Edgar Allen Poe [pp. 172-187]

17 Lie.EgrAla o.[-c~
LINES,
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
COMPOSED ON THE SEA-SHORE.
"It was an evening, bright and still,
As ever blushed on wave, or bower,
SmilinT from Heaven, as if nought ill
Could happen in so sweet an hour."
MIoore's Loves of the An:els.
"All was so still, so soft in earth and air,
You scarce would start, to meet a spirit there."
Byron's Lara.
The sun hath reached the horizon's verge,
The waters are sighing their evening dirge,
The light winds fly on their pinions fiee,
Far over the solemn and silent sea,
And sport with the waves in their joyful way,
Like a band of children at thoughtless play,
With their stern old Grandsire's hoary hair,
Twining his locks in their fingers fairAnd breathing the while in his listening ear,
Songs whose cadence to him doth seem,
The music soft of a fading dream.
O'er the Ocean's distant and misty brim,
Slowly the sunlight is growing dim,
And the shadowy clouds in a dense array
Close over the couch of the dying day,
Like the golden pinions of Angels spread,
In a radiant circle above the bed
Where the Great, their mission of Glory done,
Are passing from earth, like the setting sun.
Now, gathereth'round me a stillness deep,
A mournful stillness-but not of sleepFor Nature seems in her hush to pine,
And weep for the Lord of light's decline.
On the billows' darkened and shadowy breast,
The weary zephyrs sink down to rest,
Athwart the sombre, and rayless sky,
Stealthily flitteth the "sea-mew" by,
And faint, o'er the moaning waves are heard,
The desolate tones of the homeless bird.
Let me linger awhile by the lone sea-side,
With the Heavens above-and around the tide,
Whose mysterious music in earlier years,
Hath almost melted my soul to tears,
When I deemed that the ceaseless roll of waves,
Was a funeral-hymn over unseen graves.
The twilight shadows are passing slow,
Like a stately and sable train of wo,
And one by one from the vault of blue,
The stars come timidly peering through,
The waters are trembling beneath the kiss,
Of their soft, white beams-as if thrilled with blissThe earth wherever their white rays pour,
Seemeth a dreamy, and weird-like shore,
And the cool, calm air of the noiseless night,
Is sparkling with silvery shafts of light.
Let me linger awhile by the lone sea-sid
And list to the music of wind and tide,
For it whispereth peace to the toil-worn
And calmeth the heart's wild chords to r
Serene my soul as the Heaven's pure b
Holy spirits are near me now.
P. H. H.
The works of the late EDGAR ALLAN PoE, with notices
of his life and genius. By N. P. Willis, J. R. Lowell
and R. W. Griswold. In two volumes. New York:
J. S. Redfield, Clinton Hall, 1850. 12mo. pp. 483, 495.
Here we have at last the result of the long experiment; the residium in the retort; the chrystals in the crucible; the ashes of the furnace;
the attainment of fiery trial and of analysis
the most acute. How muchbittermiserywent to
write these pages;-what passion, what power of
mind and heart were needed to strike these impressions-the only footprints on the sands of time
of a vitality in which the lives of ten ordinary
men were more than condensed-will never be
known save to those who knew in person the
man they embody.
These half told tales and broken poems are
the only records of a wild, hard life; and all that
is left of a real genius,-genius in the true sense
of the word, unmistakeable and original. No
other American has half the chance of a remembrance in the history of literature. Edgar
Poe's reputation will rest in a very small minority of the compositions in these two volumes.
Among all his poems, there are only two or three
which are not execrably bad. The majority of
his prose writings are the children of want
and dyspepsia, of printer's devils and of blue
devils. Had he the power of applying his creative faculties-as have had the Miltons, the Shakspeares and all the other demiurgi-he would have
been avery great man. Butthereisnotone trace
of that power in these volumes; and his career
and productions rather resemble those of the
Marlowes, the Jonsons, the Dekkers, and the
Websters, the old dramatists and translunary
rowdies of the Elizabethan age, than the consistent lives and undying utterances of those who
claim the like noble will and the shaping imagination. Had Mr. Poe possessed mere talent,
even with his unfortunate moral constitution, he
mlght have been a popular and money-maklng
author. He would have written a great many
more good things than he has left here; but his
title to immortality would not and could not have
been surer than it is. For the few things that
this author has written which are at all tolerable,
are coins stamped with the indubitable die.
They are of themselves,-sui generis,-unlike any
diagrams in Time's Kalaidescope,-and gleam
with the diamond hues of eternity.
But before passing to a consideration of the amber, convention and circumstance require an examination of the dirty little fleas and flies who have
managed to embalm themselves therein. The
works of Edlgar Allan Poe are introduced to the
[MARCI-T,
17
Lines.-Edgar Allan Poe.
I'r