The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Read online

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  A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

  Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

  Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

  For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

  Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

  Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

  Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

  Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

  And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

  With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admiredfor their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.Nothing can be better than--

  ---------------the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Down the corridors of Time.

  The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on thewhole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of thesentiments, and especially for the _ease _of the general manner. This"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashionto regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficultattainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him whoshould never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result ofwriting with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone,_in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind wouldadopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. Theauthor who, after the fashion of "The North American Review," shouldbe upon _all _occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to beconsidered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than thesleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

  Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as theone which he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it:--

  There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird.

  And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

  I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me; Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom, Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

  These to their soften'd hearts should bear The thoughts of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is--that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.

  The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be moremelodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. Theintense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface ofall the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us tothe soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill.The impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in theremaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more orless of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how orwhy we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connectedwith all the higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,

  A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

  The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so fullof brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coate Pinckney:--

  I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

  Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose.

  Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the flagrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!

  Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.

  I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.

  It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south.Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have beenranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal whichhas so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conductingthe thing called "The North American Review." The poem just cited isespecially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we mustrefer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon hishyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

  It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.Boccalini, in his "Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilusonce presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirablebook:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. Hereplied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _allthe chaff _for his reward.

  Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by nomeans sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain thatthe true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of anaxiom, which need only be properly _put, _to become self-evident. It is_not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:--and thus topoint out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit thatthey are _not _merits altogether.

  Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguishedcharacter as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out ofview. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom."The intense energ
y of their expression is not surpassed by anything inByron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed thatembodies the _all in all _of the divine passion of Love--a sentimentwhich, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:--

  Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

  Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

  Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,-- Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

  It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, whilegranting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whomno man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The factis, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his otherfaculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, verynaturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only. _But never was there agreater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem moreprofoundly--more weirdly _imaginative, _in the best sense, than thelines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the com.position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

  One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularlyfanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had alwaysfor me an inexpressible charm:--

  O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest; She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

  O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalltd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

  Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

  I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!

  Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, And shootings of the throng; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long.

  Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,-- Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shorel The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!

  "The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems everwritten,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of themost thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. Itis, moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its lengthrenders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of itpermit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs":--

  One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate Gone to her death!

  Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care;-- Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair!

  Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving not loathing.

  Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

  Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

  Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

  The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

  In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,-- Over the brink of it, Picture it,--think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can!

  Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

  Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

  Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

  Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

  Take her up tenderly; Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently,--kindly,-- Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

  Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.

  Perhishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest,-- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

  The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. Theversification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of thefantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity whichis the thesis of the poem.

  Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received fromthe critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:--

  Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate bath declined Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit bath painted It never bath found but in _thee._

  Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of shine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from _thee._

  Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn-- They may torture, but shall not subdue me-- 'Tis of _thee _that I think--not of them.

  Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though love
d, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,-- Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie.

  Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one-- If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun: And if dearly that error bath cost me, And more than I once could foresee, I have found that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of _thee._

  From the wreck of the past, which bath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It bath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of _thee._

  Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versificationcould scarcely be improved. No nobler _theme _ever engaged the pen ofpoet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himselfentitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains theunwavering love of woman.

  From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as thenoblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only avery brief specimen. I call him, and _think _him the noblest of poets,_not _because the impressions he produces are at _all _times the mostprofound--_not _because the poetical excitement which he induces is at_all _times the most intense--but because it is at all times the mostethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet isso little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his lastlong poem, "The Princess":--

 

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