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“The Raven.”
(After Edgar Allan Poe.)
Late at midnight I was seated, and my brain was overheated
With reflections quaint and curious as I thought my subject o’er;
While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door,
And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door,
Just a tap, and nothing more.
Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member,
Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more;
Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision,
There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlour-door,
Icy chill came creeping o’er me whilst I gazed upon the door,
Getting frightened more and more.
And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping
That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door,
Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle,
As she’d often done before.
Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their pallor,
“Maid,” said I, “or Mary, just you place the candle at the door,
Pond’ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping,
And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlour-door;
Mary, scarcely could I hear you,” then I went unto the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over-heated,
When again I heard the rapping louder than it was before,
“Bless me!” said I, “This again, something’s at the window-pane,
Now some knowledge I’ll obtain of this strange mysterious bore;
Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore.
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had broken,
Thro’ the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby’s of yore,
Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever,
Flight he took with bold endeavour, perching o’er my parlour door,
From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door,
Sat and looked—did nothing more!
Cunning looked he, as though chaffing—funny bird! he set me laughing,
Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor:—
“Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be no craven,
Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore
Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door.”
Quoth the raven, “Say no more!”
“Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you’ve bethought you
Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore.
Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or women,
Which thou wilt reveal to no men—speak the message, I implore.”
Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlour-door,
Said he, “Think the matter o’er.”
There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately.
Like a monk he was “complately,” thinking something deeply o’er,
All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered
Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o’er the door;
Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne’er before
To a raven o’er a door.
—At the Prince’s Pierhead, said he, there you’ll find a policeman steady,
Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there,
With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling,
Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare
Pierhead rank they’ll never stand in, never ply for landing “fare”
Whilst that “bobby’s” stationed there!
At the Town Hall banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and stately,
Full of pomp he was “complately,” sitting rigid in his chair.
When the Army’s health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted,
Whilst with with’ring tongue he “roasted” Captain Douglas sitting there,
That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair
With the Army must compare!
45
When the Colonel Yates, conceited, had his fulsome speech completed,
And upon his chair was seated,—Colonel Steble, gallant “Maire,”
Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley
Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair;
Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare
“Such an honour now was rare!”
Chinamen out there in “Peeking,” Treaty obligations breaking,
Our Ambassador is seeking wily stubborn men to awe,
Telling them the British nation anger’d cannot brook evasion;
Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he’ll withdraw;
So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion’s paw,
China says she’ll keep the law.
Sea is rough and weather breezy, still “Serapis,” steaming easy,
Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain’s Queen,
Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing,
Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen;
Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien,
Greeting son of India’s Queen—
Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended,
Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door.
Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken,
He had given me the token, and he hopp’d along the floor,
Thro’ the window into darkness—glancing at my parlour door,
Raven saw I nevermore!
The Porcupine (Liverpool), October 30, 1875.
A Black Bird that Could Sing but Wouldn’t Sing.
(A Lyric of the American Southern States.)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
O’er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before;
While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking,
Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my door—
Saw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door,
Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor,
Peeping in, and—nothing more.
Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it,
And I ever shall regret it that I looked towards that door,
For I saw a monstrous figure—like a giant, only bigger,
And there stood a big buck nigger, with his back against the door,
Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor,
A reeking, lantern-jaw’d buck nigger bolt upright against my door,
Glancing in, and—nothing more.
Quick instinctively espying where my ham and eggs were frying,
There I saw a poker lying near the hearth upon the floor,
And with most determined vigour seized and hurled it at the nigger,
But so quick was he on the trigger, as he jump’d it struck the door,
Struck beneath him, as he bounded just like lightning from the floor,
As like a tarr’d and feather’d Mercury, up he bounded from the floor,
Grazed his heel, and—nothing more.
Back toward my hearth-stone looking, where my ham and eggs were cooking,
Shaking, quaking as no mortal ever shaked or quaked before,
Soon I heard the ugly sinner mutter forth these words, “Some dinner,”
Looking still more gaunt and thinner, even than he looked before,
These the words the heathen mutter’d—the sole and only sound then uttered,
As down from his high jump he flutter’d ’lighting on his major toe,
“Dinner,” said he, nothing more.
Then his impudence beginning, he displayed his gums in grinning,
And with eyes aught else but winning, leer’d upon me from the door,
Speaking thusly: “’Tis your treat, man, I’ll never go into the street, man,
Till I get some grub to eat, man, I shall never leave your door,
Never quit them aigs and bacon, now just done, I’m very sure,
Never till I’ve cleaned the platter, though you beat me till I roar,
Treat me, or I’ll charge ’em sure.”
Then toward the fireplace marching, where my coffee too was parching,
Boldly stalked this sassy nigger right across my chamber-floor,
Never stopped to bend or bow, sir, then I knew there’d be a row, sir,
For I made a solemn vow, sir, he should soon recross that floor,
And I kicked him through the room, sir, back again toward the door,
Kick’d and cuffed him, in my anger, back against my chamber-door,
Then I kicked him yet once more.
But this midnight bird beguiling my stirr’d spirit into smiling,
By the wretched, rabid, ravenous look his hungry visage wore,
“Tho’,” I said, “thou art a freedman, thou hast gone so much to seed, man,
So I’ll give you one good feed, man, as you seem to be so poor—
One good feed in your sore need, man, as you seem so very poor;
The eggs and meat shall be my treat, if with light work you’ll pay the score.”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
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Much I marvelled this ungainly nigger should refuse so plainly
Just to do a little work, for food he craved and needed sore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Should decline to labour seeing that he was so deuced poor;
Should refuse to earn a dinner, which he hungered for I’m sure,
And would have damned his soul by stealing had he hoped to make the door;
Escaping thence to—work no more.
Awhile I sat absorbed in musing, what meant he by this refusing,
Till, mad, I turned into abusing the odious, odorous blackamoor.
“Sure,” said I, “you must be crazy, to be so infernal lazy,
So cussedly, outrageous lazy, as to want to work no more;
You ugly, grim, ungainly, ghastly, heathen, savage blackamoor,
Will you even work for wages—food and clothes and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
“Nigger,” said I, “horrid demon! Nigger still if slave or freeman,
Pause and ponder ere you answer this one question, I implore:
Have you got no sense of feeling? do you mean to live by stealing?
Or by working and fair dealing; tell me truly, I implore,
On your honour as a nigger, will you ever labour more?
Plough in corn or hoe in cotton, as you did in days of yore?”
Quoth the Nigger—“Nevermore!”
Startled by the stillness broken by reply so flatly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this big nigger once could eat enough for four,
When on some grand rice plantation, he could out-eat all creation,
Until his corporal situation warned him he could eat no more;
Scorning any calculation of how much cash it cost I’m sure,
For the master paid the piper in the good old days of yore,
Days he’ll revel in no more!”
“Nigger,” said I, “thing of evil! quit my sight! go to the devil!
Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I’ll offer you no more,
Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you,
If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore,
Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore?
Only three short days in seven—labour light and payment sure?”
Quoth the nigger—“Work no more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, nigger man,” I said upstarting,
“Get you gone to where you came from, let me see your face no more.
Quick, vamose, cut dirt—skedaddle—seek some far-off, distant shore,
Haste, relieve me of that visage—darken not again my door,
Join the army—go to Texas! Never come back here to vex us,
Take your gaze from off my victuals—take your carcase from my door”—
Quoth the nigger—“Nevermore.”
And the nigger, never working, still is shirking—still is shirking
Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door,
And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture’s starved and dreaming,
And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor.
But I’ll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before,
That I’ll maul his very lights out, if he dares to pass that door,
He shall work or—eat no more!
The Figaro, February 16, 1876.
Cowgate Philanthropy.
Once, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky,
Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door,
From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing
A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore,
And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store—
Idle threats, and nothing more.
To myself I said, in terror, “Surely here there is some error;
This woman seems in deep distress—distress which pierces to the core;”
So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace,
For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore,
That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore
Trace of beauty, now no more.
But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases,
Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar,
When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction,
So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door,
Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore;
This I did, and nothing more.
To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding,
Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store?
And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster
Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score;
He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more;
And he thought her quite a bore.
Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching,
To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the floor;
But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle,
And advised me for my safety that I’d better seek the door—
If I didn’t vanish quickly I might go upon all four:
So I vanished—nothing more.
The Modern Athenian (Edinburgh), March 11, 1876.
47
LINES
Respectfully dedicated to the
Right Honourable Henry Bouverie William Brand, M.P.,
Speaker of the House of Commons.
“Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I listened somewhat weary,
To the dull and dismal business going on upon the floor,
On me, in my melancholy, broke the voice of Mr. Whalley,
Pouring forth of words a volley, and this, too, I meekly bore;
‘’Tis near five o’clock,’ I muttered, and my lot I meekly bore,
Hoping there was little more.
“For since noon I had been sitting, and the daylight now was flitting,
As M.P.’s, their places quitting, noiselessly pass’d through the door,
Motions, though, in such a number did the notice-book encumber,
That I’d vainly sought to slumber, though my eyes were tired and sore,
Dared not nap like those around me, though my eyes were red and sore;
But a watchful look I wore.
“Tired of talking, Whalley finished, and my list was thus diminished
By the Bill on ‘Open Spaces’—this it was his name that bore—
Next, I saw with heartfelt pleasure, came an agricultural measure;
For methought no member surely over this dry Bill will pore—
They will not discuss its details, they will never o’er it pore;
Merely pass it—nothing more.
“So I thought, until up-glancing, I beheld a form advancing
From the seats below the gangway, boldly out upon the floor,
‘Stay,’ mused I; ‘I know that figure. Yes, it is—it must be Biggar!’
Through the House there passed a snigger, but my heart was very sore;
For he caught my eye, confound him! and my heart was very sore;
Hope was left in it no more.
“Not the least obeisance made he, nor where he had risen stay’d he;
But he strode across the gangway, nearer to me than before.
All the time that he was walking, he was hoarsely at me talking,
Nothing stopping him nor baulking, not a moment he forebore,
Caring not for sneers nor laughter, not a moment he forebore,—
But talked on for evermore.
“Much it grieved me this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his phrases little meaning, little relevancy bore,
For I knew his stubborn nature, knew, too, in the Legislature,
That so obstinate a member it had never known before;
That a member so pig-headed never had been known before,
Never would be evermore.
‘‘Far too “narrer” is this measure,’ quoth he, slowly, at his leisure;
‘Yes, it’s very much too “narrer!”’ then he went its clauses o’er;
Turn’d it inside out, and twisted its provisions, as he listed;
While his friend Parnell assisted—helped this most portentous bore;
Backed him up, and often prompted this unmitigated bore;
Who kept speaking evermore!
“Presently my wrath grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir!’ I said, ‘you’re not in order; keep in order, I implore!
This is but the second reading, yet you are in sooth proceeding
As though in Committee pleading; cease from this or leave the floor!
Mean you long to go on speaking, mean you long to keep the floor?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore!’
“Then methought his voice grew hoarser, and his manner rather coarser;
Till that he my eye had ever caught, I did at heart deplore;
Why, I thought, has Cavan sent thee? can no earthly power prevent thee?
None bring respite and nepenthe, from thy rudeness and thy roar?
Am I doomed to always listen to thy inharmonious roar?’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Evermore.’
“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘Joseph Biggar, why thy most undoubted vigour,
Didst thou not devote to business on thy own Ulsterian shore?
Why not give to lard and bacon, all the energies mistaken,
Thou from night to night art wasting on this House of Commons floor?
Stick to lard! Drop legislating! This of thee I would implore!’
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore.’
“‘Biggar,’ said I, ‘tell me truly, wilt thou always be unruly?
Is there nothing thy lost senses can to thee at last restore?
Wilt this chamber long be haunted by thy presence so undaunted?
Or would’st thou at home be wanted if pigs fetched much less per score—
If lard fell a lot per bladder? Tell me—tell me, I implore?”
Quoth J. Biggar, ‘Nevermore!’
“‘Joseph,’ said I, ‘have a care, sir, lest thou shouldst me too much dare, sir,
For I give thee warning, fair sir, that if thou art much a bore,
I will henceforth always try, sir, that thou mayst not catch my eye, sir,
When in future thou mayst rise, sir, and stand out upon this floor!—
Stand in all thy blatant boldness on this desecrated floor;
Thou shalt catch it nevermore!
“But J. Biggar never stirring, went on stating and averring,
Naught him staying or deterring, still his speech did he outpour,
And back on my cushion sinking, I was filled with dread at thinking
That this grim and greasy member might for ever harshly roar—
That this grim, ungainly, lardy man might never cease to bore,—
But talk on for evermore!”
Truth, March 8, 1877.
48
The Baby.
Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I waited, faint and weary,
On the landing till the doctor the expected tidings bore;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, dreaming of what then was happing—
Dreaming of what then was happing t’other side yon chamber door,
Stood the doctor there, and whispered, opening the chamber door,
“’Tis a boy!” and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember, by my chilblains, ’twas December,
And I stamped each smarting member, stamped it smartly on the floor.
Eagerly I wished for slumber, as my feet and hands grew number;
Oh, could I some bed encumber, oh, how quickly I would snore!
Oh, how I would wake the echoes with my deep sonorous snore!
But my vigil was not o’er.
For as I thus thought of snoring, came a sound of liquid pouring—
’Twas a sound that oft, when thirsty, I had heard with joy before;
And when it I heard repeating, thro’ the darkness sent I greeting,
Saying, “Who is that that’s drinking something in behind my door?”—
For the sound came from a chamber, mine erstwhile, now mine no more—
“Who are you and what d’you pour?”
But no answer came, so rising with a rashness most surprising,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, when I heard some liquid lapping,
Lapping, lapping, softly lapping, in behind this chamber-door.
Who are you in there, I pray you?”—here I opened wide the door—
Smell of spirits, nothing more!
Deeply that strong odour sniffing stood I “butting” there and “if-ing;”
Guessing, wondering, surmising who it was that I’d heard pour.
Still the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token;
But a bottle brandy-soaken I remarked upon the floor.
This I noticed, black and empty, lying there upon the floor—
Merely that, and nothing more!
From the chamber I was turning, all my soul within me yearning
For a little cup of cognac: since my chilblains were so sore—
When I heard a sound of rustling, as of some stout woman bustling—
“Ah,” said I, “this chamber’s mystery I will linger and explore—
Stay will I another minute and its mystery explore—
Why I heard that brandy pour?”
Opened here a folding-door was; and in a few seconds more was
A full stout and snuffy matron coming towards me o’er the floor;
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she,
But upon a chair down sitting, beckoned me to what she bore:
’Twas a tiny roll of flannel in her portly arms she bore—
Only that, and nothing more!
Then this flannel roll beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the strange and utter contrast that it to the matron bore,
Sought my thoughts another channel, and I spoke unto the flannel,
Saying, “What art thou and wherefore art thou brought here, I implore?—
Tell me why thou art thus carried, why so gently, I implore?”
But it sobbed, and nothing more!
Much I marvelled at its sobbing, and my heart was quickly throbbing
As unto the ponderous matron said I, ‘Turn that flannel o’er!’
For you cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet beheld a bundle that could sob, and nothing more—
Ever yet a roll of flannel saw that sobbed and nothing more!”
Quoth the matron, “Shut the door.”
Then the flannel pink unfolding, soon was I with awe beholding
Something like to which my eyes had never gazed upon before.
Nothing further then it uttered—but I mouthed awhile and stuttered
Till I positively muttered, “Tell me all, I would implore!”
Said the matron, “There is little to inform you on that score:
’Tis your son, and nothing more!”
“Ah,” said I, no longer dreaming, with a sudden knowledge gleaming,
“You’ve a monthly nurse’s seeming, and ’twas you that I heard pour;
Tell me, then, when I may slumber, when this room you’ll cease to cumber,
Since of chilblains such a number in the passage I deplore;
Tell me when I may turn in and cease their smarting to deplore.”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
“Woman!” said I, “nurse, how dare you? If you do not have a care, you
Soon will find that I can spare you, for I’ll show to you the door!”
But that woman, calmly sitting, and her brows engaged in knitting,
In a way most unbefitting took the bottle from the floor,
Took it up, although ’twas empty, took it up from off the floor;
Waved it and said, “Never more!”
“Nurse,” I shouted, “I won’t stand it; put it down, at once, unhand it!
As your master, I demand it, and this room to me restore;
Take yon saucepan from my table; clear my bed, for you are able,
Of your wardrobe, and the baby take where it was heretofore;
For I long to sink in slumber: nurse, I’m dying for a snore!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
“Be that word our sign of parting, monthly nurse,” said I, upstarting,
“Get thee gone, thou Gamp outrageous, to where’er thou wast before;
Leave that bottle as a token of the rest that thou hast broken—
49
Now be off—have I not spoken? Get thee gone, Gamp, there’s the door—
Take thy wardrobe from my bed, and take thyself out through that door!”
Quoth that woman, “Never more!”
And that monthly nurse is sitting, drinking in a way unfitting,
In an easy-chair luxurious just behind my chamber-door;
There for weeks she has been sleeping, me from my own chamber keeping;
Degradations on me heaping, till my heart of hearts is sore;
Fearing that her shadow never will be lifted from my floor,
And that, smelling strong of spirits, she through yonder open door
Shall be lifted—Never more!
Finis (Beeton’s Christmas Annual, 1877.)
The Maiden.
Once upon a summer morning, whilst I watched the sun adorning
All the hilltops lying round me with an ever-golden hue,
Suddenly I saw a maiden with a basket heavy laden,
Yes, a basket heavy laden with some clothes which looked like new,
And I cried, “My pretty maiden, these look just as good as new;
Have they, pray, been washed by you?”
Ah! distinctly I remember how my soul burned like an ember,
As the maiden’s eyes grew brighter—eyes of such a lovely blue;
How her auburn tresses glistened in the sunlight while I listened,
Wondering how she had been christened; but her answering words were few,
And somehow they didn’t please me, these her answering words so few—
“Truly, sir, what’s that to you?”
Then I said, “O, lovely maiden, with this basket heavy laden,
Tell me truly, I implore thee, from what parent-stock you grew?
If your father is a humble, honest, labourer like the Bumble-
Bee that works, but does not grumble at the work he has to do?
Maiden did you ever grumble at the work you had to do?”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you?”
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
For I felt a little angry, and thus said what wasn’t true:
“Hark you, maid, my friend, Joe Simmen, says that all you washerwomen
Are as sour as any lemon, cross as any ole clo’ Jew;
Tell me maiden, is it not so, that you’re like some ole clo’ Jew?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”
Deep into that countenance peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Lest the girl should prove a vixen, and begin to hit me too;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were the whispered words, “Pooh! pooh!”
These I whispered, for I feared her, whispered just the words, “Pooh! pooh!”
And I knew not what to do.
Round about myself then turning, all my soul within me burning,
For I did not dare to face her, as she was I knew not who;
I began at once to wonder how on earth I could thus blunder,
And why I thus should cower under these her answering words so few,
And I could not find a reason why her words should be so few;
Still I knew not what to do.
Then I glanced across my shoulder, as it were some sheltering boulder,
And I saw the maiden laughing, laughing till her face was blue.
Then I thought “’Tis now or never,” so I said (and thought it clever),
“Pretty maiden, did you ever have a nice young sweetheart, who
Was, as I am, tall and handsome? If so, prithee tell me who?”
Quoth the maid “What’s that to you?”
And the maiden, thus beguiling all my angry soul to smiling,
Made me say, “Ah! lovely maiden, fairly I’m in love with you.”
Then began my heart to flutter, and began my tongue to stutter,
And began my lips to mutter, while around me objects flew.
Thus I muttered, while the objects round about me swiftly flew,
“Maiden, I’m in love with you.”
But the maiden, sitting lonely on the velvet sod, spoke only
These four words when I made of her some interrogation new;
So upon the green grass sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what on earth I now should do,
And I asked the washer maiden, what on earth I now should do?
Quoth the maid “What pleases you.”
“Torment!” said I, “thing of evil! you, at least, might have been civil,
And not given such answers to the questions I have put to you.
When I told you that I loved you, surely then I think I moved you,
And I think it had behoved you to make answers straight and true,
’Stead of which you gave me answers which were anything but true.”
Quoth the maid, “What’s that to you.”
“Be these words our sign of parting, saucy maid!” I shrieked, upstarting.
“Get you back into the village, take these clothes along with you!
Leave no thread even as a token of these horrid words you’ve spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! Take these clothes which look like new,
And return to where you came from, with these clothes as clean as new!”
Quoth the maiden, “Not for you.”
50
So I left the washer maiden and her basket heavy laden,
And I hope that I may never, never more behold the two;
Yet my sleep is oft enchanted, and my dreams are often haunted
By her form when just not wanted, and the basket seems there too,
And she asks in tones of mockery, pointing at the basket, too,
“What is this, now, sir, to you?”
D. J. M.
Edinburgh Paper, November, 8, 1879.
The Promissory Note.
Zoilus reads:
In the lonesome latter years,
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
’Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.
Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o’er the penal scroll,
O’er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,—out of time,—
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(O, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!
’Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note
(Wrote, and freely
Gave to Greeley),
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men:
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer
“Nevermore!”
Galahad: What do you mean by the reference to Horace Greeley?

Zoilus: I thought everybody had heard that Greeley’s only autograph of Poe was a signature to a promissory note for fifty dollars. He offers to sell it for half the money. Now, I don’t mean to be wicked, and to do nothing with the dead except bone ’em, but when such a cue pops into one’s mind, what is one to do?

The Ancient: O, I think you’re still within decent limits! There was a congenital twist about poor Poe. We can’t entirely condone his faults, yet we stretch our charity so as to cover as much as possible. His poetry has a hectic flush, a strange, fascinating, narcotic quality, which belongs to him alone. Baudelaire and Swinburne after him have been trying to surpass him by increasing the dose; but his Muse is the natural Pythia, inheriting her convulsions, while they eat all sorts of insane roots to produce theirs.

Galahad (eagerly): Did you ever know him?

The Ancient: I met him two or three times, heard him lecture once (his enunciation was exquisite), and saw him now and then in Broadway,—enough to satisfy me that there were two men in him: one, a refined gentleman, an aspiring soul, an artist among those who had little sense of literary art; the other—

Zoilus: Go on!

The Ancient: “Built his nest with the birds of night.” No more of that!

Diversions of the Echo Club. By Bayard Taylor (John Camden Hotten, London.)

“The Ager.”

This clever parody, by Prof. J. P. Stelle, editor of the Progressive Farmer, and of the agricultural department of the Mobile Register, has been repeatedly published in United States newspapers, though generally in a mutilated form. The following is believed to be the correct version:—

Once upon an evening bleary,
While I sat me dreamy, dreary,
In the sunshine, thinking over
Things that passed in days of yore;
While I nodded, nearly sleeping,
Gently came a something creeping
Up my back, like water seeping—
Seeping upward from the floor.
“’Tis a cooling breeze,” I muttered,
From the regions ’neath the floor—
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah! distinctly I remember
It was in that wet September,
When the earth and every member
Of creation that it bore
Had for days and weeks been soaking
In the meanest, most provoking
Foggy rains that, without joking,
We had ever seen before;
So I knew it must be very
Cold and damp beneath the floor—
Very cold beneath the floor.
So I sat me nearly napping,
In the sunshine, stretching, gaping,
Craving water, but delighted
With the breeze from ’neath the floor,
Till I found me waxing colder,
And the stretching growing bolder,
And myself a feeling older—
Older than I’d felt before;
Feeling that my joints were stiffer
Than they were in days of yore—
Stiffer than they’d been before.
51
All along my back the creeping
Soon gave place to rushing, leaping,
As if countless frozen demons
Had concluded to explore
All the cavities—the “varmints”—
’Twixt me and my nether garments,
Up into my hair and downward
Through my boots into the floor;
Then I found myself a shaking,
Gently first, but more and more—
Every moment more and more.
’Twas the “ager,” and it shook me
Into many clothes, and took me
Shaking to the kitchen—every
Place where there was warmth in store;
Shaking till the dishes clattered,
Shaking till the tea was spattered,
Shaking, and with all my warming
Feeling colder than before;
Shaking till it had exhausted
All its powers to shake me more—
Till it could not shake me more.
Then it rested till the morrow,
Then resumed with all the horror
That it had the face to borrow,
Shaking, shaking as before;
And from that day in September—
Day that I shall long remember—
It has made diurnal visits,
Shaking, shaking, oh so sore!
Shaking off my boots, and shaking
Me to bed, if nothing more—
Fully this, if nothing more.
And to-day the swallows flitting
Round my cottage see me sitting
Moodily within the sunshine
Just inside my silent door,
Waiting for the ages, seeming
Like a man forever dreaming,
And the sunlight on me streaming
Throws no shadows on the floor;
For I am too thin and sallow
To make shadows on the floor;
’Nary shadow—any more!
The Chancellor of the Exchequer
and the Surplus.
Lately on a midnight dreary, whilst I studied, though so weary,
Several sheets of close-writ figures I had gone through times before;
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Treasury door.
“Is that Kempe?” I slowly mutter’d. “If it is, pray leave the door—
I shall want you here no more!”
Oh! distinctly I remember, for it happen’d this December
And each separate, dying ember seem’d a figure on the floor.
Nervously I wish’d the morrow; for so far I’d failed to borrow—
From the Bank of England borrow—at the same rate as before—
At the same low rate of interest I had borrow’d at before—
They would lend at Two no more.
And I had a sort of notion that this fact was known to Goschen,
Whilst the dread of Childers fill’d me with a fear not felt before,
So that now to still the beating of my heart I’d been repeating:
“P’rhaps some luck may yet befall you ere you stand upon the floor—
Stand next April with your Budget at the table on the floor—
And a Surplus yet restore!”
Presently the rap was stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Kempe!” said I, “or Law, or Lingen, is that you outside my door?
If it be, pray cease your tapping; if you have no cause for rapping,
Cease, and let me strike my balance ere I sleep, I you implore.
Do come in if you are out there!” Here I open’d wide the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Seeing ghosts of former Budgets—Gladstone’s Budgets—o’er me soar;
But the silence was unbroken, and of Kempe I saw no token;
He had gone with Law and Lingen shortly after half-past four.
So I “H-s-s-h’d”—perchance assuming there were cats about the floor—
Merely cats, and nothing more.
Back into my room returning, where two composites were burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“’Tis too soon for chimney-sweeper; can it be the office-keeper?”
This I said, and once more rising, tried the mystery to explore.
“I will go and try the window, for there’s no one at the door”—
This I said, and nothing more.
Open then I flung the shutter, when with quite a fussy flutter,
In there stalk’d a handsome Surplus of the Liberal years of yore;
Not the least obeisance made it, not a minute stopp’d or stay’d it,
But—nor tried I to dissuade it—hopp’d on something on the floor;
Hopp’d upon my rough-drawn Budget, which I’d thrown upon the floor—
Hopp’d, then sat; and nothing more!
Then this welcome guest beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the cheery and contented cast of countenance it wore;
“Welcome,” said I, “Surplus comely! though you have arrived so ‘rumly,’
For ’tis some years since a Budget drawn by me a Surplus bore;
Let this be a happy omen—that they’ll come as heretofore!”
Quoth the Surplus—“Nevermore!”
Much I marvell’d that so plainly it should answer, and so sanely;
Though in sooth I hoped its answer little relevancy bore.
For ’t had fill’d my heart with pleasure, and with ecstacy past measure
52
Once again to see a Surplus come within the Treasury door,
To observe a real Surplus on my Budget on the floor,
Like the one in ’Seventy-four.
But the Surplus, sitting lonely on my Budget draft, spake only
That one word already mention’d—I refer to “Nevermore.”
And not for its answer caring, and by no means yet despairing,
I took heart and said: “Six millions was there left in ’Seventy-four;
When shall I next get a Surplus large as that in ’Seventy-four?”
Quoth my guest: “Why, nevermore!”
But this time ’twas not contented with the word I so resented,
But went on and said: “Oh, Northcote, ruin is for you in store!
Thanks to your mysterious master, dearth will follow on disaster,
Ills will follow fast and faster, trade will wholly leave your shore;
And the people, so impoverish’d, will your taxes pay no more.
Debt will haunt you more and more!
“Now your revenue is sinking—it’s no use the matter blinking,
Every day, you know, Sir Stafford, your big deficit grows more,
And you have to borrow, borrow (three more millions, eh, to-morrow?)
You have now a floating debt that’s ten times what it was of yore;
Think upon the splendid Budget Gladstone left in ’Seventy-four,
And your muddle now deplore!”
As the Surplus thus declaiming, me to blushes deep was shaming,
Straight I wheel’d my cushion’d seat in front the Budget on the floor,
Sat on the morocco padding, and betook myself to adding
Figure unto figure, madding though the look the total bore;
Whilst that grim, ungainly, ghastly Surplus still upon the floor
Went on croaking: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “by thy figure, which methinks I see grow bigger,
Whether Gladstone sent, or whether Fate has toss’d thee here to bore,
Tell me, desperate and daunted, by a score of failures haunted,
Soon by Childers to be taunted, tell me, tell me, I implore,
Is there—can I—shall I—ever get things straight—say, I implore?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“Surplus!” said I, “much I question, if I don’t to indigestion
Owe the vision of thy presence; still I’d ask thee this once more:
In the name of Ewart Gladstone, whose finance I did adore,
Tell me, here with debt so laden, if, before I go to Aidenn,
I shall ever make a Budget with a Surplus, as of yore?
Shall I e’er announce a Surplus from my place upon the floor?”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“Be that word our sign of parting, cruel thing!” I cried, upstarting;
“Get thee back to Mr. Gladstone, who created thee of yore;
Go, and leave behind no token of the words that thou hast spoken;
Leave my vigil here unbroken, quit my Budget on the floor!
Take thy figure off my Budget, lying there upon the floor.”
Quoth the Surplus: “Nevermore!”
“No, I will not think of flitting, but still sitting, ever sitting,
On thy wretched, feeble Budgets, on the table or the floor,
Will remind thee of the figure, sometimes less and sometimes bigger,
Of the noble Gladstone’s Surplus, always left in years of yore
Yes, I’ll always stay and haunt you—always stay and ever taunt you—
As you draw up hopeless Budgets, and then throw them on the floor;
And my figure you shall ever see upon your study floor—
I will leave you nevermore!”
And it doubtless had been sitting still, nor shown a sign of flitting—
Had I not with sudden impulse started, falling by the door,
And discover’d, slowly rising—what is not at all surprising—
That my composites were out, whilst daylight stream’d across the floor,
Then I knew I had been dreaming, but my brain continued teeming
With the vision, and the Surplus that had come from years of yore,
And my thoughts on what that Surplus said whilst there upon my floor
Will be fixed evermore!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1879.
The Raven.
(A Version, respectfully dedicated to the Duke of Somerset.)
Late, upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, chill but cheery,
Over certain prosy volumes of Contemporary lore—
’Midst prophetic pages prowling, suddenly I heard a growling,
As of something faintly howling, howling at my chamber-door.
“’Tis some poor stray tyke,” I muttered, “howling at my chamber-door;
Only that, and nothing more.”
Eugh! distinctly I remember it was in the cold December,
And my fire to its last ember burned, while outer blasts did roar.
Fearfully I funked the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From my friends, or, to my sorrow, add to my coal-merchant’s score—
To that swollen, heavy-laden thing poor devils call a “score”—
To be settled—nevermore.
And the windy, wild, uncertain flapping of my window curtain
Filled me, thrilled me with fantastic fancies never known before;
So that, now, to check the cheating of my mind I stood repeating,
“’Tis that Jones’s dog entreating entrance at my chamber-door—
Bibulous Jones’s pug entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—
Only that, and nothing more.”
53
Presently the sound grew stronger. Hesitating then no longer,
“Tyke,” said I, “low mongrel, truly this intrusion is a bore;
Where the deuce have you been prowling, that so late you come a howling,
Keeping up this nasty growling, growling at my chamber-door?
I was hardly sure I heard you.” Here I open flung the door,—
Darkness there, and nothing more!
Back into my chamber turning, where my lamp was dimly burning,
Soon again I heard a growling, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely, that is something stirring at my lattice,
Let me see if ghost or cat ’tis, and this mystery explore.
Pooh! I have it, what a duffer, what a booby, to be sure!
’Tis the wind, and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the casement, when, to my extreme amazement,
In there stepped a rusty Raven of the “glorious days of yore.”
Not the least obeisance dropped he, not an instant stayed or stopped he,
But, like ghoul who hopped and flopped, he perched above my chamber door—
On a plaster bust of Dizzy standing o’er my chamber-door—
Perched and sat, and—nothing more!
Then this seedy bird beguiling my chilled features into smiling,
By the grave lugubrious grimness of the solemn phiz he wore,
“Thou art welcome to this haven,” said I, “foul, bedraggled, shaven,
Hopeless-looking ancient Raven, croaking as of days of yore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is, is or was, in days of yore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
Much I marvelled this most sickly fowl to hear respond so quickly,
Though the nomen was a rum one, it a certain aptness bore,
As to those dull dupes of folly and foreboding melancholy,
Hopeful seldom, never jolly, doting on those days of yore,—
Who esteem the present hopeless, utter failure or next door—
To be mended nevermore!
But the Raven, squatting lonely on the plaster bust spoke only
That one word, as though his soul in doldrums he would thus outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, though his spirit seemed sore fluttered.
“Come!” I said, or rather muttered, “you’re dyspeptic—’tis a bore,
But to-morrow you’ll be better, sleep will your lost tone restore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
Struck to find the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “this one word, now, is his only stock and store,
Caught from pessimistic master, who in progress saw disaster,
Coming fast and coming faster, till his wails one burden bore,—
Till his sad vaticinations one unvarying burden bore,
This same Raven’s “Nevermore!”
But the Raven still beguiling my amused soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled my easy-chair in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then, upon the cushion sinking, thought to thought by fancy linking,
I employed my brains in thinking what this black and feathered bore,
Like all gaunt funereal vaunters of those precious days of yore,
Meant by croaking “Nevermore!”
Then methought the air grew denser, darkened as by cynic censor,
Some Cassandra whose forecastings are of evil days in store.
“Croak no more!” I cried. “Content thee with the gifts the gods have sent thee;
Give us respite and nepenthe from sad dreams of days of yore!
Let us quaff hope’s sweet nepenthe, and forget those days of yore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil! ‘Things are going to the devil,’
Is the formula of fogies, I have heard that bosh before;
Times look dark, but hearts undaunted find the future still enchanted,
With fair visions such as haunted valiant souls in days of yore.
Can’t you, can’t you look less glum? Keep up your pecker, I implore.”
Quoth the Raven—“Nevermore!”
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But the heavens still bend above us, happy days are still in store;
All are not with megrims laden, still the future holds its Aidenn,
For brave youth and beauteous maiden; prophets have been wrong before,
Generally are, in fact; why can’t they learn, and cease to bore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
“Then, look here! we’d best be parting, croaking fowl!” I cried, upstarting,
“You had better find your way to some Fools’ Paradise’s shore!
Leave no feather as a token of the rubbish you have spoken,
Leave my lonely rest unbroken, quit that bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my sight, and take thy blackness from my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”
And the Raven still is squatting, my ?sthetic paper blotting,
On the plaster bust of Dizzy, just above my chamber-door,
With his wall-eyes dully gleaming ’neath the nightmare of his dreaming,
And the gaslight o’er him streaming, casts his shadow on the floor;
But my soul in that black shadow that lies heavy on the floor,
Shall be shrouded—Nevermore!
Punch, January 10, 1880.
The Gold Digger.
Once upon an evening dreary, a gold-digger, tired and weary,
Cogitated very sadly, brain and bone and heart were sore,
For no gold came by his toiling, unkind fate seemed ever foiling
54
All his toilsome, weary efforts, and the keeper of the store
Had pitilessly stopped his credit; quoth the keeper of the store,
“I can’t tucker you no more.”
Wild and gloomy thoughts were tumbling through his head and set him grumbling,
And his voice in accents mumbling ’gan the harsh fates to implore,
That they’d come to some decision, either make him some provision,
Or at once their utmost fury on his willing head outpour—
“Either make me some provision, or your deadliest vials pour”—
He kept crying o’er and o’er.
Swearing, snapping, musing, napping, presently there came a tapping,
Quite an unaccustomed tapping at this fate-tossed digger’s door,
And it roused him from his musing with expectancy confusing,
Made him listen to that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore,
Wond’ring what could cause that tapping on the night’s Plutonian shore,
Wondering, guessing, more and more.
Softly then he seized a waddy, quietly he bore his body
To that space within his hut, immediately behind the door;
And with easiest, gentlest motion, like the wave of summer ocean,
He hove up the latch that barred all ingress to his shanty floor,
Hove it up, and grasped his waddy, scanned the night’s Plutonian shore,
Saw the light, and nothing more.
Then cried he, “What shicer is it pays me this mysterious visit?
Is’t a snake or is’t a wild dog? either sneak I do abhor,
Well! I don’t know about funking, but I’ll just lie down my bunk in,
And I’ll leave the door wide open, open to what may explore
The old hut, and while exploring, if the explorer don’t get sore,
Cooey on me, nevermore.”
From the darkness came a fluttering, and a sort of subdued muttering
That developed into stuttering, stuttering at the open door;
And a lovely Cochin China, impudent as any Dinah,
Strutted proudly o’er the threshold like as he’d been there before,
Just as though he had a right that came all other rights before,
A right that still demanded more.
But a different opinion reigned without that small dominion;
There a calm recumbent digger eyed the proud bird o’er and o’er,
And then stealthily arising, with a cunning most surprising,
Ere Chanticleer had perceived it, he had fastened to the door;
Had made the door so very fast that the chanticleer’s uproar
Might undo it, nevermore.
Then said he, “This bird celestial may I civilly request he’ll
Now disclose the cause of his nocturnal tapping at my door?
Say! hath my good angel sent thee? Flutter not, nay, nay, content thee,
Thou shalt have as warm a welcome as e’er cocky had before,
Have a regular hot old welcome, such as others had before;
I can offer nothing more.”
Ah! the bird was very wary, and of eloquence quite chary,
No clear answer did it make him as it dodged about the floor,
Never thanked him for his kindness, but with worse than colour blindness,
It refused to see the goodness of the digger o’er and o’er,
Really flew from his advances, as esteeming him a bore,
And desiring such no more.
Spare my muse a dire narration, take the simple intimation
That by fell decapitation, Cocky weltered in his gore.
His shrill clarion brought to silence by a digger’s ruthless violence,
Never more at dawn of morning, or at close of day might pour
Its clear notes upon the air; might no matin solo pour;
Silenced quite for evermore.
Quite soon a mouth-moistening aroma, such as a famous cook’s diploma
Might certify that famed cook’s skill could draw from viands in his store,
Filled the hut. The pot was bubbling, Cochin China’s toil and troubling
Were at an end, and he was yielding grateful broth from every pore,
Yielding broth fit for a warden, that should our digger’s strength restore,
And make him a good feed once more.
’Twas no ardour scientific of immense results prolific,
Nor a questioning of his fortunes by the ancient heathen lore,
Still our much depressed hero, whose luck surely was at zero,
Was examining quite closely Cocky’s crop upon the floor,
Was inspecting it minutely on his knees upon the floor,
Close and closer, more and more.
Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station
Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore,
For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting,
And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore.
“No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore,
And around there must be more.”
When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted
In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked o’er,
And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking
To his feathered mates he picked up quite a lot of golden ore—
Picked up nuggets large as brickbats, glorious lumps of golden ore,
Made a pile, and nothing more.
Newcastle Paper, April, 1880.
Quart Pot Creek.
(Australasian.)
On an evening ramble lately, as I wandered on sedately,
Linking curious fancies, modern, medi?val, and antique,—
Suddenly the sun descended, and a radiance ruby-splendid,
55
With the gleam of water blended, thrilled my sensitive physique,—
Thrilled me, filled me with emotion to the tips of my physique,
Fired my eye, and flushed my cheek.
Heeding not where I was going, I had wandered, all unknowing,
Where a river gently flowing caught the radiant ruby-streak;
And this new-found stream beguiling my sedateness into smiling,
Set me classically styling it with Latin names and Greek.
Names Idalian and Castalian such as lovers of the Greek,
Roll like quids within their cheek.
On its marge was many a burrow, many a mound, and many a furrow,
Where the fossickers of fortune play at Nature’s hide-and-seek;
And instead of bridge to span it, there were stepping-stones of granite,—
And where’er the river ran, it seemed of hidden wealth to speak.
Presently my soul grew stronger, and I, too, was fain to speak:—
I assumed a pose plastique.
“Stream,” said I, “I’ll celebrate thee! Rhymes and Rhythms galore await thee!
In the weekly ‘poets corner’ I’ll a niche for thee bespeak:
But to aid my lucubration, thou must tell thine appellation,
Tell thy Naiad-designation—for the Journal of next week—
Give thy sweet Pactolian title to my poem of next week.
Whisper, whisper it—in Greek!”
But the river gave no token, and the name remained unspoken,
Though I kept apostrophising till my voice became a shriek;—
When there hove in sight the figure of a homeward-veering digger,
Looming big, and looming bigger, and ejecting clouds of reek—
In fuliginous advance emitting clouds of noisome reek
From a tube beneath his beak.
“Neighbour mine,” said I, “and miner,”—here I showed a silver shiner—
“For a moment, and for sixpence, take thy pipe from out thy cheek.
This the guerdon of thy fame is; very cheap, indeed, the same is;
Tell me only what the name is—(’tis the stream whereof I speak)—
Name the Naiad-name Pactolian! Digger, I adjure thee, speak!”
Quoth the digger, “Quart Pot Creek.”
Oh, Pol! Edepol! Mecastor! Oh, most luckless poetaster!
I went home a trifle faster, in a twitter of a pique;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living rhyming being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing, in his poem for the week,
Brook or river made immortal in his poem for the week,
With such a name as “Quart Pot Creek!”
*??*??*??*??*
But the river, never minding, still is winding, still is winding,
By the gardens where the Mongol tends the cabbage and the leek;
And the ruby radiance nightly touches it with farewell lightly,
But the name sticks to it tightly,—and this sensitive physique,
The already-mentioned (vide supra) sensitive physique,
Shudders still at “Quart Pot Creek!”
Miscellaneous Poems. By J. Brunton Stephens.
London (Macmillan and Co.) 1880.
In 1881 a charming little volume of Essays, entitled, “Waifs,” was published by Messrs. Maclehose, of Glasgow. Mr. William Tait Ross, the author of these papers is well known in the northern capitals for his writings, published under the nom de plume of Herbert Martyne. One of the most humorous chapters in “Waifs” is entitled A Seance with a Sequel, which recounts the author’s experiences at a spiritualistic meeting in Glasgow. He there interviews the ghost of one of the geese who saved Rome; the spirit of a duck who sailed in Noah’s Ark; the spirit of the late lamented Cock Robin; of the mouse turned over by Robbie Burns’s plough; and of the donkey celebrated by the Poet Coleridge.

There is a good deal of dry humour in their replies, but the seance comes to an untimely end, owing to a wild outburst of spiritual enthusiasm on the part of the table used for communicating with the spirits.

This excitable piece of furniture suddenly made for the door, and was with difficulty restrained by four strong men. One of the party then getting alarmed, turned on the gas; in a moment all the commotion ceased; and so the seance ended.

“I will add,” says the author, “nothing by way of comment, except this, that the answers obtained from the various spirits seem to me to be even more sensible and important than those obtained at any seance recorded in the annals of spirit rapping.”

The chapter concludes with the following verses in imitation of “The Raven,” entitled—

A SEQUEL.

The Spirits.
Lately on a midnight dreary,
Sitting by the fire so cheery,
Listening to the storm that beat and blew
With blustering gust and roar;
While I sat serenely smoking,
Suddenly there came a knocking
As of some one rudely poking,
56
Poking at my chamber-door—
“’Tis some dirty ill-bred spirit
Knocking at my chamber-door—
Only that, and nothing more.”
But to face the audacious knocker,
I seized the shining poker,
While my heart went jumping, thumping,
As I never felt before;
For through the storm’s loud shrieking
I heard high voices speaking—
’Tis some thief’s ghost that is sneaking
On the outside of the door—
Some vile spirit entrance seeking
By the keyhole of the door—
This, perhaps, and nothing more.
Hesitating then no longer,
Presently my legs grew stronger,
And, brandishing the poker,
I strode towards the door;
When, without one word of fable,
The ponderous parlour-table
Marched as fast as it was able
Right across the parlour floor;
Danced across the room, and then assumed
Its post beside the door—
Which is true, and something more.
Outside louder grew the knockings,
Till I shook within my stockings,
And then there came a thundering bang,
Far louder than before;
While the ponderous parlour table
Danced as fast as it was able
Kicking up a noise like Babel,
Which I could not well explore;
Let my legs be firm a moment,
And this mystery explore—
’Tis a drunken man, no more.
For now I well remember,
In the dark days of December,
Full many a drouthy crony
Proceeds from door to door—
Pouring forth the flowing whiskey,
And, thereby getting frisky,
Plays many a curious plisky,
And raises many a splore—
It may be spirit rappers
On t’other side the door—
Only that, and nothing more.
So pulling up my breeches,
With many tugs and hitches,
I turned the key within the lock
And opened wide the door,
When arose a mighty bawling,
And a sudden stick came mauling,
That sent me quickly sprawling,
Sprawling on the parlour floor;
And I said that spirit rapping
I very much deplore—
I think I rather swore.
And, shouting for a bobby,
Till my voice rang through the lobby,
I made efforts to collect myself
Lying spilt upon the floor;
But it is a fact outrageous
That no guardian beak courageous,
With whiskers so umbrageous,
Hears, however loud you roar;
So, assisted by the poker,
I crawled towards the door—
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Still the table it kept prancing,
And a private hornpipe dancing,
As if its soul rejoiced to see
The sufferings that I bore.
Wrathful at the wooden joker,
I smashed it with the poker,
When the loud tumultuous knocker
Fled from my chamber door,
Shouting out, to spirit rappers,
“Never open wide your door any more.”
And I murmured, “Nevermore!”
The Drama Despondent!
(A Poe-etical Parody.)
As one evening in my study, seated by the firelight ruddy,
I was busily absorbing portions of dramatic lore,
Suddenly I heard a creaking, as of some one slyly sneaking
(Setting both the hinges squeaking), sneaking through my study door.
And I murmured, sotto voce, “Who’s that fiddling with the door?
Doubtless some unwelcome bore!”
“Come in!” I sternly muttered, while my breast with anger fluttered,
When there sidled in a Figure, such as ne’er was seen before;
Like some stagey apparition, in a woe-begone condition—
And it took up its position just inside my chamber-door.
“What might be your name?” I asked it. And it answered from the door—
“I’m the Drama!”—nothing more!
“Oh, indeed!” I said, politely. “Take a chair!” but that unsightly,
Not to say dejected Figure, an unwilling manner bore.
I remarked, “You seem in sorrow,—still bear up, perhaps to-morrow
(Though some trouble has beset you, which at present you deplore)
You may meet with better fortune, and be brilliant as of yore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”
“Why this tone of bitter anguish?” I inquired; “you seem to languish
’Neath some very dreadful burden; state the reason, I implore!
Tell me plainly, now, what is it, that has caused this sudden visit—
Why the unexpected entrance of your figure through my door?
Why that stagey exclamation that you uttered just before,—
That expression, ‘Nevermore?’”
Still it groaned, and I retreated, as that sentence it repeated.
“What! again?” I said. “Pray, drop it; though your grief is doubtless sore,
You can’t help trash being written for the theatres of Britain
57
And ‘swells’ won’t be always waiting for their ‘pets’ at each stage-door,
And ere long the undressed syrens, may be swept away galore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”
Then the poor old Drama, sneering, took the cue for disappearing,—
And it pulled its mantle round it, and stalked slowly to the door—
And its groan was something fearful, as it said in accents tearful,
As it sadly bent its optics on the carpet-covered floor—
“Look here, old poetic party, I shall bet you ten to four,—
’Twill be better, Nevermore!—
That is, hardly evermore!”
H. C. N.
The Entr’acte, February 11, 1882.
A Voice.
In the dusk, within my chamber, I sat and sadly pondered—
Pondered o’er life’s problems with my hand upon my brow.
“When,” I asked, “will adverse fortune cease to torment and oppress me?”
A voice from out the window, shrill and piercing, answered, “Now!”
Thrilled and startled by the answer, coming from an unknown being,
I said again: “If blessing is in store, oh tell me how
Release will come, and joy and peace? Say, when, when will it be?”
And through the open casement promptly came the answer “N-n-now!”
Half in fear and half in frenzy, for methought the being mocked me,
I said: “Unlock the mystery of my fate, or else I vow
To curse thee for thy falseness. Tell me when I shall have blessing.”
The weird, shrill voice responded still, as ever, only “N-n-ow-w!”
To my feet I sprang in anger, flinging wide the casement shutter:
“Djinn!” I shrieked, “or devil, or angelic being thou
Shalt say when peace wilt come and joy to calm my troubled spirit!”
The cat upon the moonlit shed below responded “N?a?ow?w?w!”
Free Press Flashes, 1883.
Dunraven.

(A November Night’s Vision, after reading Edgar Poe and the Earl of Dunraven’s Address on “Fair Trade,” delivered by him, as President of the National Fair Trade League, at Sheffield, on November 12th, 1884.)

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary
Over many a dry and tedious tome of economic lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping
As of some small terrier yapping, yapping at my study-door,
’Tis old Ponto there, I muttered, yapping at my study-door,—
Only that, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was early in November
When to town the wearied Member came, and thought the thing a bore.
Eagerly I hoped the morrow Salisbury some sense might borrow,
And I thought with ceaseless sorrow of the streamside and the moor,
Of the rare and radiant raptures of the streamside and the moor.
Heather’s sweep and trout-stream’s roar.
Open then I flung the doorway, when, with blast as chill as Norway,
In there stepped “Fair Trade” Dunraven, solemn as a monk of yore;
Not the least apology made he, though I thought his manners “shady,”
But, as stiff as Tate and Brady, stood within my study-door,
Underneath a bust of Cobden just above my study-door,—
Stood, and scowled, and nothing more.
Then this sombre guest, beguiling my tired spirit into smiling
By the doctrinaire decorum of the countenance he wore,
“Smugly trimmed and deftly shaven, though I trust I’m not a craven,
You have startled me, Dunraven,” said I, “yapping at my door.
Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely,
For his answer little wisdom, little relevancy bore;
And one cannot help agreeing no sane living human being
In “Fair Trade” salvation seeing, could come yapping at one’s door,
Snapping, late at night in winter, at a fellow’s study-door,
Just to bid him, “Tax once more!”
But Dunraven, standing lonely under Cobden’s bust, spake only
Those same words as though his creed in those few words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; calm he looked, and quite unfluttered,
Then unto myself I muttered, “Other fads have flown before;
Very soon this fad will vanish, as Protection did before.”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
Startled at the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,—
Caught from some bad fiscal master, whom trade-loss or farm-disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his talk one burden bore,—
Till the dirges of his craft one economic burden bore,—
Of ‘Tax—tax Corn once more!’
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, Trade is going to the devil,
Is the plea of you and Lowther, Chaplin, many another bore.
Sophists dull, yet all undaunted, do you think the thing that’s wanted
By our land, depression-haunted,—tell me truly, I implore,—
Is it, can it be Protection? Answer plainly, I implore!”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
58
“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I don’t wish to be uncivil,
But, by heaven! this Fair Trade figment is becoming a big bore.
Think you Corn with taxes laden means an economic Aidenn
For that somewhat ancient maiden who ‘protected’ was of yore,
For that very ancient maiden, Agriculture?” With a roar
Yelled Dunraven “Tax once more!”
“Then it’s time that we were parting, Parroteer!” I cried, upstarting,
“Get thee back to silly Sheffield, twaddle on St. Stephen’s floor,
I require no further token of the rot your League hath spoken,
Fair Trade phalanx to be broken by experience sad and sore.
Take thy Beakey’s words to heart, who said Protection’s day was o’er!”
Quoth Dunraven, “Tax once more!”
And Dunraven, dolefuller waxing, still stands croaking of Corn-taxing,
Underneath the bust of Cobden, just above my study-door,
And his talk has all the seeming of a monomaniac’s dreaming—
Here I woke, and day was streaming through the lattice on the floor,
And I hope that no such vision e’er again my ears will bore
With the burden “Tax once more!”
Punch, November 22, 1884.
The Ravenous Bull and the Bicycle.
(With Apologies.)
My name is William Rory, and I’m going to tell a story,
Tell the story of an accident I’ve never told before.
How when coming home from Dover I felt myself in clover,
And I will say, moreover, that my feet were rather sore;
The landlord said, “You’ll rue it,”
But I said, “I mean to do it.” But I’ll do it nevermore.
And right well do I remember, ’twas early in September,
When that landlord said, “I’d rue it,” as he stood against the door,
When my feet were sore with walking for that day I had been stalking
Up and down the streets of Dover, where I’d never been before,
And I squinted at that landlord, and his warning did ignore.
But I’ll do it nevermore.
So says I, “You’re only joking, and at me it’s fun you’re poking.”
But the landlord looked quite solemn, and spat upon the floor.
And says he, “You must be silly to attempt a road so hilly.
And see the time for starting, why it’s just now striking four!
Pray, sir, now do not do it, but stay over, I implore.”
This he oft had said before.
But then he looked more willing, as I threw to him a shilling
To drink my health in whisky, as oft I’d done before.
And then I took my spanner, and all the bolts did hammer,
And tightened up the nuts, an operation I abhor,
Then I jumped into my saddle, shouting to him “au revoir.”
Only this, and nothing more.
And as I felt aweary, the road to me seemed dreary
Drearier than ever it had seemed to me before,
But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster,
And like a winged demon, along the road I tore,
In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score.
This I’d done, and nothing more.
And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster,
Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore.
While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing,
When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar;
And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar.
This I thought, and something more.
Just then a corner turning, my blood went through me burning,
For there in front, with fiery eyes, a bull straight for me tore.
A moment he stood eyeing, then bike and me sent flying,
The perspiration trickled down my skin from every pore,
And I rather think that in my flight I must have somehow swore.
Merely swore, and nothing more.
After such a fearful riot, I laid there on the quiet,
For he treated me so lively, and I wished the joke was o’er.
He had pitched me in a gutter, and my nerves were in a flutter,
And into a thousand pieces my new uniform he tore,
And says I he must be waiting for a taste of human gore.
This I said, and nothing more.
While in the gutter lying, I saw that bull go flying
Along the road, at such a speed he’d never gone before.
So I let him go and curs’d him, and prayed the fates might burst him,
For my bicycle he’d humbugged, and he’d made me “awful” sore,
And I felt he’d quite undone me, but he’d never do so more.
And I muttered nevermore.
I collected up the ruins of that nasty mad bull’s doin’s,
And straightway did I take them unto my cottage-door.
And my wife, when she espied me, said I wasn’t looking tidy.
And I told the awful story to the wife whom I adore,
And she said, “My dear, stop riding; do give up for evermore.”
And I have, for evermore.
A. J. Freeland.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.
A Cat-as-Trophy.

The other night as I lay musing, and my weary brain confusing o’er the topics of the day, suddenly I heard the rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the fray. “What’s that?” I cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! I ran against the door. “Oh, ’tis “naught,” young Hornet grumbled, as o’er a huge arm-chair, I stumbled,” ’tis a flea, and nothing more.” “Then,” said I, my anger rising, for I thought it so surprising that a flea should thus offend, “do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, ’tis not a flea, my friend.”

Now becoming sorely frightened, round my waist my pants I tightened, and put on my coat and hat, and into the darkness peering, I saw, with trembling and much fearing, the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat, Esq.

59 With astonishment and wonder I gazed upon this son of thunder, as he sat upon the floor, when resolution taking, a rapid movement making, lo! I opened wide the door. “Now clear out,” I hoarsely shouted, as o’er my head my boot I flouted; take your presence from my floor!” Then, with air and mien majestic, this creature, called domestic, made his exit through the door. Made his exit without growling, neither was his voice heard howling, not a single word he said.—And with feelings much elated, to escape a doom so fated, I went back to my bed.

The Hornsey Hornet, October, 1866.

The End of “The Raven.”
You’ll remember that a Raven in my study found a haven
On a plaster bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And that with no sign of flitting, he persisted there in sitting
Till, I’m not above admitting, that I found that bird a bore.
Found him, as he sat and watched me, an indubitable bore,
With his dreary “Never more.”
But it was, in fact, my liver caused me so to shake and shiver,
And to think a common Raven supernatural influence bore;
I in truth had, after dining, been engaged some hours in “wining”—
To a grand old port inclining—which its date was ’44!
And it was this crusted vintage, of the season ’44,
Which had muddled me so sore.
But next morn my “Eno” taking, for my head was sadly aching,
I descended to my study, and a wicker cage I bore.
There the Raven sat undaunted, but I now was disenchanted,
And the sable fowl I taunted as I “H-s-s-h-d!” him from my door,
As I took up books and shied them till he flew from off my door,
Hoarsely croaking, “Never more!”
“Now, you stupid bird!” I muttered, as about the floor it fluttered.
“Now you’re sorry p’raps you came here from where’er you lived before?”
Scarcely had I time to ask it, when, upsetting first a casket,
My large-size waste-paper basket he attempted to explore,
Tore the papers with his beak, and tried its mysteries to explore,
Whilst I ope’d the cage’s door.
Ever in my actions quicker, I brought up the cage of wicker,
Placed it on the paper basket, and gave one loud “H-s-s-h!” once more.
When, with quite a storm of croaking, as though Dis himself invoking,
And apparently half choking, in it rushed old “Never more!”—
Right into the cage of wicker quickly popped old “Never more!”
And I smartly shut the door.
Then without the least compunction, booking to St. John’s Wood Junction,
To the “Zoo” my cage of wicker and its sable bird I bore.
Saw the excellent Curator, showed him the persistent prater—
Now in manner much sedater—and said, “Take him, I implore!
He’s a nuisance in my study, take him, Bartlett, I implore!”
And he answered, “Hand him o’er.”
“Be those words our sign of parting!” cried I, suddenly upstarting,
“Get you in amongst your kindred, where you doubtless were before.
You last night, I own, alarmed me (perhaps the cucumber had harmed me!),
And you for the moment charmed me with your ceaseless ‘Never more!’—
Gave me quite a turn by croaking out your hollow ‘Never more!’
But ‘Good-bye!’ all that is o’er!”
*??*??*??*??*
Last Bank Holiday, whilst walking at the Zoo, and idly talking,
Suddenly I heard low accents that recalled the days of yore;
And up to the cages nearing, and upon the perches peering—
There, with steak his beak besmearing, draggle-tailed, sat “Never more!”
Mutual was our recognition, and, in his debased condition, he too thought of heretofore;
For anon he hoarsely muttered, shook his draggled tail and
fluttered, drew a cork at me and swore—
Yes, distinctly drew three corks, and most indubitably swore!
Only that, and nothing more!
Funny Folks Annual, 1884.
Sequel to the “Raven.”

The author of the following was R. Allston Lavender, Jr., a maniac in the lunatic asylum at Raleigh, N.C. He fancied that it was dictated by the spirit of Edgar A. Poe:

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’s 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.
60
Tapping, tapping, striking deeper,
Rousing pain, my body’s keeper,
Thou hast oft ere while sought entrance
At the heart’s great palace door;
Leave me, leave me, gloomy demon,
Fiend or spirit, most inhuman;
Strike me through, but first unveiling,
Let me scan thee o’er and o’er—
Thou art a bird, but something more.
Still with sable pinions flapping,
The great Raven tapping, tapping,
Struck into my breast his talons.
Vast his wings outspread, and o’er
All my nature cast a pallor,
But I strove with dying valor,
With the poinard of repulsion,
Striking through the form it wore—
Of a bird, and 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, speeding,
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.
I’m no bird, “an angel brother,”
A bright spirit and none other,
I have waited, blissful tended
Thee for thirty years and more.
In thy wild, illusive madness;
In thy blight, disease and sadness,
I have sounded, tapping, tapping
At thy spirit’s Eden door,
Not a bird, but angel more.
In my Palmyrenian splendor,
In Zenobian regnance tender,
More than Roman thought Aurelian,
Were the kingly name I bore;
I have left my angel-palace,
Dropping in thy sorrow’s chalice
Consolation; oh! ’twas blessed,
Sweet thy pillow to bend o’er,
Not a bird, love’s angel more.
Shining down with light Elysian
Through the pearly gate of vision,
On thy tranced soul lighted fancy,
When across thy chamber-floor,
Fell the spirit moonlight laden,
Laden with soft dews from Aidenn,
Shaken downward, still Nepenthe
Drunk by dreaming bards of yore.
Eden is life’s mocking fever,
Where through citron groves for ever
Blow the spice winds, and the love-birds
Tell their raptures o’er and o’er,
From earth’s hell by Afrits haunted,
From its evil disenchanted,
I have borne thee, gaze upon me,
Didst thou see me ne’er before?
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 on 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 for evermore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.
As a gem has many gleamings,
And a day hath many beamings,
And a garden many roses
Thrilled with sweetness to the core;
So the soul hath many ages,
And the life’s book many pages,
But the heart’s great gospel opens
Where the Seraphims adore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.
I will write a book hereafter,
Cheerful as a baby’s laughter
When its mother’s breast o’er leans it,
On the sainted spirit shore;
Like Apollo, the far data,
I, the poet and the martyr,
Will chant paeans of soul music
That shall live for evermore,
Not a friend, a brother more.
American Paper.
 Illustration: horizontal flower
In many instances, authors have selected the curious metre of “The Raven,” with its double echoes, and sonorous refrain, for imitation in poems of too serious a character to be styled Parodies. One clever poem of this description appeared a few years ago in “Lloyd’s Poetical Magazine,” and has recently been republished by its author, Mr. Ernest S. T. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne. It is entitled, “A Vigil Vision,” and is a very musical though rather sad poem, in form and versification much resembling “The Raven,” but having no refrain.

Any extracts would do it injustice, and it is too long to quote in full; moreover, it scarcely comes within the compass of this collection.

61 Before quitting “The Raven” and the parodies it has given rise to, it must be mentioned that Mr. J. H. Ingram has clearly pointed out that it was not in itself a perfectly original poem. Indeed Poe, himself, in his half-serious, half-jesting “Philosophy of Composition” remarks, “Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm, or the metre of “The Raven;” adding, however, that nothing approaching the peculiar combination of the verses into stanzas had ever been previously attempted.

The first printed version of “The Raven” appeared in the Evening Mirror (New York) on the 29th of January, 1845; in 1843 Poe had been writing for the New Mirror, another New York paper, which in the number for Saturday, October 14th, 1843, contained a poem in twelve stanzas, entitled Isadore. This poem was written by Mr. Albert Pike, a well-known American litterateur, and was prefaced by an editorial note, stating that the poem was one of the imagination only, as the Poet’s wife was then alive and perfectly well.

Isadore.
“Thou art lost to me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore,—
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine:
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!”
“My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore.”
*??*??*??*??*
“Thou art gone from me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore.
If it were not for our children’s sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,—
And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.”
In “Isadore” the most distinctive—the only salient—feature is the refrain with which each stanza concludes; the metre and rhythm are much less dexterously managed than in “The Raven,” but it was evidently the author’s intention to produce an effect similar to that which Poe, with superior skill, did subsequently create.

Illustration: mask and worms
Annabel Lee.
I.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
II.
I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
III.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
IV.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
V.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
VI.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life, and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe.
(First published after the author’s death.)
Samuel Brown.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
62
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,—
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in the town.
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,—
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
Poems and Parodies. By Ph?be Carey
(Ticknor, Reed, and Fields), Boston, United States, 1854.
The Cannibal Flea.
I.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a District styled E.C.,
That a monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea;
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live,—and to live on me!
II.
I was in bed, and he was in bed,
In the District named E.C.,
When first in his thirst, so accursed he burst
Upon me the Cannibal Flea!
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me!
III.
And this is the reason why long ago,
In that District called E.C.,
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night, until morning came,
Kept boring away at me!
It wore me down to a skeleton,
In the District hight, E.C.
IV.
From the hour that I sought my bed—eleven—
Till daylight he tortured me,—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In that District named E.C.),
I so often jumped out of my bed by night,
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.
V.
But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he,—
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.
VI.
For at night with a scream I am waked from my dream,
By the terrible Cannibal Flea,
And at morn I ne’er rise without the bites,—of such size!—
From the terrible Cannibal Flea;
So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside
In the District—the District—where he doth abide,
The locality known as E.C.—
That is postally known as E.C.!
Tom Hood, the younger.
[3]The L. C. D. and the L. S. D.
It was many and many a year ago—
How many boots little to me—
That a railway was made, which you may know
By the name of the L. C. D.
Crowns have tottered, and armies have fought,
And Empires have ceased to be,
Since that line from city to sea was brought—
Absorbing much L. S. D.
A friend of my youth, long under the turf,
In a cinque port by the sea,
Once walking beside the rolling surf
On the sands thus spoke to me:
“A dear old Nunky, who sleeps in peace
In a sepulchre here by the sea,
Was graciously pleased on his decease,
To leave me some L. S. D.
“In Bank Consols, which are safe and sound,
But yield only percentage three,
While seven at least, all the season round
Might be shared from the L. C. D.”
I was a child, and he was a child,
And precious noodles we,
Who might as well in the ocean wild
Have scattered our L. S. D.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of many far wiser than we,
Who declared the first dividend meeting would prove
The last from the L. C. D.
But when through the hills and valleys of Kent
Our railway reached the sea,
We hoped at length our capital spent
Would return us some L. S. D.
63
But neither the increase of traffic and fares,
Nor the strangers from over the sea,
Did ever dissever a coin from our shares
In the profitless L. C. D.
Yet the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of a dividend yet to be,
After centuries past, to gladden at last
Our descendants with L. S. D.
Joseph Verey.
Hornet, February 5, 1873.
St. Rose of Lima, Peru (A.D. 1617.)
It was many and many a year ago,
In a World they call the New,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
As the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than the penances she could do.
She was a child, yet never a child
Did holiness so pursue,
By morning and night, and by candle-light
In wisdom and grace she grew,
And ever would strive to all earthly faults
And pleasures to say adieu.
An angel in beauty, she thought it was right
To spoil it to mortals’ view,
She scratch’d it with briars, and burnt it in fires,
Until she was known by few;
(O maidens whose charms you but live to adorn
This never would do for you!)
But her fear of the world was more than her fear
Of loveliness losing its due—
Of tortures that thrill’d her through:
And neither the sackcloth she wore to her skin,
Nor her spiky belt thereto,
Could ever elicit the faintest complaint
From the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
When Love drew near with its honey’d words,
And tenderly tried to woo,
The name of wife and the joys of life
She rigidly would eschew.
She prick’d, for her sins, her head with pins,
And the blood in streamlets drew,
And tears they were spilt for her fancied guilt,
By the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
And oft she would fast, but to eat at last
The bitterest herbs she knew,
And all that was pleasant and good to the taste
In horror away she threw;
She stripp’d her garden of all sweet flowers,
And sow’d it with thorns and rue.
And angels would come and make her one
(In dreams) of their seraph crew,
And often the Fiend, in his beauty screen’d,
Her spirit would fain subdue,
But evil could only fail to prevail
With the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
And these are the reasons her fame would grow
In the World they call the New,
But youth wasn’t past ere the wintry blast
The flame of her life out-blew;
There issued a breath from the mouth of Death
Chilling and killing the Rose of Peru.
And many and many a year flew by
In that World they call the New,
While marvels divine were wrought at the shrine
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
(I should beat my breast and be much distress’d
If you call’d this part untrue.)
But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake,
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And so I decide my pangs to abide
Like her who suffer’d—and braved—and died
In the capital of Peru,
The region they call Peru.
Lays of the Saintly. By Walter Parke
(Vizetelly and Co.), London, 1882.
Beautiful B.
It was many and many a year ago,
By a theatre known as P.
That a little boy stood, whom now we know
By the name of Wilson B.
Whose soul was filled with no other thought
Than to act the Prince of D.
He was a boy, and still like a boy,
In that theatre known as P.,
He plays in a play, that is not mere play,
And as Hamlet Prince of D.,
With many a clutch at his manly breast,
And a smile that is sweet to see.
For this is the reason some time ago,
At his theatre known as P.,
In “Lights of London” and “Romany Rye,”
And the “Silver King” did he
Lead up to the higher “Claudian” role
Of poetic tragedee,
Till he’d raised the taste of that theatre
To Hamlet, Prince of D.
For Irving, o’er sated with London’s praise
Went once more across the sea.
Yes! that was the reason, as all men know,
And not the mere L. S. D.
That the Lyceum company, touring, had left
The coast clear for Wilson B.
But his role was more youthful by far than the role
Of actors more thrilling than he
Of parties intenser than he;
And neither the posing, nor withering smile,
Of a smothered agonee,
Can ever confuse his role with the role
Of the actor now over the sea.
The play never plays, without crowding the ways
To that theatre we’ve named P.
And the lamps are not lit, ’ere the crowd at the pit
Are waiting for Wilson B.
And all the night long he is there with his stride
Of his youth, his beauty, in lime-light’s pride
In the theatre there you still may see
Beautiful B. as Prince of D.
J. W. G. W., November, 1884.
(Written expressly for this collection, during the run of Hamlet at the Princess’s Theatre, London, with Mr. Wilson Barrett as the Prince of Denmark. Mr. Henry Irving, who had recently been performing the same part at the Lyceum, being then on tour in the United States.)

64
Annabel Lee.
’Twas more than a million years ago,
Or so, it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighbourhood
But none was a patch to she.
And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree—
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree.
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and the desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn’t just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree.
For had she stayed below with me,
We’d had no hickory nuts, may be,
But I would have had my Annabel Lee.
Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke. By Stanley Huntley,
of the “Brooklyn Eagle.”
 Illustration: horizontal flower
Ulalume.
I.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere,—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir,—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
II.
Here once, through an alley Titanic
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
III.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,—
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year!
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dark tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
*??*??*??*??*
VIII.
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb,
And I said, “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied, “Ulalume—Ulalume—
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”
*??*??*??*??*
Edgar A. Poe.
Paralune.
(A Poe-tic Fragment).

[A new moonshade, called a Paralune, has been introduced to preserve Ladies’ complexions from the alleged injurious effects of moonlight.]

Then I looked round for Sukey, and missed her;
But back she came bounding right soon;
And I said, “What’s the matter, sweet Sister?”
She pointed at once to the moon,
To the silvery sheeny full moon.
“Hang it, Sukey,” I cried, “you’re a twister!
What’s that? To explain were a boon.”
She replied, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the moonshade, the new Paralune.”
Then she said, “She’s a danger is Dian,
A Satellite Ladies mistrust,
To the skin she is terribly tryin’,
And makes one’s complexion like dust.
Red, freckled, or dingy as dust—
Nay, tanned like the tawny-maned Lion.”
“What nonsense!” cried I, in disgust.
Sukey sobbed, “You’re unjust, you’re unjust!
And carry a moonshade I must!”
Then I melted, and tried to look pleasant,
And tempted her out ’neath the moon!
Explained the full disc and the crescent,
Each scoriac rock and lagoon;
And her moonshade she dropped very soon;
But next morning her nose was rubescent,
Her temper was much out of tune;
And she wailed, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the fault of my lost Paralune!”
Punch, September 10, 1881.
65
The Willows.
The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year;
Like the skies I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—
At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland, down here.
Here, once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,—
Of Ten-pins,—with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.
I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I marked not the night of the year;
I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber
That the band oft performed down here,
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
With the Nightingale’s music of Shear.
And now as the night was senescent,
And the star-dials pointed to morn,
And car-drivers hinted of morn.
At the end of the path a liquescent
And bibulous lustre was born;
’Twas made by the bar-keeper present,
Who mixed a duplicate horn,—
His two hands describing a crescent
Distinct with a duplicate horn.
And I said: “This looks perfectly regal,
For its warm, and I know I feel dry,—
I am confident that I feel dry;
We have come past the emeu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;
Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,—
To the swan and the monkey on high,—
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not enveigle,—
Bully boy with the vitreous eye;
He surely would never inveigle,—
Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.”
But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, “Sadly this bar I mistrust,—
I fear that this bar does not trust.
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly,—let us fly,—ere we must!”
In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom,—
By some words that were warning of doom,
And I said, “What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?”
She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room.”
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and drear,—
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, “It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here,—
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah! to me that inscription is clear;
Well I know now, I’m perfectly sober,
Why no longer they credit me here,—
Well I know now that music of Auber,
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.”
Bret Harte.
——:o:——

What is in a Name.
(From “Ravings,” by E. A. Poe—t.)
The autumn upon us was rushing,
The parks were deserted and lone—
The streets were unpeopled and lone;
My foot through the sere leaves was brushing,
That over the pathway were strown—
By the wind in its wanderings strown.
I sighed—for my feelings were gushing
Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne,
Like lava liquescent lay gushing,
And rose to the porphyry throne—
To the filigree footstool were gushing,
That stands on the steps of that throne—
On the solid stone steps of that throne.
I cried—“Shall the winter leaves fret us?”
Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit,
To the freshness and force of the fruit!
To the gifts wherewith autumn has met us—
Her music that never grows mute
(That maunders but never grows mute),
The tendrils, the vine branches net us,
The lily, the lettuce, the lute—
The esculent, succulent lettuce,
And the languishing lily, and lute;—
Yes;—the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce;
Late lily and lingering lute.
“Then come—let us fly from the city!
Let us travel in orient isles—
In the purple of orient isles—
Oh, bear me—yes, bear me in pity
To climes where a sun ever smiles—
Ever smoothly and speciously smiles!
Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty
Enhances pyramidal piles:
Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty
Awakens pyramidal piles—
Yes:—his pointless perpetual ditty
Perplexes pyramidal piles!”
Vere Vereker’s Vengeance, by Thomas Hood.
J. C. Hotten, London, 1865.
——:o:——

66
You’ll Resume!
Air (more or less) “Ulalume.”
Premier sings—
I had passed through a Session Satanic,
And Irish, with “Pussy,”[4] sleek Peer.
Those were the days of explosion volcanic,
The nights of delirium drear,
Long speeches, and labours Titanic,
Pat outrage, Egyptian panic,
Rude ruction, Obstruction, and fear,
French shirking, and shyness Germanic—
A most unforgettable year!
The Session, in fact, was a twister,
Had filled us with doubt and with gloom;
But we’d got to the end of its vista,[5]
For starry-eyed Hope there seemed room.
We could flee from Big Ben’s heavy boom.
Yet Forecast, Hope’s heavy-browed sister,
Kept whispering words of dark doom
In my ear, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
In two months from to-day, you’ll resume!”
“We are off!” Pussy cried. “This is pleasant!
How jolly! From Westminster far!”
“Ah, precisely,” said I, “for the present!”
Cried he, “What a croaker you are!
What a—well Grand old Croaker you are!
Let us think of the grouse and the pheasant,
And not of St. Stephen’s war,
Of popping at partridge and pheasant,
Not worry, and Warton, and war.”
Then I said, “My dear Pussy, be sober!
Remember we’re bound to be here
By the end of the month of October,
Of this unforgettable year—
By the twenty-fourth day of October.
This very identical year.
Ha! doesn’t that make you feel queer?”
“We shall yet have to work, Puss, like winking.
Tourists? Cloture-ists also I trust.
Obstruction to fight without shrinking
Will call us all back—come we must,
To St. Stephens’s shindy and dust.”
“Oh, hang it!” cried Puss, his face sinking;
“That bothering Cloture be—bust!”
Then I pacified Pussy, and chid him
For giving vulgarity room.
And he promised to do as I bid him,
But there passed o’er his features a gloom—
A settled and sable-hued gloom—
As black as the pall o’er a tomb.
And I said—of it hoping to rid him—
“Dear Puss, what’s the cause of this gloom?”
He replied, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
’Tis the thought of those words, You’ll resume!”
Punch, August 26, 1882.
——:o:——

Hope: An Allegory.

The metre of this Poem is adapted from Edgar A. Poe’s “Ulalume.”

King Ph?bus came forth in his splendour
Bedight in his garments of gold,
And round the young treelings so tender,
His raiments of rays did enfold—
Round Hebe, the young and the slender,
His mantle of magic he roll’d,
To keep her from blight and defend her
From sorrow, temptation, or cold.
And while he with Hebe was walking—
Whose face in the flow’rs was seen—
In the rosebud with red in between—
Violet-veined Venus came talking—
Oh! talking with Love came his queen,—
With Cupid she talking was seen;
With Cupid for hearts she was hawking—
Was hawking o’er Hebe’s own green,
To snare the warm heart of the Sun-king
From Hebe, its self-chosen queen.
And while the young pair were still parting,
To Ph?bus came blue-eyed Love;
To the Sun-king came Venus’s dove,
And then, from the bushes, upstarting,
Soared into a cloudlet above.
Then came from his bow swiftly darting
An arrow—the arrow of Love.
With the pain King Ph?bus was sobbing,
When Venus came by with her balms,
And eased the Sun-king of his throbbing,
As he lay in her beautiful arms;
The wound of its pain quickly robbing;
She sooth’d him with nepenthe calms;
She sooth’d the Sun-king in his sobbing,
By the sound of her Letheian psalms.
Then King Ph?bus with poppies she crown’d,
While Somnus o’erwhelm’d him with sleep;
And with slumber his senses they drown’d,
And they soundly his senses did steep;
And Venus her arms then unwound,
While out of his heart Love did leap,
And they left him alone on the ground—
They left him alone in deep sleep.
*??*??*??*??*
Fair Hebe was haunted with sorrow
While, alas! on the sad to-morrow,
Ph?bus trod through the dreamy hours—
Sought alone the blighted bowers.
Not a glimpse of hope could he borrow—
Ever lost to this world of ours!
While Venus ne’er stayed to console him
But fled in the night and the gloom;
E’en Love never stayed to condole him,
But fled when young Hope lost her bloom;
E’en Somnus no more can control him—
Death’s darkness before him doth loom,
And pale death must soon be his doom;
And they’ll bury him deep in Hope’s tomb.
And fair Hebe no more can return,
Until the death of life is done,
Until the race of life is run,
And the future vanquish’d, yet won,
And the goal eternal won—
Till she’s drunk of the Letheian river,
And Ph?bus and Hope have for ever
Mingled their beings in one.
This imitation of Ulalume, written by Mr. John H. Ingram, was published in 1863, when its author was in his teens. The little volume which contained it, entitled “Poems by Dalton Stone,” has been suppressed, and is now very scarce.

——:o:——

67
LENORE.
I.
Ah! broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever!
Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now, or nevermore!
See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love Lenore!
Come, let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung;
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.
II.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health ye blessed her, that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read—the requiem how be sung,
By you—by yours, the evil eye—by yours, the slanderous tongue,
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young.”
III.
Peccavimus; but rave not thus; and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong:
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride;
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyes,—
The life still there upon her hair, the death upon her eyes.
IV.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a p?an of old days.
Let no bell toll; lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven;
From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven,
From grief and groan, to a golden throne beside the King of heaven.”
Edgar Allan Poe.
This poem was published in 1844, and it has been suggested that it was probably founded on the melancholy fate of Lady Flora Hastings. This lady, who was attached to the Royal Household, became the victim of rumours affecting her reputation, and was very severely treated by the Queen and the Duchess of Kent. Although the innocence of Lady Flora was subsequently clearly established, she was unable to survive the disgrace and injustice inflicted on her, and died in July, 1839. But Lenore although published in 1844 was merely a revision of a poem which had appeared in an early volume of Poe’s writings, before the Lady Flora Hastings scandal.

——:o:——

THE SUPPER OF THE FOUR.
Remiges quinque a Nunehamo reversi in Ricardi hospitis
c?naculum intrant, ex quibus quidam sic loquitur:
“Ah! ’pon my word, you fellows, I’m as tired as I was ever!
For supper shout, and let the scout know we’re come from the river;
And a cushion quick! a cushion, Dick, give now or nevermore,
For on this bare cane-bottom chair I will not sit: I’m sore.
Come let the mackerel soused be brought, the pigeon-pie, the tongue,
The cider-cup and straws, and let the radishes be young;
Oh! William, bring the radishes, and William, bring them young.”
Cui Speculator.
“Commons for five, sir, pigeon-pie, I’m ordered to provide,
And beer as usual, I suppose, and cider-cup beside.
The mackerel soused, sir, shall be brought, and ham, and lamb, and tongue,
And potted meats, and salad too, and radishes, sir, young;
I’ll get them if I can, and, sir, I’ll try to get them young.”
Horrenda post c?nam voce cantantes c?teros sic excipit Ricardus hospes:
“C?navimus; but howl not thus: let our Noachian song
Float on the air so tunefully the dean may feel no wrong.”
Noachii Carminis epitome:
“St. James’s Park received the ark on its primeval tide,[6]
All creatures wild thereto beguiled were stabled safe inside;
By ones, by pairs, they mount the stairs, they mount by threes and fours,
Fowls came from perches, beasts from lairs, and thronged about the doors,
By five, by six, by seven, by eight, by nine, by ten, by scores.”
Tum solito hilarior factus hospes olim tristissimus exclamat:
“Hurrah! to-night my heart is light! no blues I’ll conjure up,
But drown the demons out of sight in a draught of cider-cup;
We’ll drain it dry, then let us try to soothe our temperate mirth,
The comfort of post-prandial pipe, ere each one seek his berth,
May health to all our friends and bane to all our foes be given!”
Propinant omnes.
Now for the pipe and then to sleep, like to the sleepers seven,
From toil and boose to snore and snooze sound as the sleepers seven.
Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.
London, J. C. Hotten, 1872.
 Illustration: Fancy scrollwork
68
FOR ANNIE.
I.
Thank Heaven, the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last;
And the fever called “living”
Is conquered at last.
II.
Sadly I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length;
But no matter; I feel
I am better at length.
*??*??*??*??*
VIII.
And, ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
*??*??*??*??*
Edgar A. Poe.
——:o:——

Tristan and Isolde.
(By one who does not appreciate Wagner.)
Thank heaven the music
Is silent at last,
And the howling trombones
Have ended their blast;
And the opera called ‘Tristan’
Is finished at last.
Sadly I know
Of its “wonderful strength”
As I dared not to move
Through its wearisome length;
But no matter I feel
It is quiet—at length.
For I could not be dozing,
Nor yet nod my head,
Lest any stall holder
Should fancy me dead;
To the beauty of Wagner
(Alas! I was dead.)
The moaning and groaning,
The shrieking and sobbing,
All quieted now
With that horrible throbbing
Of fiddles,—that horrible
Horrible throbbing.
The noise and the bluster,
The leitmotif’s pain;
The pitiless torture
Of melody vain;
The “melody endless,”
That torturing strain.
For oh! of all tortures,
That motif was worst,
That creepingly crawling
Motif at first;
That writhed like a serpent
And did all its worst
To crush all one’s senses
Of tune, from the first.
The music roared on
An inferno of sound,
That’s heard by a few
Very far underground,—
In a place that’s not quoted
Far under the ground.
And oh! let it never
Be foolishly said,
That Wagner’s not gloomy,
Altho’ he be dead,—
And nothing but good
Should be said of the dead;
Yet that were too awful
A lie, tho’ he’s dead.
Tho’ my heart is a stout one
And feels passing bold, a
World full of perils
I’d dare, but for gold, a
Fortune past counting
I’d shrink to behold, a—
Again that mad opera
Tristan and Isolde.
J. W. G. W., 1884.
(Written expressly for this collection).
 Illustration: mask with horns
Covent Garden.
By a Lover of Poe-try.
A Garden of gardens it teaches
The bard, ever blatant, to bless
The pumpkins, the plums, and the peaches,
The salads not easy to dress;—
Pears, pumpkins, and pulpiest peaches,
Camelia, cabbage, and cress,
The pumpkins, the pippins, the peaches
Cut cabbage, and crisply curled cress!
Oh, of luscious luxurious lunches,
The poet loves one lunch, and that’s
Of bananas in bountiful bunches,
And melons as big as your hats,
Black currants, bananas in bunches,
And cocoa nuts, mothers of mats—
For of science if you are a lover
You’ll know they’re the mothers of mats,
That the cocoa nut’s cortical cover
Machinery makes into mats,
Into fuscous and fibre-fringed mats.
Fun, July 20, 1867.
——:o:——

69
Hygiea.

(A sanitary Lyric, imitated from Edgar Poe’s “Ligiea,”
and dedicated by Mr. Punch to Dr. Richardson.)

Hygiea! Hygiea!
Most exigent one!
I have an idea
Thou pokest thy fun.
Oh! is it thy will
To make noodles of us,
By urging us still
So to worry and fuss
Concerning our bodies,
What’s eaten, what’s drunk,
Until we’re mere noddies
In chronic blue funk?
Hygiea, thou’rt clever;
But, ’twixt you and me,
To fidget for ever
Is fiddle-de-dee.
We mustn’t eat this,
And we mustn’t drink that,
Lest sound health we should miss,
Grow too thin or too fat,
Must go in for analysis
Of all “grub” about
Lest we court cramp, paralysis,
Fever, or gout;
Mustn’t travel by rail,
Must shun riding in cabs;
Must,—but time would quite fail
To tell half of thy “fads.”
If a mortal (I think)
Could such vigilance keep,
He would ne’er eat or drink,
He would ne’er toil or sleep.
Sanitas sanitatum
Is all very fine;
But my ultimatum
Is this—I must dine!
And if I stop grubbing
Till all’s fair and clear,
I shall do nought but “tubbing”
For many a year.
Esculapius’ daughter,
With thee I agree,
Pure air and cold water,
Are needful to me;
But perpetual worry
’Bout stomachs and nerves,
And this, that, and ’tother,
No good purpose serves.
“Nine Systems,” Hygiea,
Perhaps I possess,
Though I’d an idea
The number was less.
But to square work and feast
By the rules thou art giving,
Would take nine lives at least,
And not one much worth living.
Punch, October 23, 1880.
——:o:——

A NEW POEM SAID TO BE BY POE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY GRAPHIC.

“So many spurious poems purporting to be by Poe are now brought forward for public approbation that I feel some hesitation in yielding to my inclination to send you the following, which first appeared in the Looking Glass some years ago, and which I have very slight reason to believe was written by Poe himself, as it is quite as characteristic as anything of the sort I have seen in a number of years.

Frantic Jerry Foodle.”

The Demon of the Doldrums.
One night I lay a-dreaming,
In the moonlight that was streaming
In a flood of liquid glory,
Pouring on my counterpane;
Up and down were goblins tumbling,
On the slanting beams, and crumbling
’Twixt their fingers all the moonlight
In a shower of golden rain.
And some a crimson liquor
Caught and poured it in a bicker
Crowned with crystal listel pistils
Of some rare and wondrous rose,
Whose penetrative fragrance,
In its sinuous mystic vagrance,
Filled my chamber with an odor
That none merely mortal knows.
Ah! that odor—who can tell it?
None but ghouls and angels smell it
Oinoglyphic, soporific,
Hedonific, and divine.
And it seemed as if a censer
Full of pastiles, but immenser
Than a tun of old Madeira
Had been emptied of its wine.
Then methought that with a wobblin’
Strode a lynx-eyed mouse-backed goblin
Down from off the ebon footboard
And along the silken quilt,
And within the moonlight glinting
Capered with a demon squinting,
And a winking and a drinking,
And a horrid, nasty lilt.
Ah! my lips were as dry as paper
When I saw the demon caper,
As with finger pointing ever
At the opalescent bowl
He kept laughing, he kept quaffing,
With his nose much more than half in
That liquor, which did flicker
Like a burning human soul.
Ah! I longed but once to taste it
(As I saw the demon waste it),
And my coppers, hot as stoppers
Of a bowl of molten lead,
Ached to quaff that golden liquor,
From the bicker quick and quicker,
And to roll it down my gullet,
As I tossed upon my bed.
70
Swift I stretched my hand to seize it,
When I heard a voice cry “Cheese it!”
And my head against the bed-post
Falling, crashing, came ca-bunk;
And the demons did evanish,
Like to spirits walking Spanish,
And I heard much lively chinning
’Bout a man who would get drunk.
 Illustration: horizontal leaves and bud
Another Chapter
on
“The Raven.”

On page 217 of the second volume of the life of Edgar Allan Poe, Mr. J. H. Ingram quotes the following extract from one of his letters:—“Have you seen ‘The Moral for Authors’ a new Satire by J. E. Tuel? Who, in the name of Heaven, is J. E. Tuel? The book is miserably stupid! He has a long parody of the ‘Raven’—in fact, nearly the whole thing seems to be aimed at me. If you have not seen it and wish to see it I will send it.”

Poe was well within the mark when he stigmatised “The Moral for Authors” as a miserably stupid production. It was published in 1849 by Stringer and Townsend of New York, and consisted of forty-eight pages of rhyme almost entirely destitute of reason. On one page, it is true, the author vainly attempts a feeble parody of Lord Macaulay’s style, and there is, of course, the parody of the “Raven.” As Poe, himself, has alluded to this, students of his life and works may probably wish to refer to it, which they would have great difficulty in doing as copies of the pamphlet are now exceedingly scarce. I therefore reprint the parody in full, from a copy kindly lent me by Mr. J. H. Ingram.

It is dated from the—

PLUTONIAN SHORE,

Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry

Before the Dismal Ages, A.D. 18——

“Once upon a midnight dreary, as I ponder’d weak and weary
Over many a weary volume of recent published lore—
While I nodded o’er ‘The Sleeper,[7]’ suddenly I heard a creeper,
As of some one peering deeper-deeper in my chamber door;
’Tis some author new, I mutter’d, or some other midnight bore;
Only this and nothing more!”
“Oh! distinctly I that volume do remember in its solemn
And sleepy double column as it fell upon the floor—
Eagerly I wished to borrow from ‘Cooper’s Last’ of sorrow,
Or my own dark books of horror—horror for having more!
A sure cure for the blues, which were darkly creeping o’er
My ‘Dream,’ and nothing more.”
“And the bleak and dread re-over turning of each volume cover
Chill’d me—filled me with fantastic poems, never penned before,
So that, to still the rushing of my thoughts towards the head-in,
I said, “tis an author sure, entreating entrance through the key-hole door;
A waylaid child of Poetry on a midnight ‘bust,’ or more,
Or else some other bore.’”
“Presently my pen grew fiery,—hesitating an inquiry,
‘Sir,’ said I (or Madman!), ‘truly your late visit I deplore;
For the fact is, I’m inditing a piece of murky writing,
And so unseeming you came lighting, lighting on my chamber door,
Which was never done before’—here he bolted in the door,
And sat down upon the floor.”
“Then this strange trick beguiling my phrenzy into smiling,
By the cool audacious impudence his brazen features wore—
Tho’ thy hat is old and napless, thou, I said, art sure not sapless,
Young and tender in thy hapless wand’rings from thy mother’s shore;
Tell me why thy business here is on this dark and dismal floor?”
Quoth the Author, ‘Read this o’er.’”
“Much I wonder’d this ambitious youth to see an act so vicious,
Tho’ its answer good deal meaning, I voted him a bore—
For we cannot help believing that no genius living grieving
Ever yet was blind in seeing a Manuscript read o’er
By the ‘Reader’ in a book-shop, or Book-boy in a store,
Yet he cried on, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“Startled at the stillness broken by reply so greenly spoken,
Said I, ‘Before like Poe you flutter you should like Bryant soar
Forc’d from some disaster—perhaps you think to master
Something in the Markette faster, faster than was ever sold before
Till the bird-en of your hopes is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”
“But the Author still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I plac’d the faded Manuscript in front of Author, book and door,
Then into its beauties sinking, I betook myself to thinking
What this young aspiring Author with his Manuscript, and more;
What this bold, presumptuous Youth, with his head bor’d through a bore,
Meant in saying, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“Thus I sat, engaged in reading, but no syllable revealing,
To the Youth, whose fiery eyes roll’d a fiery phrenzy o’er,
And o’er its pages turning, with thoughts of mystic learning,
I began a critique burning on its Mathews style and more,
When coming to a chapter, which I heartily did deplore,
Cried the Author, ‘Read it o’er.’”
71
“Then methought the style grew duller, and the hero rather fuller
Of thoughts which even Blue-pard never gloated o’er.
‘Man!’ I cried, ‘thy brain has turn’d thee—by this chapter I have learn’d thee;
‘Re-write—re-write—and re-pen thee these pages blotted o’er—
‘Take-oh! take it, and re-pen-t thee—and correct these pages more:
Cried the author, ‘Read it o’er.’”
“‘Author!’ said I, ‘Imp of Evil—Author great, or Good or Devil,
Whether Putnam sent or Harper toss’d thee here ashore,
Dull and stupid, yet undaunted—on this sheet romantic wasted—
On this floor by volumes haunted—tell me plainly, I implore,
Is there—is there sense in this? tell me, tell me, I implore;
Quoth the author, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril—of paper, ink and ferrel,
By that Public which looks over us—by that Fame we both adore,
Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en
It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o’er,
And yet the chorus of your melody is ‘Read it o’er—read it o’er.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’”
“Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend, ‘I shrieked upstarting,
Get thee back unto the Harpers on Cliff Street’s Plutonian shore,
Leave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has spoken,
Leave my murky thoughts unbroken—quit the threshold of my door,
Take thy Manuscript ‘out’ with thee and take thyself from out my door.’
Quoth the Author, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door;
And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teeming,
And the smoke that’s from it streaming throws his shadow on the floor
And the only words this engine repeats is ‘Read it o’er, Read it o’er,’
And nothing more.”
——:o:——

THE GOBLIN GOOSE.
A Christmas Nightmare.
Once, it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,
And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor;
It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,
But I had no dying ember, as Poe had; when near the door,
Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door,
Stood a bird,—and nothing more.
And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven,
Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?”
Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered—
“Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before,
Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before.
I’m the Goose,”—and nothing more.
Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady,
Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a stifled roar;
And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose Club I was winner,
’Tis a mem’ry of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four;
Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four.”
Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”
Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is
This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?
For goose-flesh I will no more ‘ax’ if you’ll not sit on my thorax.
Go, try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore;
You speak gruffly though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is sore.”
Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”
“Goose!” I shrieked out, “Leave, oh, leave me! surely you don’t mean to grieve me?
You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er;
Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow.
Some relief from thee I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store,
There are pills of purest azure in that doctor’s ample store.”
Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”
And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting
With me all the night, emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core;
Now, throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, on
Me he sits, until my reason nothing surely can restore,
I am driven mad, and reason nothing surely can restore;
While that Goose says, “Eat no more.”
Punch, January 1, 1881.
——:o:——

The College Craven.
Once when in the evening walking, with my darling softly talking,
Wandering by the shining river, as we’d often done before;
While the clear full moon was beaming, on the flowing waters gleaming,
And the little waves were streaming, streaming, rippling towards the shore
Like small bars of silver dancing, gliding in towards the shore,
Noiseless save for splash of oar.
72
Oh, distinctly I remember ’twas in bright and clear September
Soon after I had returned to this ancient seat of lore,
Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease to sorrow,
Fearing, dreading that the harrow would pass over me once more,
Little hoped I for Testamur, dreading to be ploughed once more,
Ploughed perhaps for evermore.
So I pondered deeply thinking, fancy into fancy linking,
Balmy air of cool night drinking soothingly through every pore.
Whilst I wandered with my dearest, and the moon was at her clearest,
Earth to heaven seemed the nearest it had ever been before;
Life was sweeter at that moment than it had ever been before,
Than it will be evermore.
Thus while we were gently strolling, pleasant thoughts our minds enrolling,
Suddenly I heard a footstep that I had not heard before,
And I felt my blood run colder, and in fact was no way bolder,
As I felt upon my shoulder the “bulldog’s” hand I so abhor,
Then he said with gleeful malice those old words I so abhor
“The proctor wants you,” nothing more.
“Bulldog,” cried I, “thing of evil, how I wish you at the devil,”
But the “bulldog,” most ferocious, never let me from his paw,
But before the proctor hurried, who my wits completely flurried,
Since they were already worried, “Your name and college I implore,
And your presence in the morning I must earnestly implore,”
Quoth the proctor, nothing more.
In the morning by fears riven, though against them I had striven,
That the penalty was heavy I in no way could ignore.
But my case being duly stated, I was most severely rated,
And within the college gated, gated till the term was o’er,
Ne’er to wander forth at even till the weary term was o’er,
Only this, and nothing more.
P. G. S.
Wadham College, Oxford,
Nov., 1884.
——:o:——

The (C) raven Student.
Once upon a morning dreary, through my lodging window smeary,
Came the cold and blacks and street-cries making getting up a bore!
And I wished I still were napping: suddenly I heard a tapping,
As of some one pertly rapping, rapping at my chamber door!
“’Tis,” growled I, “that maid of all-work rapping at my chamber-door—
What on earth can it be for.”
But too well do I remember that hungriest, dreariest November;
Not a single blessed ember cast its glow upon the floor,
Nor dared I hope that on the morrow I could venture more to borrow
On my books, which, to my sorrow, had been carried by the score
“To my uncle’s,” by the slattern whom the Missis called Lenore—
Why, I could not say, I’m sure.
And the shiv’ring, cold, uncertain rustling of each paper curtain
Told me of a bleaker draught than I had ever felt before;
So that, while to rise objecting, I turned again and lay reflecting,
Through the crazy rattling sashes as the rain now came by dashes,—
I began to think the knocking at the panel of my door
Was the wind, and nothing more.
Soon again it came, and stronger; hesitating then no longer,—
“Girl,” I cried, “had you but listened, you could well have heard me snore,
“For the fact is, I was napping when so rudely you came rapping;
And if you again come tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
I will give you such a slapping as you never had before!”
Shrieked the maiden:—“Never, sure!”
By the Author of “Flemish Interiors.”
——:o:——

“The Raven” has been repeatedly translated. A Latin version, by Lewis Gidley, was published in Exeter in 1863, and again in 1866 by Parker of Oxford and London. There are several German versions of it, also a French translation by William Hughes. But perhaps the most famous of all is the grand folio published in Paris in 1875, entitled “Le Corbeau, traduction francaise de Stephane Mallarme, avec Illustrations par Edouard Manet.” The translation is literal, and naturally loses much of the force and beauty of the original from the absence of rhyme. It lacks also much of the weird suggestiveness of “The Raven,” whilst the refrain “Jamais-plus” is but a poor substitute for the sonorous “Nevermore!” Manet, the late chief of the Impressionist School of Painters, has here given full vent to his powers, and his eccentricity. In some of his illustrations the effects of light and shade are marvellous, in others he has been less successful, whilst in one or two instances the illustrations appear absolutely meaningless.

Notes and Queries recently quoted an anecdote of a Raven which must have been an ancestor of Poe’s sinister bird. It is taken from a rare little 73 book, to which it gives the subject of 166 pages of edifying preachment, and of course is firmly believed in by the author. The following is the title:—

“Vox Corvi; or the Voice of a Raven, that Thrice spoke these words distinctly: Look into Colossians the 3rd and 15th. The Text it self looked into, and opened, in a Sermon, Preached at Wigmore, in the County of Hereford, To which is added, Serious Addresses to the People of this Kingdom; shewing the use we ought to make of this Voice from Heaven. By Alex. Ologie, Minister of Wigmore, &c. Licensed according to order. Matth. 21, xviii. London, 1694.”

The details are thus circumstantially related:—

“On the 3d. of February, 1691, about Three in the Afternoon, this Reverend Divine, a person of the venerable Age of 80 years, and 40 of those a Laborious Teacher of God’s Word, in the Parish of Wigmore, in the County of Hereford, being in the Hall of his own house, being with the Pious Matron, his Wife, some Neighbours and Relations, together with two small Grand-Children of his, in all to the number of Eight Persons; Thomas Kinnersley, one of the said Grand-Children, of but Ten Years of Age, starting up from the Fireside, went out of the Hall-Door, and sate himself down upon a Block by a Wood-pile, before the Door, employing himself in no other Childlike Exercise than cutting of a Stick, when in less than half a quarter of an Hour, he returned into the Hall in great amazement, his Countenance pale, and affrighted, and said to his Grandfather and Grandmother, Look in the Third of the Colossians, and the Fifteenth, with infinite Passion and Earnestness, repeating the words no less than three Times, which Deportment and Speech much surprising the whole Company, they asked him what he meant by those words, who answered with great Ardency of Spirit, that a Raven had spoken them Three times from the Peak of the Steeple, and that it looked towards W. W.’s House, and shook its Head and Wings thitherwards, directing its Looks and Motions still towards that House. All which words he heard the Raven distinctly utter three times, and then saw it mount and fly out of sight. His Grandfather hereupon, taking the Bible, and turning to the said Text, found these words. ‘And let the Peace of God rule in your Hearts, to the which you are also called in one Body; and be ye thankful.’ Upon reading whereof, the Child was fully satisfied, and his countenance perfectly composed agen [sic].”

Illustration: two-headed beast
POE-TICAL FORGERIES.

Whilst recently turning over some odd volumes on a bookstall, in my never ending search for Parodies, a loose newspaper cutting fell out of one of them. It was headed “Edgar Allan Poe,” and the obliging proprietor of the bookshop, where this occurred, seeing the interest I took in the subject, kindly gave me the slip, which I reprint below. Although the letter is dated “August 31” no year is given, nor was there anything on the cutting to indicate from what paper it had been taken. However, after considerable searching amongst the newspaper files in the British Museum I was enabled to trace it to The Morning Star (London) of September 1, 1864.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Sir—I have noticed with interest and astonishment the remarks made in different issues of your paper respecting Edgar A. Poe’s “Raven,” and I think the following fantastic poem (a copy of which I enclose), written by the poet whilst experimenting towards the production of that wonderful and beautiful piece of mechanism, may possibly interest your numerous readers. “The Fire-Fiend” (the title of the poem I enclose) Mr. Poe considered incomplete and threw it aside in disgust. Some months afterwards, finding it amongst his papers, he sent it in a letter to a friend, labelled facetiously, “To be read by fire-light at midnight, after thirty drops of laudanum.” I was intimately acquainted with the mother-in-law of Poe, and have frequently conversed with her respecting “The Raven,” and she assured me that he had the idea in his mind for some years, and used frequently to repeat verses of it to her and ask her opinion of them, frequently making alterations and improvements, according to the mood he chanced to be in at the time, Mrs. Clemm, knowing the great study I had given to “The Raven,” and the reputation I had gained by its recital throughout America, took great interest in giving me all the information in her power, and the life and writings of Edgar A. Poe have been the topic of our conversation for hours.

Respectfully,

M. M.’Cready.”

London, August 31.

THE FIRE-FIEND.
A Nightmare.
I.
In the deepest depth of midnight, while the sad solemn swell
Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel Bell—
Faintly, falteringly floating o’er the sable waves of air
That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling—
In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light’s fitful gleaming,
And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore-doomed to Care!
II.
At the last long lingering echo of the midnight’s mystic chime—
Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore of time—
Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace—
In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I started:
Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream’s phantasmal error
Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming face!
III.
On the red hearth’s reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak,
Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror I awoke,
And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor,
74
Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my eyes toward the gleaming
Hearth, and—there! oh, God! I saw it! and from out its flaming Jaw it
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore!
IV.
Speechless; struck with stony silence; frozen to the floor I stood,
Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling, blood:—
Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips:—
Till the Demon seemed to name me; then a wondrous calm o’ercame me,
And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey,
And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse!
V.
Then, as in Death’s seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear
I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear:—
Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep:—
Muttering, “Higher! Higher! Higher! I am Demon of the Fire!
I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roof’s my pyre,
And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep!”
VI.
“How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar among the Pines!
How I laugh when from the village o’er the snow the red flame shines,
And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every breath!
How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each crackling rafter
Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher! higher! higher!
Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death!”
VII.
“I am monarch of the Fire! I am Vassal-King of Death!
World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath!
With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face!
I command the Eternal Fire! Higher! higher! higher! higher!
Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantasmagoric lemans
Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!”
VIII.
Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn shrouded sleep,
And I slumbered like an infant in the “Cradle of the Deep,”
Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke,
And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden ledges,
Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches,
Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak.
IX.
Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note
From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled his throat:—
Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for his mate!
Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber nightmare ridden,
With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central Fire
On my eye’s interior mirror like the Shadow of a Fate!
X.
Ah! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap,
And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep;
But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone,
Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger
To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden—
And I bowed, and said, “All Power is of God, of God alone!”
On showing this poem to Mr. J. H. Ingram he at once pronounced it a forgery, and from his remarkable collection of books relating to E. A. Poe he produced a small volume of 104 pages clad in green and gold, entitled The Fire-Fiend and other Poems, by Charles D. Gardette. Published in New York by Messrs. Bunce and Hartington in 1866. The book contains “The Fire-Fiend” and “Golgotha,” both written in imitation of E. A. Poe, and some poems entitled “War Echoes” and “Vagaries” of no particular interest. The account given of the origin of the hoax perpetrated on the public by the author of “The Fire-Fiend” is contained in the

PRE-NOTE.

“A few—and but a few—words of explanation seem appropriate here, with reference to the poem which gives title to this volume.

The “Fire-Fiend” was written some six years ago, in consequence of a literary discussion wherein it was asserted, that the marked originality of style, both as to conception and expression, in the poems of the late Edgar Allen (sic) Poe, rendered a successful imitation difficult even to impossibility. The author was challenged to produce a poem, in the manner of “The Raven,” which should be accepted by the general critic as a genuine composition of Mr. Poe’s, and the “Fire-Fiend” was the result.

This poem was printed as “from an unpublished MS. of the late Edgar A. Poe,” and the hoax proved sufficiently successful to deceive a number of critics in this country, and also in England where it was afterwards republished (by Mr. Macready, the tragedian), in the London Star, as an undoubted production of its soi-disant author.

The comments upon it by the various critics, professional and others, who accepted it as Mr. Poe’s, were too flattering to be quoted here, the more especially since, had the poem appeared simply as the composition of its real author, these 75 gentlemen would probably have been slow to discover in it the same merits. The true history of the poem, and its actual authorship, being thus succinctly given, there seems nothing further to be said, than to remain, very respectfully, the Reader’s humble servant,