the works of edgar allan poe-5-第24章

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　　　　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。

~~~　End　of　Text　~~~



OLD　ENGLISH　POETRY　*

IT　should　not　be　doubted　that　at　least　one…third　of　the　affection　with
which　we　regard　the　elder　poets　of　Great　Britain　should　be…attributed　to
what　is；　in　itself；　a　thing　apart　from　poetry…we　mean　to　the　simple　love
of　the　antique…and　that；　again；　a　third　of　even　the　proper　_poetic
sentiment　_inspired_　_by　their　writings　should　be　ascribed　to　a　fact
which；　while　it　has　strict　connection　with　poetry　in　the　abstract；　and
with　the　old　British　poems　themselves；　should　not　be　looked　upon　as　a
merit　appertaining　to　the　authors　of　the　poems。　Almost　every　devout
admirer　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；　on　being
required　to　point　out　the　source　of　this　so　shadowy　pleasure；　he　would　be
apt　to　speak　of　the　quaint　in　phraseology　and　in　general　handling。　This
quaintness　is；　in　fact；　a　very　powerful　adjunct　to　ideality；　but　in　the
case　in　question　it　arises　independently　of　the　author's　will；　and　is
altogether　apart　from　his　intention。　Words　and　their　rhythm　have　varied。
Verses　which　affect　us　to…day　with　a　vivid　delight；　and　which　delight；　in
many　instances；　may　be　traced　to　the　one　source；　quaintness；　must　have
worn　in　the　days　of　their　construction；　a　very　commonplace　air。　This　is；
of　course；　no　argument　against　the　poems　now…we　mean　it　only　as　against
the　poets　_thew。　_There　is　a　growing　desire　to　overrate　them。　The　old
English　muse　was　frank；　guileless；　sincere；　and　although　very　learned；
still　learned　without　art。　No　general　error　evinces　a　more　thorough
confusion　of　ideas　than　the　error　of　supposing　Donne　and　Cowley
metaphysical　in　the　sense　wherein　Wordsworth　and　Coleridge　are　so。　With
the　two　former　ethics　were　the　end…with　the　two　latter　the　means。　The　poet
of　the　〃Creation〃　wished；　by　highly　artificial　verse；　to　inculcate　what　he
supposed　to　be　moral　truth…the　poet　of　the　〃Ancient　Mariner〃　to　infuse　the
Poetic　Sentiment　through　channels　suggested　by　analysis。　The　one　finished
by　complete　failure　what　he　commenced　in　the　grossest　misconception；　the
other；　by　a　path　which　could　not　possibly　lead　him　astray；　arrived　at　a
triumph　which　is　not　the　less　glorious　because　hidden　from　the　profane
eyes　of　the　multitude。　But　in　this　view　even　the　〃metaphysical　verse〃　of
Cowley　is　but　evidence　of　the　simplicity　and　single…heartedness　of　the
man。　And　he　was　in　this　but　a　type　of　his　school…for　we　may　as　well
designate　in　this　way　the　entire　class　of　writers　whose　poems　are　bound　up
in　the　volume　before　us；　and　throughout　all　of　whom　there　runs　a　very
perceptible　general　character。　They　used　little　art　in　composition。　Their
writings　sprang　immediately　from　the　soul…and　partook　intensely　of　that
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　good
things；　with　the　lowest　possible　bathos；　baldness；　and　imbecility；　as　to
render　it　not　a　matter　of　doubt　that　the　average　results　of　mind　in　such　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　〃Book　of
Gems〃　are　such　as　will　impart　to　a　poetical　reader　the　clearest　possible
idea　of　the　beauty　of　the　school…but　if　the　intention　had　been　merely　to
show　the　school's　character；　the　attempt　might　have　been　considered
successful　in　the　highest　degree。　There　are　long　passages　now　before　us　of
the　most　despicable　trash；　with　no　merit　whatever　beyond　that　of　their
antiquity。。　The　criticisms　of　the　editor　do　not　particularly　please　us。
His　enthusiasm　is　too　general　and　too　vivid　not　to　be　false。　His　opinion；
for　example；　of　Sir　Henry　Wotton's　〃Verses　on　the　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　of　Poesy
which　belong　to　her　in　all　circumstances　and　throughout　all　time。　Here
every　thing　is　art；　nakedly；　or　but　awkwardly　concealed。　No　prepossession
for　the　mere　antique　（and　in　this　case　we　can　imagine　no　other
prepossession）　should　induce　us　to　dignify　with　the　sacred　name　of　poetry；
a　series；　such　as　this；　of　elaborate　and　threadbare　compliments；　stitched；
apparently；　together；　without　fancy；　without　plausibility；　and　without
even　an　attempt　at　adaptation。

In　common　with　all　the　world；　we　have　been　much　delighted　with　〃The
Shepherd's　Hunting〃　by　Withersa　poem　partaking；　in　a　remarkable　degree；
of　the　peculiarities　of　〃Il　Penseroso。〃　Speaking　of　Poesy　the　author　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　general
character　of　the　English　antique。　Something　more　of　this　will　be　found　in
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　specimen　of　the
elder　poets；　but　in　itself　as　a　beautiful　poem；　abounding　in　pathos；
exquisitely　delicate　imagination　and　truthfulness…to　anything　of　its
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　the
gentleness　and　grace　which　we　fancy　in　the　little　maiden　herself…even　over
the　half…playful；　half…petulant　air　with　which　she　lingers　on　the　beauties
and　good　qualities　of　her　favorite…like　the　cool　shadow　of　a　summer　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　is　an　idea
conveying　either　the　beauty　and　playfulness　of　the　fawn；　or　the
artlessness　of　the　maiden；　or　her　love；　or　her　admiration；　or　her　grief；
or　the　fragrance　and　warmth　and　_appropriateness　_of　the　little　nest…like
bed　of　lilies　and　roses　which　the　fawn　devoured　as　it　lay　upon　them；　and
could　scarcely　be　distinguished　from　them　by　the　once　happy　little　damsel
who　went　to　seek　her　pet　with　an　arch　and　rosy　smile　on　her　face。　Consider
the　great　variety　of　truthful　and　delicate　thought　in　the　few　lines　we
have　quotedthe　_wonder　_of　the　little　maiden　at　the　fleetness　of　her
favorite…the　〃little　silver　feet〃the　fawn　challenging　his　mistress　to　a
race　with　〃a　pretty　skipping　grace；〃　running　on　before；　and　then；　with
head　turned　back；　awaiting　her　approach　only　to　fly　from　it　again…can　we
not　distinctly　perceive　all　these　things？　How　exceedingly　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　of　the
speaker　and　the　four　feet　of　the　favorite；　one　for　each　wind。　Then
consider　the　garden　of　〃my　own；〃　so　overgrown；　entangled　with　roses　and
lilies；　as　to　be　〃a　little　wilderness〃the　fawn　loving　to　be　there；　and
there　〃only〃the　maiden　seeking　it　〃where　it　_should　_lie〃and　not　being
able　to　distinguish　it　from　the　flowers　until　〃itself　would　rise〃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…eminent
beauty　and　naturalness　of　the　concluding　lines；　whose　very　hyperbole　only
renders　them　more　true　to　nature　when　we　consider　the　innocence；　the
artlessness；　the　enthusiasm；　the　passionate　girl；　and　more　passionate
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

~~~~~~　End　of　Texr　~~~~~~

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　their
redemption　from　the　many　improvements　to　which　they　have　been　subjected
while　going　at　random　the　〃rounds　of　the　press。〃　I　am　naturally　anxious
that　what　I　have　written　should　circulate　as　I　wrote　it；　if　it　circulate
at　all。　In　defence　of　my　own　taste；　nevertheless；　it　is　incumbent　upon　me
to　say　that　I　think　nothing　in　this　volume　of　much　value　to　the　public；　or
very　creditable　to　myself。　Events　not　to　be　controlled　have　prevented　me
from　making；　at　any　time；　any　serious　effort　in　what；　under　happier
circumstances；　would　have　been　the　field　of　my　choice。　With　me　poetry　has
been　not　a　purpose；　but　a　passion；　and　the　passions　should　be　held　in
reverence：　they　must　not…they　can　not　at　will　be　excited；　with　an　eye　to
the　paltry　compensations；　or　the　more　paltry　commendations；　of　man…kind。

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　E。　A。　P。

　　　1845

　　　　　　　　　　　　　THE　RAVEN。

Once　upon　a　midnight　dreary；　while　I　ponde