had no children of his own. Mr. Allan adopted the little orphan, and he was afterwards called Edgar Allan. The precocious child was petted by his adopted parents, who took pride in his forwardness and beauty; he was sent to the best schools, and was regarded as the heir to their property. In 1816 Mr. and Mrs. Allan made a journey to Europe, and Edgar accompanied them. He was placed at the school of the Rev. Dr. Bransby, at Stoke Newington, near London, where he remained some four or five years; but all that we know of him during this period of his life, is what he has himself told us in the tale entitled “William Wilson,” wherein he describes with great minuteness his recollections of his school-days in England, and gives a characteristic picture of the school-house and its surroundings.
On his return to the United States, in the year 1822, he was placed for a few months at an academy at Richmond, and then was transferred to the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville. The students at Charlottesville were noted, at that time, for their reckless and dissolute manner of life, and young Poe was the most dissolute and reckless among them. Though extremely slight in person, and almost effeminate in his manner, he is represented to have been foremost in all athletic sports and games, and there is good testimony to his having performed the almost impossible feat of swimming, for a wager, from Richmond to Warwick, a distance of seven miles, against a current of two or three knots an hour. Notwithstanding his dissolute habits and extravagance at the University, he excelled in his studies, was always at the head of his class, and would, doubtless, have graduated with honour, had he not been expelled on account of his profligacy and wild excesses.
His allowance of money had been liberal at the University, but he quitted it in debt; and when his indulgent friend refused to accept his drafts to meet his gambling losses, Poe wrote him an abusive letter, and quitted the country with the design of offering his services to the Greeks, who were then fighting for their emancipation from the Turks. But he never reached Greece, and all that is known of his career in Europe is, that he found himself in St. Petersburgh, in extreme destitution, where the American Minister, Mr. Middleton, was called upon to save him from arrest, on account of an indiscretion; through the kind offices of this gentleman the young adventurer was sent home to America, and, on his arrival in Richmond, Mr. Allan received him with kindness, forgave him his past misconduct, and procured him a cadetship at the United States Military Academy at West Point. Unfortunately for him, just before he left Richmond for his new appointment, Mrs. Allan, the wife of his benefactor, died. She had always treated him with motherly affection, and he had paid more deference to her than to any one else. At West Point he applied himself with great energy and success for a while to his new course of studies; but the rigid discipline of that institution ill sorted with the irrepressible recklessness of his nature, and after ten months he was ignominiously expelled.
After leaving “the Point” he returned to Richmond, and was again kindly received and welcomed to his home by Mr. Allan. But there was a change in the house where the wayward boy had been a pet. There was a new and a younger mistress. Mr. Allan had taken a second wife, a lady much younger than himself, and who was disposed to treat the expelled cadet as a son. But he soon contrived to quarrel with her, and was compelled to abandon the house of his adopted father, never to return. The cause of the quarrel which led to this final disruption between Poe and his generous patron has been variously stated; the family of Mr. Allan give a version of it which throws a dark shade on the character of the poet; but let it have been as it may, it must have been of a very grave nature, for, on the death of Mr. Allan, shortly after, in 1834, the name of his adopted son, who it was supposed would have inherited all his wealth, was not mentioned in his will.
On leaving the house of his benefactor for the last time, Poe was left without a friend, and thrown upon his own resources. He had published a volume of poems in Baltimore, just after his expulsion from West Point, under the title of “Al Aaraaf” and “Tamerlane,” to which a few smaller poems were added. These were the production of his early years, probably between his fifteenth and sixteenth years, though the exact date of their production cannot be ascertained. The commendations bestowed upon these precocious poems encouraged him to devote himself to literature for a profession. But his first attempts to earn a living by literature must have been discouraging, for soon after publishing his first volume, he was driven by his necessities to enlist as a private soldier in the army. Here he was recognised by officers who had known him at West Point, and who interested themselves to obtain his discharge, and, if possible, a commission. But their kind intentions were frustrated by his desertion. The next attempt he made in literature proved more successful; he had fruitlessly tried to find a publisher for a volume of stories; but on a premium of one hundred dollars, for a tale in prose, and a similar reward for a poem, being offered by the publisher of a literary periodical in Baltimore, Poe obtained both prizes; though he was only allowed to retain the prize for the tale, as it was thought not prudent to give both prizes to the same writer. The tale chosen was the “Manuscript found in a Bottle,” a composition which contains many of his most marked peculiarities of style and invention. The award was made in October 1833, and, fortunately for the young author, there was one gentleman on the committee who made the decision, who had it in his power to render him essential service.
This was John P. Kennedy, the novelist, author of “Horse Shoe Robinson,” and eminent as a lawyer and a statesman. To this gentleman Poe came on hearing of his success, poorly clad, pale, and emaciated; he told his story, and his ambition, and at once gained the confidence and affection of the more prosperous author. He was in utter want, and had not yet received the amount to which he was entitled for his story. Mr. Kennedy took him by the hand, furnished him with means to render him immediately comfortable, and enabled him to make a respectable appearance; and in a short time afterwards procured for him a situation as editor of the “Literary Messenger,” a monthly magazine published in Richmond. In his new place he continued for a while to work with great industry, and wrote a great number of reviews and tales; but he fell into his old habits, and after a debauch quarrelled with the proprietor of the “Messenger,” and was dismissed.
It was one of the strange peculiarities of Poe to make humble and penitent appeals for forgiveness and reconciliation to those he had offended by his abuse and insolence, and he was no sooner conscious of his error in quarrelling with the publisher of the “Messenger” than he endeavoured to regain the position he had lost. He was successful; and though he often fell into his old habits, yet he retained his connexion with the work until January, 1837, when he abandoned the “Messenger” and left Richmond for New York. During his last residence in Richmond, while working for a salary of ten dollars a week, he married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a young, amiable, and gentle girl, without fortune or friends, and as ill-calculated as himself to buffet the waves of an adverse fortune. In New York he wrote for the literary periodicals, but soon removed to Philadelphia, where he was employed as editor of “Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine;” he continued but a year in his post, and after several quarrels with the proprietor of the magazine, left him to establish a magazine of his own. To have a magazine of his own, which he could manage as he pleased, was always the great ambition of his life. He had invented a title, selected a motto, written an introduction, and made the entire plans for the great work, which was to be called the “Stylus;” it was the chimera which he nursed, the castle in the air which he longed for, the rainbow of his cloudy hopes. But he did not succeed in establishing it then, and was soon installed as editor of “Graham’s Magazine.” As a matter of course he quarrelled with Graham, and then went to New York, where he engaged as a sub-editor on the “Mirror,” a daily paper, of which his friend Willis was editor. But he did not remain long at this employment, which was wholly unsuited to him, and he left the “Mirror” without quarrelling with the proprietor. During his engagements with these different periodicals, he had written some of his finest prose tales, had published an anonymous work in the style of Robinson Crusoe, entitled the “Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym,” and a collection of his tales in a volume, which he called “Tales of the Grotesque and the Arabesque,” and gained another prize by his story of the Gold Bug. He was beginning to be known as a fierce and terrible critic, rather than as a poet or a writer of tales, when the publication of his poem of the Raven in the “American Review,” a New York monthly magazine, first attracted the attention of the literary world to his singular and powerful genius. Up to the appearance of this wild fantasy, he had not been generally recognised as a poet, and had known nothing of society. But he became at once a lion, and his writings were eagerly sought after by publishers. The prospect lay bright before him; he abandoned for awhile the vices which so fearfully beset him; he was living quietly in a pleasant rural neighbourhood in Westchester, near the city, with his delicate wife and her mother, and a brilliant future appeared to be in store for him. But he could never keep clear from magazine editing, and he joined Mr. C. F. Briggs in publishing the “Broadway Journal,” a literary weekly periodical; but the inevitable quarrel ensued, and this project was abandoned at the end of a year. It was while editing the “Broadway Journal” that he engaged in furious onslaught upon Longfellow, whom he accused of plagiarising from his poems, and, at the same time, involved himself in numberless disputes and quarrels with other authors. But he also gained the affection and admiration of many estimable literary people, some of whom he alienated by appearing before them when in a state of intoxication. He delivered a lecture on poetry, but attracted no hearers, and he was so chagrined by his disappointment, that he fell again into his old habits, and disgusted his new friends by his gross misconduct; he involved himself in another quarrel with some of the literati of Boston, and to show his contempt for them, went there and delivered a poem in public, which he pretended to have written in his tenth year. On his return to New York he was again reduced to great straits; and in 1848 he advertised a series of lectures, in order to raise sufficient means to put into execution his long-cherished plan of a magazine; but he delivered only one lecture on the Cosmogony of the Universe, which was afterwards published under the title of “Eureka, a Prose Poem.” His wife had died the year previously, and during her illness he was reduced to such extremities that public appeals, which were generously responded to, were made in his behalf by the papers of New York.
Not long after the death of his wife he formed an intimacy with an accomplished literary lady of Rhode Island, a widow, and was engaged to be married to her. It was to her that he addressed the poem “Annabel Lee;” the day was appointed for their marriage; but he had, in the meantime, formed other plans; and, to disentangle himself from this engagement, he visited the house of his affianced bride, where he conducted himself with such indecent violence that the aid of the police had to be called in to expel him. This, of course, put an end to the engagement. In a short time after he went to Richmond, and there gained the confidence and affections of a lady of good family and considerable fortune. The day was appointed for their marriage, and he left Virginia to return to New York to fulfil some literary arrangements previous to the consummation of this new engagement. He had written to his friends that he had, at last, a prospect of happiness. The Lost Lenore was found. He arrived in Baltimore on his way to the north, and gave his baggage into the charge of a porter, intending to leave in an hour for Philadelphia. Stepping into an hotel to obtain some refreshments, he met some of his former companions, who invited him to drink with them. In a few moments all was over with him. He spent the night in revelry, wandered out into the street in a state of insanity, and was found in the morning literally dying from exposure, and a single night’s excesses. He was taken to a hospital, and, on the 7th October, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight, he closed his troubled life. Three days before he had left his newly-affianced bride to prepare for their nuptials. He lies in a burying-ground in Baltimore, his native city, without a stone to mark the place of his last rest.
In person Edgar Allan Poe was slight, and hardly of the medium height; his motions were quick and nervous, his air was abstracted, and his countenance generally serious and pale. He never laughed, and rarely smiled; but in conversation he was vivacious, earnest, and respectful; and though he appeared generally under restraint, as though guarding against a half-subdued passion, yet his manners were engaging, and he never failed to win the confidence and kind feelings of those with whom he conversed for the first time; and there were a few who knew him long and intimately who could never believe that he was ever otherwise than the pleasant, intelligent, respectful, and earnest companion he appeared to them. Though he was at times so reckless and profligate in his conduct, and so indifferent to external proprieties, he was generally scrupulously exact in everything he did. He dressed with extreme neatness and perfectly good taste, avoiding all ornaments and everything of a bizarre appearance. He was painfully alive to all imperfections of art; and a false rhyme, an ambiguous sentence, or even a typographical error, threw him into an ecstasy of passion. It was this sensitiveness to all artistic imperfections, rather than any malignity of feeling, which made his criticisms so severe, and procured him a host of enemies among persons towards whom he never entertained any personal ill-will. He criticised his own productions with the same severity that he exercised towards the writings of others; and all his poems, though he sometimes represented them as offsprings of a sudden inspiration, were the work of elaborate study. His handwriting was always neat and singularly uniform, and his manuscripts were invariably on long slips of paper about four inches wide, which he never folded, but always made into a roll. Nothing he ever did had the appearance of haste or slovenliness, and he preserved with religious care every scrap he had ever written, and every letter he ever received, so that he left behind him the amplest materials for the composition of his literary life. At his own request these remnants of his existence were entrusted to Doctor Griswold, a gentleman with whom he had quarrelled, and had lampooned in his lectures; Doctor Griswold, in a generous spirit, accepted the charge, and produced from the papers entrusted to him, the best biography of the strange being that has been published, which was appended to the collection of his works in four volumes issued in New York.
_June, 1857._
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before: So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door; Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore.’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—_is_ there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the Angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!
LENORE.
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever! Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And, Guy De Vere, hast _thou_ no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.
Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?—-the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?
_Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and _débonnaire_, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days! Let _no_ bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnèd Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”
A VALENTINE.
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, Brightly expressive as the twins of Lœda, Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies Upon the page enwrapped from every reader. Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure Divine—a talisman—an amulet That must be worn _at heart_. Search well the measure— The words—the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot. Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes’ scintillating soul, there lie _perdus_ Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet’s, too. Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando— Still form a synonym for Truth.—Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you _can_ do.
To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connexion with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.
THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these grey stones—are they all— All of the famed and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all! Prophetic sounds and loud arise for ever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As melody from Memnon to the Sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent—we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— Not all the magic of our high renown— Not all the wonder that encircles us— Not all the mysteries that in us lie— Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
TO —— ——.
Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables— Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moon-lit “dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”— Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”) Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write—I cannot speak or think— Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, Amid unpurpled vapours, far away To where the prospect terminates—_thee only_.
TO HELEN.
I saw thee once—once only—years ago: I must not say _how_ many—but _not_ many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses, That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses’ odours Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes— Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them—they were the world to me. I saw but them—saw only them for hours— Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep— How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._ They _would not_ go—they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers—yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, _to be saved_ by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), And are far up in heaven—the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still—two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
AN ENIGMA.
Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce, ”Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once As easily as through a Naples bonnet— Trash of all trash!—how _can_ a lady don it? Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff— Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.” And, veritably, Sol is right enough. The general tuckermanities are arrant Bubbles—ephemeral and _so_ transparent— But _this_ is, now,—you may depend upon it— Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint Of the dear names that lie concealed within ’t.
ULALUME.
The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere— The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir— It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— Of cypress, with Pysche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll— As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole— That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— Our memories were treacherous and sere— For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year— (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber— (Though once we had journeyed down here)— Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn— As the star-dials hinted of morn— At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn— Astarte’s bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said—“She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs— She revels in a region of sighs: She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies— Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes— Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes.”
But Pysche, uplifting her finger, Said—“Sadly this star I mistrust— Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly! let us fly!—for we must.” In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they trailed in the dust— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Plumes till they trailed in the dust— Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—“This is nothing but dreaming: Let us on by this tremulous light! Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sybilic splendour is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night:— See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright— We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom— And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the door of a tomb— By the door of a legended tomb; And I said—“What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?” She replied—“Ulalume—Ulalume— ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere— As the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried—“It was surely October On _this_ very night of last year That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— That I brought a dread burden down here— On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— This misty mid region of Weir— Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
TO ——.
I heed not that my earthly lot Hath—little of Earth in it— That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute:— I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate Who am a passer by.
TO MY MOTHER.
Because I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of “Mother,” Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother—my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
THE BELLS.