Complete Tales & Poems

by Edgar Allan Poe

  Forth issue from the rose.

  Affections are as thoughts to her,

  The measures of her hours;

  Her feelings have the fragrancy,

  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 fil’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. Pinkney to have been born too far south. Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as the first of American lyrists, by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing called the North American Review. The poem just cited is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

  It is 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 Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book—whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his reward.

  Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics—but I am by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it requires to be demonstrated as such:—and thus, to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether.

  Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore, is one whose distinguished character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning: “Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by any thing in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love—a sentiment which, 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, while granting him Fancy—a distinction originating with Coleridge—than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly, more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing: “I would I were by that dim lake,” which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

  One of the noblest—and, speaking of Fancy, one of the most singularly fanciful—of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always, for me, an inexpressible charm:

  Oh! 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.

  Oh! turn again, fair Ines.

  Before the fall of night,

  For fear the moon should shine alone,

  And stars unrivall’d bright;

  And blessèd 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 gayly 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 shoutings 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 shore!

  The smile that blessed one lover’s heart

  Has broken many more.

  “The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written—one of the truest—one of the most unexceptionable—one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal—imaginative. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this Lecture. In place of it, permit 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 sc
rutiny

  Into her mutiny

  Rash and undutiful:

  Past all dishonor,

  Death has left on her

  Only the beautiful.

  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.

  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 !

  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.

  Perishing 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. The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem.

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

  Though the day of my destiny’s over,

  And the star of my fate hath 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 hath painted

  It never hath 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 thine;

  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 loved, 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 hath 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 hath perished,

  Thus much I at least may recall:

  It hath 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 versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he still retains the unwavering love of woman.

  From Alfred Tennyson—although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived—I have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets—not because the impressions he produces are, at all times, the most profound —not because the poetical excitement which he induces is, at all times, the most intense—but because it is, at all times, the most ethereal—in other words, the most elevating and the most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last long poem, “The Princess”:

  Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

  Tears from the depth of some divine despair

  Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

  In looking on the happy autumn-fields,

  And thinking of the days that are no more.

  Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail

  That brings our friends up from the underworld,

  Sad as the last which reddens over one

  That sinks with all we love below the verge;

  So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

  Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

  The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds

  To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

  The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

  So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

  Dear as remember’d kisses after death,

  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d

  On lips that are for others; deep as love,

  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

  O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

  Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored to convey to you my concept
ion of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the Soul— quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart —or of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For, in regard to Passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary—Love—the true, the divine Eros—the Uranian, as distinguished from the Dionæan Venus—is unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth—if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we experience, at once, the true poetical effect —but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest.

  We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven —in the volutes of the flower—in the clustering of low shrubberies—in the waving of the grain-fields—in the slanting of the tall, Eastern trees— in the blue distance of mountains—in the grouping of clouds—in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks—in the gleaming of silver rivers—in the repose of sequestered lakes—in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds—in the harp of Æolus—in the sighing of the night-wind—in the repining voice of the forest—in the surf that complains to the shore—in the fresh breath of the woods—in the scent of the violet—in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth—in the suggestive odor that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts—in all unworldly motives—in all holy impulses—in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman—in the grace of her step—in the lustre of her eye—in the melody of her voice—in her soft laughter—in her sigh—in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments—in her burning enthusiasms—in her gentle charities—in her meek and devotional endurances—but above all—ah! far above all—he kneels to it—he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty—of her love.