Over two delightful volumes rich in biographic lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis the footman with the tumblers, tapping at my chamber door

Only that and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November; Wrought each separate dying ember, Gladstone's nose upon the floor,

Terror-struck I feared the morrow; vainly had I sought to borrow

From those books surcease of sorrow; agony perhaps in store!

If those students, sons of Gladstone, failed to top Sir Stafford's score!

Name it not for evermore.

Open then I flung the portal, when, with impudence immortal,

In there stepped a stately Raven of old Buckshot'st days of yore.

The Right Hon. George Otto Trevelyan, M.P., Author of a Biography of Lord Macaulay.

A nick-name applied to the Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M. P., by the Home Rulers.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,

But as cool as Joseph Brady, perched upon my chamber door

door

Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber Perched and spat, and nothing more. "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil,

Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted, In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore, Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before? Quoth the Raven, "Never more." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil,

By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don't adore,

Tell this soul with terror haunted, tell this Secretary daunted,

Of the triumphs which we've vaunted, of the victory in

The London correspondent of the Western Morning News, says:-"Speaking of poetry re-calls a very curious circumstance that has recently been talked about, and which is probably new to most readers. Everyone has read or heard that wonderful poem of Edgar Poe's 'The Raven and probably most of those who have read it know also of that very singular essay in which the poet explains the manner in which the poem was composed. He tells them how he came to make choice of the particular metre, how the burden suggested itself to his mind, how the last verse was written first and the others to lead gradually up to it, with a variety of minute and particular details, all tending to shew its originality. The whole of this essay turns out to be as ingenious a fiction as any o the tales of mystery' with which it is usually bound up. Poe's sole accomplishment was a minute and accurate acquaintance with Oriental languages, and this he turned to account by translating almost literally the poem of The Raven' from the Persian. The translation is so minute and accurate that even the cadences are preserved throughout, while the curious repetition of rhymes by which it is distinguished is equally characteristic of the work of the Persian poet. As a singular specimen of a literary imposture such a matter as this deserves notice. The discovery is due to the well-known eastern traveller, Mr. Lang, formerly of the Bombay service, and has since been corroborated, I hear, by some of the most celebrated Orientalists in England."-The Daily Review, Edinburgh, August 18, 1864.

SPIRITUAL POEMS.

A VERY curious feature of the modern American press has been the rapid growth of so-called Spiritual literature. Those who are incredulous in regard to these Spiritual manifestations simply assert that a poetical medium is one, who not having sufficient genius and originality to make a name and a place in literature for himself, falls back on the trick of imitating the style of some deceased popular author, and proclaims his (often stupid) Parody the veritable production of the spirit of the author imitated. Perhaps it is owing to the known partiality entertained by Edgar A. Poe for alcohol during his lifetime, or it may be due to the ease with which his style of versification may be imitated, that his spirit has been so often invoked, and his name so frequently used by the Spiritualists.

Without attempting to discuss the mode in which these poems have been given to the world, it will be quite sufficient to quote a few, and these of the very best, to show that Poe's Spirit has not produced anything at all equal in quality to the poems written by Poe whilst he was still in the flesh. Power, freshness, and originality they seem to lack entirely, but the quantity is superabundant; the chief difficulty in making a selection that shall be at once illustrative and interesting, is to avoid making it too voluminous, Few, indeed, of these poems possess the attributes of Poe's style,-his luxurious reiteration of thought in similar lines, his musical alliteration-his exquisite sense of rhyme. Here and there occurs a slight assumption of the mystical, but it is mere obscurity without suggestiveness. It is asserted that most of these Spiritual Poems were taken down from the lips of persons whilst in a state of trance.

One of the earliest Spirit Poems was said to be dictated through the medium of Mrs. LYDIA TENNEY, of George Town, Mass., U.S.A., and was triumphantly claimed as a proof that Poe's Spirit had written a poem. Mr. William Sawyer utterly demolished this poem in an article in the Brighton Herald, and as it does not possess any resemblance to Poe's style, it would be out of place here.

The first Spirit poem to be quoted is a sequel to "The Raven," by a certain R. ALLSTON LAVENDER, who asserted that it was dictated to him by the spirit of E. A. Poe. When last heard of Mr. Lavender was an inmate of a lunatic asylum in the United States.

SEQUEL TO THE RAVEN,

FIRES within my brain were burning, Scorning life, despairing, yearning, Hopeless, blinded in my anguish;

Through my body's open door

Came a Raven, foul and sable,
Like those evil birds of fable,
Downward swooping where the drooping
Spectres haunt the Stygian shore.

Ghosts of agonies departed,
Festering wounds that long had smarted,
Broken vows, returnless mornings,
Griefs and miseries of yore;
By some art revived, undaunted,
I gazed steadfast: the enchanted,
Black, infernal Raven uttered

A wild dirge-not evermore,
Gazing steady, gazing madly
On the bird, I spoke, and sadly
Broke down, too deep for scorning,
Sought for mercy to implore.
Turning to the bird, I blessed it-
In my bosom I caressed it ;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.

I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they-not blooming pansies-
Made me think the bird a spirit.

Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape-be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!
From thy banquet rise-be human !
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more."

Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven,
Image that Hell's King hath graven,
Image growing more gigantic,

Nursed beyond the Stygian shore,
Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened
With a brazen earthquake roar.
Downward, downward, circling, speedi,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,

His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat 'gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore-
'Twas a bird, but demon more.

Then I wakened, if to waken
Be to dwell by grief forsaken
With the God who dwelt with angels
In the shining age of yore.
And I stood sublime, victorious,
While below lay earth with glorious
Realms of angels shining,

Crown-like on her temples evermore,
Not an Earth, an Eden more.

Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows
From the Asphodelian meadows
Of the sky-world floating downward,

Early rains that from them pour;
Love's own heaven thy mother bore thee,
And the Father God bends o'er thee,
'Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead:
Thou shalt live forever more,

Not on Earth, in Eden more.

But, whilst living, stirring, dying,
Never did my spirit cease crying:

'Ye who guide the fates and furies, give, oh! give me, I implore

From the myriad host of nations,

From the countless constellations,

One pure spirit that can love me-one that I, too, can adore."

Through this fervent aspiration

Found my fainting soul salvation;

Far from out its blackened fire quick did my spirit soar, And my beautiful ideal,

Not too saintly to be real,

Burst more brightly on my vision than the fancy formed Lenore.

'Mid the surging sea she found me, With the billows breaking round me, And my saddened, sinking spirit in her arms of love upbore;

Like a lone one, weak and weary, Wandering in the mid-night dreary, On her sinless, saintly bosom, brought me to the heavenly shore.

Like the breath of blossoms blending, Like the prayers of saints ascending, Like the rainbow's seven-hued glory, blend on souls forevermore;

Earthly lust and lore enslaved me,

But divinest love hath saved me,

And I know now, first and only, how to live and how to adore.

O, my mortal friends and brothers!
We are each and all another's,

And the soul which gives most freely from its treasures hath the more.

Would you lose life, you must find it,

And in giving love you bind it,

Like an amulet of safety to your heart for evermore.

BALTIMORE, August, 1872.

IN a volume entitled Poems of the Inner Life written by the same lady, and published by Colby and Rich, of Boston, U.S.A., there is a long imitation of "Ulalume," from which the following verses may be quoted :—

THE KINGDOM.

'Twas the ominous month of October-
How the memories rise in my soul !
How they swell like a sea in my soul !—
When a spirit, sad, silent, and sober,
Whose glance was a word of control,
Drew me down to the dark Lake Avernus,
In the desolate Kingdom of Death-
To the mist-covered Lake of Avernus,
In the ghoul-haunted Kingdom of Death.
And there, as I shivered and waited,
I talked with the souls of the dead-
With those whom the living call dead;
The lawless, the lone, and the hated,
Who broke from their bondage and fled-
From madness and misery fled.

Each word was a burning eruption
That leapt from a crater of flame,
A red, lava-tide of corruption,

That out of life's sediment came,
From the scoriac natures God gave them,
Compounded of glory and shame.

"Aboard!" cries our pilot and leader;
Then wildly we rush to embark,
We recklessly rush to embark;
And forth in our ghostly Ellida*

We swept in the silence and dark-
Oh God! on that black Lake Avernus,
Where vampires drink even the breath
On that terrible Lake of Avernus,

Leading down to the whirlpool of Death!

It was there the Eumenides + found us
In sight of no shelter or shore-

No beacon or light from the shore.
They lashed up the white waves around us,
We sank in the waters' wild roar;
But not to the regions infernal,

Through billows of sulphurous flame, But unto the City Eternal,

The Home of the Blessed, we came.

Like the song of a bird that yet lingers,
When the wide-wandering warbler has flown;
Like the wind harp by Eolus blown,

As if touched by the lightest of fingers,
The portal wide open was thrown ;
And we saw not the holy Saint Peter,
Not even an angel of light,
But a vision far dearer and sweeter,

Not as brilliant nor blindingly bright,
But marvellous unto the sight!

In the midst of the mystical splendour,
Stood a beautiful, beautiful child-
A golden-haired, azure-eyed child,
With a look that was touching and tender,

She stretched out her white hand and smiled: "Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals, O, why do ye linger and wait ?

Come fearlessly in at these portals

No warder keeps watch at the gate!"

*

The dragon-ship of the Norse mythology. The Fates and Furies.

Then out from the mystical splendour, The swift-changing, crystalline light, The rainbow-hued, scintillant light, Gleamed faces more touching and tender Than ever had greeted our sight

Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight;

And they sang: "Welcome home to the Kingdom,
Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled;

The Lord is the light of this Kingdom,
And His temple the heart of a child-
Of a trustful and teachable child.
Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom-
Receive, and believe, as a child."

ANOTHER long poem, entitled "Farewell to Earth," was delivered by Miss LIZZIE DOTEN at the conclusion of a Lecture at Clinton Hall, New York; it purported to be E. A. POE's final "Fare well to this World." It was printed in Number 2 of Inspirational Poems, and published by F. N. Broderick, 1, St. Thomas's Square, Ryde, Isle of Wight, for the small price of one penny; alas! it was dear at that. But the culmination of absurdity is to be found in a book entitled Improvisations from the Spirit, published in London in 1857. This ridiculous work was the production of Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, a rather well known character in St. John's Wood about thirty years ago. If we are to credit this author, the 400 closely printed pages of this curious jumble of clerical cant terms, spiritualism, and Swedenborgianism, were written under a kind of inspiration. Since August 1857 the inspired volume had rested undisturbed on the library shelves of the British Museum, nor had any sacrilegious paperknife disturbed its uncut edges until the Editor of Parodies assailed them. And there he found an "Imitation of E. A. Poe," a mad kind of poem, a dribbling in rhyme, of which one verse will surely be sufficient for even the most spiritualistic reader :

And that his feet were gaining

Strange features from below;
And that his toes were raining
Toe-nails upon his brow:
And that his heart and liver

Were shuffling in their seats;
And that he heard them quiver
And saw their anxious heats,

POTPOURRI.

IN the library of the British Museum there is a small octavo pamphlet of 24 pages, entitled "Pot-Pourri." It was apparently printed for private circulation only. The author's name is not given, but it bears the imprint, "Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by ABEL REID, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington." "S. W. GREEN, Printer and Electrotyper, 16 & 18, Jacob St., New York." The eleven poems it contains are all parodies of Poe's writings, as the titles sufficiently indicate. Indeed many of the lines are taken bodily, and without the slightest acknowledgement, from Poe himself, whilst the stanzas, entitled, "Part of an Unfinished Ghoul-Poem," in "Poetic Fragments," were written by Poe, and intended by him to form the conclusion of "Ulalume." He had, however, suppressed these lines at the request of Mrs. Whitman, the lady to whom he was engaged to be married, when his career was cut short by his miserable excesses. The author of "Pot-Pourri," though evidently an admirer of the genius of Poe, utters a protest against the excessive hero-worship of some American critics; but it is a pity that he was not himself more candid and ingenuous in his treatment of the dead poet's works. The following is an exact reprint of this scarce pamphlet; to facilitate comparison with the originals, a few stanzas from Poe's poems are quoted at the foot of several of the parodies.

POT-POURRI.

THE RUINED PALACE.

DREAM-MERE.

ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS.

THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY.

HULLALOO.

TO ANY.

HANNIBAL LEIGH.

RAVING.

THE MONSTER MAGGOT.

POETIC FRAGMENTS.

UNDER-LINES.

THE RUINED PALACE.

IN a green depth, like a chalice,
By most sweet flowers tenanted,
Stood a fair and stately palace.

There a poet-soul-now dead-
Lived in days in vain lamented,-
Had lived to-day,

But was wayward-or demented,Weak, or worse,-who dares to say?

For his thought was streak'd with fancies,

To all simple truth untrue; Bizarre, as the hues of pansies,

The dark shades he knew; And he wander'd from this Aidenn: Wander'd, and was lost, alas! Though his own beloved maiden Track'd his footsteps through the grass. Devastation Housed in his disorder'd rooms; On his couch lay Desolation;

He return'd not.

Vampyres flitted through the glooms. By the pure white Parian fountains Lounged the ghouls, obscenely bare; Never wind came from the mountains To refresh the stagnant air.

O'er the garden walks neglected

Crawl'd the toad, the worm, the snail; Droop'd the young buds unrespected: Loving care could not avail.

For the poet-soul, the master,
Could alone that place

Make beautiful, and from disaster
Free-as Aidenn-by God's grace.

When he the palace left, and garden,—
The moment that he would depart—