EDGAR ALLEN POE.

(‡ decoration)EDGAR ALLEN POE.THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS.EDGAR Allen Poe, the author of “The Raven,” “Annabel Lee,” “The Haunted Palace,” “To One in Paradise,” “Israfel” and “Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, perhaps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett says of him:—“He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear;All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim;Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim,At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owlSent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air,Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowlAnd met delirium in her awful lair.”Edgar Poe was born in Boston February19th, 1809. His father was a Marylander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland.When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family.Mr.John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar (who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia,and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies, but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to submit to the discipline of the institution.In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he contracted incensedMr.Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and permanent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympathetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing not how to make money—yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—struggling for nearly twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October7th, 1849, at forty years of age.To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “Annabel Lee;” or that he should wail over the “Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should “nevermore” be lifted from the shadow of the “Raven” upon the floor. These poems and others are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced. They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature are often grown.To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “Dr.Jekyll andMr.Hyde” from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne has also written a poem entitled, “Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote:—“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him:One, a wild demon, weird and dim,The darkness of whose ebon wingsDid shroud unutterable things:One, a fair angel, in the skiesOf whose serene, unshadowed eyesWere seen the lights of Paradise.To these, in turn, he gave the wholeVast empire of his brooding soul;Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell,Now thrilled with awful tones of hell:Wide were his being’s strange extremes,’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleamsOf tender, or majestic dreams.”It must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography published of him, byDr.Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies, notably those of J. H. Ingram andMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as published statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favorable light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from his father who, before him, was a drunkard.It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sorrow those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to stand with uncovered heads.As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing.As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a nearby, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As one of his biographers has written, “He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest. “In that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “in knowledge of the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.”Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by him in Richmond says: “I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the ‘Raven’ will ever forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. Theaudience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive ‘nevermore.’”Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848 as critic and editor on the “Literary Messenger” of Richmond, Virginia, the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, the “Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “Broadway Journal” of New York, which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was published in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic composition, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “Manuscript Found in a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for poetry. The latter, however, he did not♦receive because the judges found the same author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took up his residence at Fordham, New York, where his wife died in 1847, and where he continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “Raven” was published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “Eureka” and “Elalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect. To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “Memoir” andMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman’s “Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863.♦‘recieve’ replaced with ‘receive’(‡ decoration)THE CITY IN THE SEA.THE CITY IN THE SEA.LO! Death has rear’d himself a throneIn a strange city lying aloneFar down within the dim west,Where the good and the bad and the worst and the bestHave gone to their eternal rest.There shrines, and palaces, and towers,(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.No rays from the holy heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town;But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently—Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowersOf sculptured ivy and stone flowers—Up many and many a marvellous shrineWhose wreathed friezes intertwineThe viol, the violet, and the vine.Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from a proud tower in the townDeath looks gigantically down.There open fanes and gaping gravesYawn level with the luminous waves;But not the riches there that lieIn each idol’s diamond eye—Not the gayly-jewell’d deadTempt the waters from their bed;For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass—No swellings tell that winds may beUpon some far-off happier sea—No heavings hint that winds have beenOn seas less hideously serene.But lo, a stir is in the air!The wave—there is a movement there!As if the towers had thrust aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide—As if their tops had feebly givenA void within the filmy heaven.The waves have now a redder glow—The hours are breathing faint and low—And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down that town shall settle hence,Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence.ANNABEL LEE.IT was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name ofAnnabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.Iwas a child andshewas a child,In this kingdom by the sea;But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and myAnnabel Lee—With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautifulAnnabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchre,In this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me—Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea),That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing myAnnabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we—Of many far wiser than we—And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee:For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreamsOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee:And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the sea—In her tomb by the sounding sea.TO HELEN.The following poem was published first “To ——,” afterwards the title was changed, “To Helen.” It seems to have been written by Poe toMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes.ISAW thee once—once only—years ago:I must not say how many—but not many.It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring,Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven,There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,Upon the upturned faces of a thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden,Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—Fell on the upturned faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-light,Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—Fell on the upturned faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in this parterre, enchantedBy thee and by the poetry of thy presence.CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANKI SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOONFELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—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-gateTo breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,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’ odorsDied 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 enwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a wo, 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 sightInto a western couch of thunder-cloud,And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing treesDidst 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 toIn the sad, silent watches of my night;While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still—two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!ISRAFEL.¹¹“And the angelIsrafel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”—Koran.IN heaven a spirit doth dwell“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”None sing so wildly wellAs the angelIsrafel,And the giddy stars (so legends tell)Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamour’d moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven)Pauses in heaven.And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)ThatIsrafeli’sfireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings—The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty—Where Love’s a grown-up god—Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.Therefore, thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassion’d song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest!Merrily live, and long!The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit—Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute—Well may the stars be mute!Yes, heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely—flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I could dwellWhereIsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.TO ONE IN PARADISE.THOU wast all that to me, love,For which my soul did pine—A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreath’d with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.Ah, dream too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,“On! on!”—but o’er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!For, alas! alas! with meThe light of life is o’er!No more—no more—no more—(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy dark eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams—In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.LENORE.Mrs.Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing of these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son. The boy was so overcome that it is said he stood for a♦minute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodiment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem.♦‘miuute’ replaced with ‘minute’AH, broken is the golden bowl,The spirit flown forever!Let the bell toll!A saintly soulFloats on the Stygian river;And,Guy de Vere,Hastthouno tear?Weep now or never more!See, on yon drearAnd rigid bierLow lies thy love,Lenore!Come, let the burial-rite be read—The funeral-song be sung!—An anthem for the queenliest deadThat 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 bless’d her—that she died!Howshallthe ritual, then, be read?The requiem how be sungBy you—by yours, the evil eye—By yours the slanderous tongueThat did to death the innocenceThat died, and died so young?”Peccavimus;But rave not thus!And let a sabbath songGo up to God so solemnly, the deadmay feel no wrong!The sweetLenoreHath “gone before,”With Hope, that flew beside,Leaving thee wildFor the dear childThat should have been thy bride—For her, the fairAnddebonair,That now so lowly lies,The life upon her yellow hairBut not within her eyes—The life still there,Upon her hair—The death upon her eyes.“Avaunt! to-nightMy heart is light.No dirge will I upraise,But waft the angel on her flightWith a pæan of old days!Letnobell toll!—Lest her sweet soul,Amid its hallow’d mirth,Should catch the note,As it doth float—Up from the damned earth.To friends above, from fiends below,The indignant ghost is riven—From hell unto a high estateFar up within the heaven—From grief and groan,To a golden throne,Beside the King of Heaven.”THE BELLS.This selection is a favorite with reciters. It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the sounds of the ringing bells.HEAR the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.Hear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwells.On the future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tellsIn the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fireLeaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavor,Now—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affright,At the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,A pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells,To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time.As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,—Bells, bells, bells,—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.THE RAVEN.This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment with rhythmical expression to be found in any language. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavoring to win from books “surcease of sorrow for the lost Lenore,” a raven—the symbol of despair—enters the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas. A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen with its haunting croak of “Nevermore.”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 mutter’d, “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 borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore,—For the rare and♣radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—Nameless here forevermore.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;That 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!”ThisIwhispered, 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 ebon 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 beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door,Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-doorWith such name as “Nevermore!”But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before,On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”Then the bird said, “Nevermore!”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disasterFollow’d fast and follow’d 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 linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking “Nevermore!”This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’erShe shall press—ah! nevermore!Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor,“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee,—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost Lenore!”Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”“Prophet!” cried 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!” cried 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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted—nevermore!♦‘forgotton’ replaced with ‘forgotten’♣‘raidant’ replaced with ‘radiant’(‡ decoration)

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THE WEIRD AND MYSTERIOUS GENIUS.

EDGAR Allen Poe, the author of “The Raven,” “Annabel Lee,” “The Haunted Palace,” “To One in Paradise,” “Israfel” and “Lenore,” was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, perhaps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett says of him:—

“He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear;All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim;Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim,At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owlSent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air,Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowlAnd met delirium in her awful lair.”

“He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear;

All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim;

Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim,

At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear.

By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl

Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air,

Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl

And met delirium in her awful lair.”

Edgar Poe was born in Boston February19th, 1809. His father was a Marylander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland.

When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family.Mr.John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar (who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia,and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies, but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to submit to the discipline of the institution.

In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he contracted incensedMr.Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and permanent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympathetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing not how to make money—yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—struggling for nearly twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October7th, 1849, at forty years of age.

To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “Annabel Lee;” or that he should wail over the “Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should “nevermore” be lifted from the shadow of the “Raven” upon the floor. These poems and others are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced. They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature are often grown.

To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “Dr.Jekyll andMr.Hyde” from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne has also written a poem entitled, “Poe,” which presents in a double shape the angel and demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote:—

“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him:One, a wild demon, weird and dim,The darkness of whose ebon wingsDid shroud unutterable things:One, a fair angel, in the skiesOf whose serene, unshadowed eyesWere seen the lights of Paradise.To these, in turn, he gave the wholeVast empire of his brooding soul;Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell,Now thrilled with awful tones of hell:Wide were his being’s strange extremes,’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleamsOf tender, or majestic dreams.”

“Two mighty spirits dwelt in him:

One, a wild demon, weird and dim,

The darkness of whose ebon wings

Did shroud unutterable things:

One, a fair angel, in the skies

Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes

Were seen the lights of Paradise.

To these, in turn, he gave the whole

Vast empire of his brooding soul;

Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell,

Now thrilled with awful tones of hell:

Wide were his being’s strange extremes,

’Twixt nether glooms, and Eden gleams

Of tender, or majestic dreams.”

It must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography published of him, byDr.Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies, notably those of J. H. Ingram andMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as published statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favorable light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from his father who, before him, was a drunkard.

It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sorrow those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to stand with uncovered heads.

As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing.

As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a nearby, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As one of his biographers has written, “He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest. “In that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “in knowledge of the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.”

Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by him in Richmond says: “I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the ‘Raven’ will ever forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. Theaudience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive ‘nevermore.’”

Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848 as critic and editor on the “Literary Messenger” of Richmond, Virginia, the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, “Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, the “Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “Broadway Journal” of New York, which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was published in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic composition, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “Manuscript Found in a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for poetry. The latter, however, he did not♦receive because the judges found the same author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brothers published his ingenious fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took up his residence at Fordham, New York, where his wife died in 1847, and where he continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “Raven” was published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “Eureka” and “Elalume,” the former being a prose poem. It is the crowning work of his life, to which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect. To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his labors we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “Memoir” andMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman’s “Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863.

♦‘recieve’ replaced with ‘receive’

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THE CITY IN THE SEA.

LO! Death has rear’d himself a throneIn a strange city lying aloneFar down within the dim west,Where the good and the bad and the worst and the bestHave gone to their eternal rest.There shrines, and palaces, and towers,(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.No rays from the holy heaven come downOn the long night-time of that town;But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently—Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowersOf sculptured ivy and stone flowers—Up many and many a marvellous shrineWhose wreathed friezes intertwineThe viol, the violet, and the vine.Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from a proud tower in the townDeath looks gigantically down.There open fanes and gaping gravesYawn level with the luminous waves;But not the riches there that lieIn each idol’s diamond eye—Not the gayly-jewell’d deadTempt the waters from their bed;For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass—No swellings tell that winds may beUpon some far-off happier sea—No heavings hint that winds have beenOn seas less hideously serene.But lo, a stir is in the air!The wave—there is a movement there!As if the towers had thrust aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide—As if their tops had feebly givenA void within the filmy heaven.The waves have now a redder glow—The hours are breathing faint and low—And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down that town shall settle hence,Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence.

O! Death has rear’d himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim west,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines, and palaces, and towers,

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down

On the long night-time of that town;

But light from out the lurid sea

Streams up the turrets silently—

Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—

Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—

Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—

Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—

Up many and many a marvellous shrine

Whose wreathed friezes intertwine

The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from a proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves

Yawn level with the luminous waves;

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol’s diamond eye—

Not the gayly-jewell’d dead

Tempt the waters from their bed;

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea—

No heavings hint that winds have been

On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave—there is a movement there!

As if the towers had thrust aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide—

As if their tops had feebly given

A void within the filmy heaven.

The waves have now a redder glow—

The hours are breathing faint and low—

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,

Shall do it reverence.

ANNABEL LEE.

IT was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name ofAnnabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.Iwas a child andshewas a child,In this kingdom by the sea;But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and myAnnabel Lee—With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautifulAnnabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchre,In this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me—Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea),That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing myAnnabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we—Of many far wiser than we—And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee:For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreamsOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautifulAnnabel Lee:And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In her sepulchre there by the sea—In her tomb by the sounding sea.

T was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name ofAnnabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

Iwas a child andshewas a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and myAnnabel Lee—

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautifulAnnabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre,

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea),

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing myAnnabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautifulAnnabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautifulAnnabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautifulAnnabel Lee:

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

TO HELEN.

The following poem was published first “To ——,” afterwards the title was changed, “To Helen.” It seems to have been written by Poe toMrs.Sarah Ellen Whitman whom many years afterwards he was engaged to marry. The engagement was, however, broken off. The poem was no doubt written before his acquaintance with the lady; even before his marriage or engagement to his wife, and at a time perhaps when he did not expect to be recognized as a suitor by the unknown woman who had completely captured his heart, in the chance meeting which he here so beautifully describes.

ISAW thee once—once only—years ago:I must not say how many—but not many.It was a July midnight; and from outA full-orbed moon that, like thine own soul, soaring,Sought a precipitant pathway up through heaven,There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,Upon the upturned faces of a thousandRoses that grew in an enchanted garden,Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—Fell on the upturned faces of these rosesThat gave out, in return for the love-light,Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—Fell on the upturned faces of these rosesThat smiled and died in this parterre, enchantedBy thee and by the poetry of thy presence.CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANKI SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOONFELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—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-gateTo breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,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’ odorsDied 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 enwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a wo, 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 sightInto a western couch of thunder-cloud,And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing treesDidst 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 toIn the sad, silent watches of my night;While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still—two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!

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 precipitant pathway up through heaven,

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—

Fell on the upturned 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 BANKI SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOONFELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—ALAS! IN SORROW.

CLAD ALL IN WHITE, UPON A VIOLET BANK

I SAW THEE HALF RECLINING; WHILE THE MOON

FELL ON THE UPTURNED FACES OF THE ROSES,

AND ON THINE OWN, UPTURNED—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-gateTo breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,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’ odorsDied 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 enwrittenUpon those crystalline, celestial spheres!How dark a wo, 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 sightInto a western couch of thunder-cloud,And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing treesDidst 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 toIn the sad, silent watches of my night;While even in the meridian glare of dayI see them still—two sweetly scintillantVenuses, unextinguished by the sun!

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. 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’ odors

Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All, all expired save thee—save less than thou:

Save only the divine light in thine eyes—

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them—they were the world to me.

I saw but them—saw only them for hours—

Saw only them until the moon went down.

What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten

Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!

How dark a wo, 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!

ISRAFEL.¹

¹“And the angelIsrafel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”—Koran.

IN heaven a spirit doth dwell“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”None sing so wildly wellAs the angelIsrafel,And the giddy stars (so legends tell)Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamour’d moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven)Pauses in heaven.And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)ThatIsrafeli’sfireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings—The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty—Where Love’s a grown-up god—Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.Therefore, thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassion’d song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest!Merrily live, and long!The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit—Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervor of thy lute—Well may the stars be mute!Yes, heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely—flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I could dwellWhereIsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.

N heaven a spirit doth dwell

“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”

None sing so wildly well

As the angelIsrafel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamour’d moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven)

Pauses in heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

ThatIsrafeli’sfire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings—

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty—

Where Love’s a grown-up god—

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassion’d song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit—

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute—

Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely—flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

WhereIsrafel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

TO ONE IN PARADISE.

THOU wast all that to me, love,For which my soul did pine—A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreath’d with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.Ah, dream too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,“On! on!”—but o’er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!For, alas! alas! with meThe light of life is o’er!No more—no more—no more—(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy dark eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams—In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.

HOU wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine,

All wreath’d with fairy fruits and flowers,

And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise

But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries,

“On! on!”—but o’er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies

Mute, motionless, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of life is o’er!

No more—no more—no more—

(Such language holds the solemn sea

To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

LENORE.

Mrs.Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing of these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she greeted him with the motherly tenderness and affection shown toward her own son. The boy was so overcome that it is said he stood for a♦minute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently a visitor, and the attachment between him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few days before his arrival, and was so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodiment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem.

♦‘miuute’ replaced with ‘minute’

AH, broken is the golden bowl,The spirit flown forever!Let the bell toll!A saintly soulFloats on the Stygian river;And,Guy de Vere,Hastthouno tear?Weep now or never more!See, on yon drearAnd rigid bierLow lies thy love,Lenore!Come, let the burial-rite be read—The funeral-song be sung!—An anthem for the queenliest deadThat 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 bless’d her—that she died!Howshallthe ritual, then, be read?The requiem how be sungBy you—by yours, the evil eye—By yours the slanderous tongueThat did to death the innocenceThat died, and died so young?”Peccavimus;But rave not thus!And let a sabbath songGo up to God so solemnly, the deadmay feel no wrong!The sweetLenoreHath “gone before,”With Hope, that flew beside,Leaving thee wildFor the dear childThat should have been thy bride—For her, the fairAnddebonair,That now so lowly lies,The life upon her yellow hairBut not within her eyes—The life still there,Upon her hair—The death upon her eyes.“Avaunt! to-nightMy heart is light.No dirge will I upraise,But waft the angel on her flightWith a pæan of old days!Letnobell toll!—Lest her sweet soul,Amid its hallow’d mirth,Should catch the note,As it doth float—Up from the damned earth.To friends above, from fiends below,The indignant ghost is riven—From hell unto a high estateFar up within the heaven—From grief and groan,To a golden throne,Beside the King of Heaven.”

H, broken is the golden bowl,

The spirit flown forever!

Let the bell toll!

A saintly soul

Floats on the Stygian river;

And,Guy de Vere,

Hastthouno 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 bless’d her—that she died!

Howshallthe 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 deadmay feel no wrong!

The sweetLenore

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

Anddebonair,

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!

Letnobell toll!—

Lest her sweet soul,

Amid its hallow’d mirth,

Should catch the note,

As it doth float—

Up from the damned earth.

To friends above, from fiends below,

The indignant ghost is riven—

From hell unto a high estate

Far up within the heaven—

From grief and groan,

To a golden throne,

Beside the King of Heaven.”

THE BELLS.

This selection is a favorite with reciters. It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the sounds of the ringing bells.

HEAR the sledges with the bells—Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.Hear the mellow wedding bells—Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight!From the molten-golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwells.On the future! how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!Hear the loud alarum bells—Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tellsIn the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fireLeaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavor,Now—now to sit or never,By the side of the pale-faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf despair!How they clang, and clash, and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the janglingAnd the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—Of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells—In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affright,At the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people—ah, the people—They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human—They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,A pæan from the bells!And his merry bosom swellsWith the pæan of the bells!And he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the pæan of the bells—Of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells—Of the bells, bells, bells,To the sobbing of the bells;Keeping time, time, time.As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells,—Of the bells, bells, bells,—To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,—Bells, bells, bells,—To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

EAR the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells—

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!

From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells.

On the future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels

To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells,—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells—

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells

In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,

Now—now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells

Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—

Of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells—

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells—

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright,

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people—ah, the people—

They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone—

They are neither man nor woman—

They are neither brute nor human—

They are ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,

A pæan from the bells!

And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells!

And he dances and he yells;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the pæan of the bells—

Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time.

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells,—

Of the bells, bells, bells,—

To the tolling of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,—

Bells, bells, bells,—

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

THE RAVEN.

This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment with rhythmical expression to be found in any language. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavoring to win from books “surcease of sorrow for the lost Lenore,” a raven—the symbol of despair—enters the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas. A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen with its haunting croak of “Nevermore.”

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 mutter’d, “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 borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore,—For the rare and♣radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,—Nameless here forevermore.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;That 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!”ThisIwhispered, 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 ebon 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 beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door,Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-doorWith such name as “Nevermore!”But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before,On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”Then the bird said, “Nevermore!”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disasterFollow’d fast and follow’d 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 linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking “Nevermore!”This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’erShe shall press—ah! nevermore!Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor,“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee,—by these angels he hath sent theeRespite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget the lost Lenore!”Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”“Prophet!” cried 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!” cried 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 sittingOn 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 floorShall be lifted—nevermore!

NCE 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 mutter’d, “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 forevermore.

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;

That 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!”

ThisIwhispered, 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 ebon 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 further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before,

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said, “Nevermore!”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster

Follow’d fast and follow’d 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 the lost Lenore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore!”

“Prophet!” cried 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!” cried 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!

♦‘forgotton’ replaced with ‘forgotten’♣‘raidant’ replaced with ‘radiant’

♦‘forgotton’ replaced with ‘forgotten’

♣‘raidant’ replaced with ‘radiant’

(‡ decoration)

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