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 endeavoredto convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been mypurpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly andsimply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation ofthe Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul,_quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of theHeart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. Forin regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than toelevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divineEros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus--isunquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And inregard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truthwe are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before,we experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect isreferable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truthwhich merely served to render the harmony manifest.
We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of whatthe true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elementswhich induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizesthe ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shinein Heaven--in the volutes of the flower--in the clustering of lowshrubberies--in the waving of the grain-fields--in the slanting of talleastern trees--in the blue distance of mountains--in the grouping ofclouds--in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks--in the gleaming ofsilver rivers--in the repose of sequestered lakes--in the star-mirroringdepths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds--in theharp of Bolos--in the sighing of the night-wind--in the repining voiceof the forest--in the surf that complains to the shore--in the freshbreath of the woods--in the scent of the violet--in the voluptuousperfume of the hyacinth--in the suggestive odour that comes to himat eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts--in allunworldly motives--in all holy impulses--in all chivalrous, generous,and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman--inthe grace of her step--in the lustre of her eye--in the melody of hervoice--in her soft laughter, in her sigh--in the harmony of the rustlingof her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments--in herburning enthusiasms--in her gentle charities--in her meek and devotionalendurances--but above all--ah, far above all, he kneels to it--heworships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in thealtogether divine majesty--of her love.
Let me conclude by--the recitation of yet another brief poem--one verydifferent in character from any that I have before quoted. It is byMotherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modernand altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathizewith the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of thepoem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soulof the old cavalier:--
Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor call No shrewish teares shall fill your eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand,-- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and poling crye, Our business is like men to fight.
OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)
IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection withwhich we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed towhat is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simplelove of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poeticsentiment _inspired_ _by their writings should be ascribed to a factwhich, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, andwith the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon asa merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devoutadmirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; onbeing required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure,he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in generalhandling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct toideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of theauthor's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words andtheir rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vividdelight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the onesource, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction, avery commonplace air. This is, of course, no argument against the poemsnow-we mean it only as against the poets _thew. _There is a growingdesire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,sincere, and although very learned, still learned without art. Nogeneral error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than theerror of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense whereinWordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were theend-with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished,by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moraltruth-the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentimentthrough channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by completefailure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, bya path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumphwhich is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes ofthe multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowleyis but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. Andhe was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well designatein this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up inthe volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a veryperceptible general character. They used little art in composition.Their writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely ofthat soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this_abandon-to elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again,so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all goodthings, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as torender it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind insuch a school will be found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris_paribus) more artificial.
We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Bookof Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearestpossible idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention hadbeen merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have beenconsidered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages nowbefore us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whateverbeyond that of their antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do notparticularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid notto be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry Wotton's "Verses onthe Queen of Bohemia"-that "there are few finer things in our language,"is untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes ofPoesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout alltime. Here every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly conceal
ed. Noprepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine noother prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name ofpoetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, andwithout even an attempt at adaptation.
In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "TheShepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkabledegree, of the peculiarities of "Il Penseroso." Speaking of Poesy theauthor says:
"By the murmur of a spring, Or the least boughs rustleling, By a daisy whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Something that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness-- The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves, This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss, The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect; From all these and this dull air A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight."
But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the generalcharacter of the English antique. Something more of this will be foundin Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer-not only as a specimenof the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding inpathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything ofits species:
"It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet, With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race, And when't had left me far away 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes. For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid; Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips even seemed to bleed, And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip, But all its chief delight was still With roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within."
How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable!It pervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over thegentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-evenover the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on thebeauties and good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of asummer cloud over a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers."The whole is redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line isan idea conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or theartlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or hergrief, or the fragrance and warmth and _appropriateness _of the littlenest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay uponthem, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happylittle damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile onher face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thoughtin the few lines we have quoted the _wonder _of the little maiden at thefleetness of her favorite-the "little silver feet"--the fawn challenginghis mistress to a race with "a pretty skipping grace," running onbefore, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach only tofly from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all these things? Howexceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
"And trod as if on the four winds!"
A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character ofthe speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Thenconsider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses andlilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there,and there "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it _should _lie"--andnot being able to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself wouldrise"--the lying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to"fill itself with roses,"
"And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"
and these things being its "chief" delights-and then the pre-eminentbeauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperboleonly renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence,the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and morepassionate admiration of the bereaved child--
"Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within."
* "Book of Gems," Edited by S. C. Hall
POEMS
TO
THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX
THE AUTHOR OF
"THE DRAMA OF EXILE"--
TO
MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
OF ENGLAND
_I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME_
WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH
THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM
1845 E.A.P.
PREFACE
THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to theirredemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjectedwhile going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxiousthat what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulateat all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent uponme to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to thepublic, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled haveprevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, underhappier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With mepoetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should beheld in reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, withan eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, ofman-kind.
E. A. P.
1845
POEMS OF LATER LIFE
THE RAVEN.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you "--here I opened wide the door;---- Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dar
ed to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-- Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."
The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 Page 14
