I XIII EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) N England and on the continent of Europe American poet. Though his poetic work is very small in bulk, it has a power and genius of its own that have never been equalled by any American writer. As a master of the weird he is to be compared to Coleridge, but he lacks Coleridge's humanity. In rhythmic skill he approached Tennyson, though he shows no such varied and extensive application of it as Tennyson does. And his worship of beauty, and realization of loveliness in his poems, place him in the same class as Keats. Doubtless each of these poets in his own sphere decidedly surpassed Poe; but Poe has the merit at least of uniting several elements of high excellence. Critical justice has never been done Poe, and his unhappy life, libellously misrepresented by Griswold, and misunderstood even to our own time, has been used to cast a cloud even over his work. Nearly all criticism of Poe is warped and vitally vitiated by controversy. Prejudice has entered more or less into all that has been said of him, either by his friends or by his enemies. The fairest summary of Poe as a poet is that of Professor Trent in his recent study of American Literature: "Few artists in their aspirations,” says he, “have ever been more detached from the actualities of this tangible world; few in their lives have ever been more bespattered with its slime. The posthumous fame of few writers has grown more steadily and clearly; few representatives of a nation's best achievements have been more maligned, misunderstood, or else grudgingly acknowledged by a majority of their countrymen. Since his death Poe has had more influence upon the world's literature than any other American, and his primacy among American authors has become practically a commonplace for most foreign critics. This primacy has been pronounced 'perverse' by American critics endowed with the courage requisite to scolding a continent. On the other hand, Poe has never lacked affection and homage from a respectable minority of his countrymen, his works have been better and better edited, and his fame has grown until it is now possible to assert his supremacy in American literature without running the risk of being vituperated.... "Just as Gray is for English-speaking peoples an unapproachable elegist, so is Poe an unapproachable writer of haunting, melodious lyrics of regret for lost loves and for luring, ever-escaping beauty. However narrow Poe's genius as a poet may be, it is plain that within his own sphere he is a more perfect artist than any other American has been in any sphere. Probably no other poet writing in English has equalled him as a master of the refrain and of the devices of parallelism. Nor has any one precisely reproduced his harmonies or surpassed them in their kind. His themes are few, but they appeal deeply to the hearts of readers. . . . The dramatic interest and weird intensity of The Raven' the undefinable emotional appeal of Ulalume,' the varied melody of The Bells,' the romantic charm of 'Annabel Lee,' the subtle harmonies of Israfel,' 'To Helen,' and 'To One in Paradise,' and, finally, the melodious pathos of 'The Haunted Palace,' appear to be Poe's title-deeds to unending fame.” No other writer has so successfully analyzed the process of creative composition of the highest order, and established standards for prose and poetry alike, as Poe; and in connection with the study of his poems, we should not neglect to read his essays on "The Poetic Principle," "The True Aims of Poetry," and "The Philosophy of Composition." He alone of critics tested all his theories by practice, and comes anywhere near giving us a conscious outline of successful creative composition.1 TO HELEN HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicæan barks of yore, On desperate seas long wont to roam, Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 1 See division "Poe's Literary Creed" in "Best Poems and Essays of Edgar Allan Poe," where his analysis of his art has been collected, and discussed in his own words, so to speak. LENORE Aн, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! more! See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come, let the burial rite be read the funeral song be sung: An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young, A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young. "Wretches, ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be sung By you - by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride: For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes; "Avaunt! avaunt! 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! Let no bell toll, then, — lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damnèd Earth! And I!-to-night my heart is light!-no dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days! TO ONE IN PARADISE THOU wast all that to me, love, A fountain and a shrine All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise A voice from out the Future cries, (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 And all my days are trances, In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams. ISRAFEL And the angel Israfel, 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 well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), |