Complete Essays, Literary Criticism, Cryptography, Autography, Translations & Letters. Эдгар Аллан По

by that magnanimous cabal which has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing called “The North American Review.” The poem just cited is especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet’s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

      It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the merits of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:— whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chaff for his reward.

      Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics — but I am by no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an axiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:— and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that they are not merits altogether.

      Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning —“Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love — a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:—

      Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer

       Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

       Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,

       And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

       Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same

       Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

       I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,

       I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

       Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

       And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this,-

       Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

       And shield thee, and save thee,- or perish there tool

      It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy — a distinction originating with Coleridge — than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly — more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing —“I would I were by that dim lake”— which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

      One of the noblest — and, speaking of Fancy — one of the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His “Fair Ines” had always for me an inexpressible charm:—

      O saw ye not fair Ines?

       She’s gone into the West,

       To dazzle when the sun is down,

       And rob the world of rest;

       She took our daylight with her,

       The smiles that we love best,

       With morning blushes on her cheek,

       And pearls upon her breast.

       O turn again, fair Ines,

       Before the fall of night,

       For fear the moon should shine alone,

       And stars unrivall’d bright;

       And blessed will the lover be

       That walks beneath their light,

       And breathes the love against thy cheek

       I dare not even write!

       Would I had been, fair Ines,

       That gallant cavalier,

       Who rode so gaily by thy side,

       And whisper’d thee so near!

       Were there no bonny dames at home

       Or no true lovers here,

       That he should cross the seas to win

       The dearest of the dear?

       I saw thee, lovely Ines,

       Descend along the shore,

       With bands of noble gentlemen,

       And banners waved before,

       And gentle youth and maidens gay,

       And snowy plumes they wore;

       It would have been a beauteous dream,

       If it had been no more!

       Alas, alas, fair Ines,

       She went away with song,

       With music waiting on her steps,

       And shoutings of the throng;

       But some were sad and felt no mirth,

       But only Music’s wrong,

       In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

       To her you’ve loved so long.

       Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

       That vessel never bore

       So fair a lady on its deck,

       Nor danced so light before,-

       Alas for pleasure on the sea,

       And sorrow on the shore!

       The smile that blest one lover’s heart

       Has broken many more!

      “The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written — one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal — imaginative. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—

      One more Unfortunate,

       Weary of breath,

       Gone to her death!

       Take her up tenderly,

       Lift her with care,-

       Fashion’d so slenderly,

       Young and so fair!

       Look at her garments

       Clinging like cerements;

       Whilst the wave constantly

       Drips from her clothing;

       Take her up instantly,

       Loving, not loathing.

       Touch her not scornfully,

       Think of her mournfully,

       Gently and humanly,

       Not of the stains of her,

       All that remains of her

       Now is pure womanly.

       Make no deep scrutiny

       Into her mutiny

       Rash and undutiful;

       Past all dishonor,

       Death has left