Scarce is seen the lonely floweret, Murky vapours hung in ether, Nature pants distressful-silence Then amid the limpid waters, THE PAST. No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant. He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen of his, deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of melancholy in his treatment is always pleasing. HOU unrelenting Past! Strong are the barriers round thy dark And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. Far in thy realm withdrawn Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends-the good-the kind, The venerable form-the exalted mind. My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back ;-yearns with desire intense, Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. In vain :-thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart; Thou giv'st them back,-nor to the broken heart. In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown:-to thee THE MURDERED HEN spring, to woods and wastes around, The murdered traveler's bones were found, TRAVELER. The fragrant birch, above him, hung And many a vernal blossom sprung, Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza begining-"Truth' crushed to earth shall rise again,"-said: “Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza which will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in the English language. The thought is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each beyond a king's ransom." 99 DGAR ALLEN POE, the author of "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," "The Haunted Palace," "To One in Paradise,' "Israfel" and "Lenore," was in his peculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, perhaps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and yet from out these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Fawcett says of him: "He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear; By desolate paths of dream where fancy's owl Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Marylander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguished Revolutionary soldier and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured the country in the ordinary manner, and this perhaps accounts for his birth in Boston. Their home was in Baltimore, Maryland. When Poe was only a few years old both parents died, within two weeks, in Richmond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older and one younger than the subject of this sketch, were all adopted by friends of the family. Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adopted Edgar (who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, first in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia, and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguished himself in his studies, but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to submit to the discipline of the institution. In common with the custom in the University of Virginia at that time, Poe acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling debts which he contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to pay them. This brought on the beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe's disinheritance and permanent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympathetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing not how to make money-yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature-struggling for nearly twenty years in gloom and poverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849, at forty years of age. To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe's life it is little wonder that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful "Annabel Lee;" or that he should wail over the "Lost Lenore," or declare that his soul should "nevermore be lifted from the shadow of the "Raven" upon the floor. These poems and others are but the expressions of disappointment and despair of a soul alienated from happy human relations. While we admire their power and beauty, we should remember at what cost of pain and suffering and disappointment they were produced. They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human strength, of broken hopes and bitter experiences through which rare specimens of our literature are often grown. To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its lessons, fully, would require the scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal character has been represented as pronouncedly double. It is said that Stevenson, who was a great admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, " Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne has also written a poem entitled, "Poe," which presents in a double shape the angel and demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we quote: "Two mighty spirits dwelt in him: To these, in turn, he gave the whole It must be said in justice to Poe's memory, however, that the above idea of his being both demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography published of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisms which the latter had passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors' writings. Later biographies, notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as published statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold's damaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favorable light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from his father who, before him, was a drunkard. It is natural for admirers of Poe's genius to contemplate with regret akin to sorrow those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to the productions of his marvelous pen? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his personal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless portrait of his splendid genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to stand with uncovered heads. As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to the smallest illustrative particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing. As a poet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and facility in coloring which give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds. a musical flow of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a nearby, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As one of his biographers has written, "He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious effect of musical sound." As a literary critic Poe's capacities were of the greatest. "In that large part of the critic's perceptions," says Duyckinek, "in knowledge of the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America." Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by him in Richmond says: "I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the "Raven" will ever forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. The |