The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Read online

  "Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the mostphilosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounceit the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetryis, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of ourexistence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of ourexistence, everything connected with our existence, should be stillhappiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; andhappiness is another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instructionshould be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion impliesprecisely the reverse.

  "To proceed: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance tohis fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, andpleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely themeans of obtaining.

  "I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plumethemselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed theyrefer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincererespect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt fortheir judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, sincetheir writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it isthe many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubtbe tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth.' who labors indefatigably,through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of oneor two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or twothousand.

  "Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-itbecomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued incontemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect andlearning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute theirauthority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of myheart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellectwith the passions-or age with poetry.

  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below,'

  are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truthlies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpablepalaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right inhiding--the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrownupon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moralmechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdomof a man.

  "We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'BiographiaLiteraria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, atreatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by reasonof his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in thecontemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he whosurveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star isuseful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

  "As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth thefeelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacyin his writings-(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his _ElDorado)-but they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; andglimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we knowthat a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of theglacier.

  "He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the endof poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the lightwhich should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequentlyis too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germanywould have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance totheir State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that theymight not be deficient in formality--drunk lest they should be destituteof vigor.

  "The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us intoadmiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they arefull of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes atrandom)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what isworthy to be done, and what was never done before;'-indeed? then itfollows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _beendone before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is anunworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,the pickpocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of acomparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

  "Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they beOssian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, inorder to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages inthe controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to suchabsurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument infavor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in hisabomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is thebeginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll inlight; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dustyheads in the breeze.' And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, whereall is alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, theauthor of 'Peter Bell,' has _selected _for his contempt. We shall seewhat better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

  "'And now she's at the pony's tail, And now she's at the pony's head, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss,

  A few sad tears does Betty shed.... She pats the pony, where or when She knows not.... happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'

  Secondly:

  "'The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink; I heard a voice: it said-"Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, be-fore me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side. No other sheep was near,--the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was-tether'd to a stone.'

  "Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed wewill, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love asheep from the bottom of my heart.

  "But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when evenWordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is anextract from his preface:-

  "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modem writers, ifthey persist in reading this book to a conclusion _(impossible!) will,_no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!)they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be inducedto inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have beenpermitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

  "Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, andthe bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignifieda tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.

  "Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His toweringintellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself,_'Tai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonnepartie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient,' and_to employ his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions bythe barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable tothink that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like theNyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading thatman's poetry, I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, consciousfrom the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and thelight that are weltering below.

  "What is poetry?--Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as manyappellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! 'Give me,' I demanded ofa scholar some time ago, 'give me a definition of poetry.'_'Tresvolontiers;' _and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr.Johnson, and overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortalShakespeare! I imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye uponthe profanity of that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-,think of poetry, and then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all thatis airy and fairy-like, and then of all t
hat is hideous and unwieldy;think of his huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the'Tempest'--the 'Midsummer-Night's Dream'--Prospero Oberon--and Titania!

  "A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, forits _immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, forits object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure, beinga poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presentingperceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations,to which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweetsound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with apleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music;the idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.

  "What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in hissoul?

  "To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B--, what you, no doubt,perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereigncontempt. That they have followers proves nothing-

  "'No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.

  SONNET--TO SCIENCE

  SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

  AL AARAAF (*)

  PART I.

  O! NOTHING earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy-- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill-- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-- Oh, nothing of the dross of ours-- Yet all the beauty--all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers-- Adorn yon world afar, afar-- The wandering star.

  'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there Her world lay lolling on the golden air, Near four bright suns--a temporary rest-- An oasis in desert of the blest.

  * A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since.

  Away--away--'mid seas of rays that roll Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul-- The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) Can struggle to its destin'd eminence-- To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode, And late to ours, the favour'd one of God-- But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm, She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm, And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

  Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) She look'd into Infinity--and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled-- Fit emblems of the model of her world-- Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight Of other beauty glittering thro' the light-- A wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal'd air in color bound.

  All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head *On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride-- ?Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:

  * On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.

  *And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd-- Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd All other loveliness: its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair: Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: **And Clytia pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: ***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth-- And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:

  * This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.

  ** Clytia--The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known term, the turnsol--which continually turns towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day.--_B. de St. Pierre_.

  *** There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand them--fade and die.--_St. Pierre_.

  *And Valisnerian lotus thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: **And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante! ***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river-- Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given ****To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:

  "Spirit! that dwellest where, In the deep sky, The terrible and fair, In beauty vie! Beyond the line of blue-- The boundary of the star Which turneth at the view Of thy barrier and thy bar-- Of the barrier overgone By the comets who were cast From their pride, and from their throne To be drudges till the last-- To be carriers of fire (The red fire of their heart) With speed that may not tire And with pain that shall not part--

  * There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the river.

  ** The Hyacinth.

  *** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges--and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.

  **** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints. --Rev. St. John.

  Who livest--_that_ we know-- In Eternity--we feel-- But the shadow of whose brow What spirit shall reveal? Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace, Thy messenger hath known Have dream'd for thy Infinity *A model of their own-- Thy will is done, Oh, God! The star hath ridden high Th
ro' many a tempest, but she rode Beneath thy burning eye; And here, in thought, to thee-- In thought that can alone Ascend thy empire and so be A partner of thy throne--

  * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having a really human form.--_Vide Clarke's Sermons_, vol. 1, page 26, fol. edit.

  The drift of Milton's argument, leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church.--_Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine_.

  This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anthropmorphites.--_Vide Du Pin_.

  Among Milton's poems are these lines:-- Dicite sacrorum praesides nemorum Deae, &c. Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers finxit humanum genus? Eternus, incorruptus, aequaevus polo, Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.--And afterwards, Non cui profundum Caecitas lumen dedit Dircaeus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c.

  *By winged Fantasy, My embassy is given, Till secrecy shall knowledge be In the environs of Heaven."