Chapter VII: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (1)

Washington, D.C., June 30th, 1861.

Immediately after mailing my last to you, I secured a short
furlough, and proceeded to New York, to examine into the
affairs of that venerable committee which had offered a
prize of 500 dollars for the best National Hymn.

Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee
announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and
fifty “anthems!”

And all these “anthems” are rejected by the venerable
committee! But must they _all_, therefore, be lost to the
world? I hope not, my boy,――I hope not. Having some
acquaintance with the discriminating rag-merchant to whom
they were turned over as rejected, I have procured some of
the best, from which to quote for your special edification.

Imprimis, my boy, observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY H. W. L――――, OF CAMBRIDGE.

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens――
Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.
Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
Wildly he started――for there in the heavens before him
Fluttered and flew the original Star-Spangled Banner.

The committee have two objections to this: in the first
place, it is not an “anthem” at all; secondly, it is a gross
plagiarism from an old Scandinavian war-song of the primeval
ages.

Next, I present a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY THE HON. EDWARD E――――, OF BOSTON.

Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty’s poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple’s propylon was shattered;
Yet thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
To grease the “Hub” round which revolves the world.

This fine production is rather heavy for an “anthem,” and
contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly
national. To set such an “anthem” to music would require a
Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it
could only be whistled by the populace.

We now come to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY JOHN GREENLEAF W――――.

My native land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish――
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And should they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

The sectional bias of this “anthem” renders it unsuitable for
use in that small margin of the world situated outside of New
England. Hence the above must be rejected.

Here we have a very curious

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H――――.

A diagnosis of our hist’ry proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
Hyde Park at best――though counted ultra-grand――
The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land――

The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above,
after reading thus far; for such an “anthem” could only be
sung by a college of surgeons, or a Beacon-street tea-party.

Turn we now to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY RALPH WALDO E――――.

Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which abnormal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
To the stars blent incipient on our flag,
The beam translucent, neutrifying death;
And raise to immortality the rag.

This “anthem” was greatly praised by a celebrated German
scholar; but the committee felt obliged to reject it on
account of its too childish simplicity.

Here we have a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY WILLIAM CULLEN B――――.

The sun sinks softly to his evening post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
Yet not a star our flag of Heav’n has lost,
And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our country’s nobler planet glows
While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of “Yankee
Doodle,” the committee felt justified in declining it; being
furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the
poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits
into the first line.

Next we quote from a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY GEN. GEORGE P. M――――.

In the days that tried our fathers
Many years ago,
Our fair land achieved her freedom,
Blood-bought, you know.
Shall we not defend her ever
As we’d defend
That fair maiden, kind and tender,
Calling us friend?

Yes! Let all the echoes answer,
From hill and vale;
Yes! Let other nations, hearing,
Joy in the tale.
Our Columbia is a lady,
High-born and fair;
We have sworn allegiance to her――
Touch her who dare.

The tone of this “anthem” not being devotional enough to
suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of
linen-cambric handkerchiefs, for ladies especially.

Observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY N. P. W――――.

One hue of our flag is taken
From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,
And its stars beat time and sparkle
Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow
That hides in her dreamy eyes;
It conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.

Several members of the committee being pious, it is not
strange that this “anthem” has too much of the Anacreon spice
to suit them.

We next peruse a

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY THOMAS BAILEY A――――.

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs,
The dainty sunflower hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gaily springs.
I love the dainty sunflower too,
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all;――but I love――I love――
I love my country best.

This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like
Tennyson. Though it was rejected by the committee, it can
never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for
children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with
patriotism and natural history, besides touching the
youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.

Notice the following

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY R. H. STOD――――

Behold the flag! Is it not a flag?
Deny it, man, if you dare;
And midway spread, ’twixt earth and sky,
It hangs like a written prayer.

Would impious hand of foe disturb
Its memories’ holy spell,
And blight it with a dew of blood?
Ha, tr-r-aitor!! * * * It is well.

And this is the last of the rejected anthems I can quote
from at present, my boy, though several hundred pounds yet
remain untouched.
Yours, questioningly,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.

Longfellow has borrowed the refrain of “The Old Clock on the Stairs” from a phrase of Jacques Bridaine:――

“L’éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit
sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des
tombeaux: ‘Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!’”

“And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,――
‘For ever――never!
Never――for ever!’

“Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,――
‘For ever――never!
Never――for ever!’”

It is somewhat remarkable that such a poet as Charles Beaudelaire, the tone of whose writings is generally far removed from that of Longfellow, should so often have borrowed sentiments and ideas from him. Thus in “L’Horloge” he has two verses distinctly reminiscent of “The Old Clock”:――

“Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doight nous menace, et nous dit: _Souviens-toi!_
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton cœur, plein d’effroi,
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible.

* * * * *

“Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la seconde
Chuchote “_Souviens-toi!_”――Rapide avec sa voix
D’insecte, maintenant dit: Je suis autrefois,
Et j’ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!”

Another poem in “Les Fleurs du Mal” contains not only two verses appropriated from “A Psalm of Life,” but curiously weaves in with them a verse from Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Church-yard.” This piece of patchwork is entitled――

LE GUIGNON.

Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu’on ait du cœur à l’ouvrage,
L’Art est long, et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

―― Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l’oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

―― Maint fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.[1]

Beaudelaire himself admits that “Le Calumet de Paix” is an imitation of Longfellow, it is, in fact, a translation of _The Peace-Pipe_ in “The Song of Hiawatha,” and opens thus:――

“Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Le Puissant, descendit dans la verte prairie,
Dans l’immense prairie aux coteaux montueux;
Et là, sur les rochers de la Rouge Carrière,
Dominant tout l’espace et baigné de lumière,
Il se tenait debout, vaste et majestueux.”

The spirit of the original poem is fairly well rendered throughout, but the exigencies of French rhyme do not admit the versification of “Hiawatha.” Whilst on the topic of paraphrases, it might be asked whether Longfellow did not borrow his line――

“Tell me not in mournful numbers,”

from

“Singet nicht in Trauertönen,”

in Goethe’s _Wilhelm Meister_?”

It should have been mentioned that the parody quoted on page 88, Part VI., entitled “The Close of the Season,” originally appeared in _Punch_, August 8, 1868, under the title, “Flight,” also, that a political parody of “The Bridge” was contained in _Punch_, July 8, 1865.

Edgar Allan Poe.

eird, thrilling, and mysterious as are the poems and novels of this unfortunate man of genius, nothing that he ever wrote could call up the emotions of pity and regret more powerfully than the melancholy story of his own wayward career, and his sad and early death.

Much has recently been written about Poe, and no difficulty can be found in learning all that is known, with any certainty, of his singular career; but an impenetrable veil of mystery still obscures the record of several years of his life, in spite of all the research of his numerous biographers.

The name of Mr. John H. Ingram has long been associated with these investigations, and his pen has supplied biographical, and critical essays, to all the best modern editions of his works. Many of the following parodies are copied from the large collection formed by Mr. Ingram, and especial mention must here be made of the curious so-called “Spiritual Poems,” supposed to have been written by the shade of Poe, which will be referred to later on.

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, United States, on January 19, 1809. His parents, who were actors, died leaving him an orphan at an early age; he was adopted by a wealthy childless couple, of the name of Allan, by whom he was brought to England in 1816, and placed in a school at Stoke Newington. In 1821 he returned to the United States, and spent some years in desultory study and romantic rambles abroad, of which very little, that is reliable, is known.

At length his friends obtained a nomination for him to the West Point Military Academy, to which institution he was admitted as a cadet on July 1, 1830. But Poe soon took a dislike to a military career, and wilfully set the authorities at defiance, so that they had no option but to expel him. Having thus cast away all chance of an honourable career in the United States army, Poe returned to Richmond, to the house of his only friend and protector, Mr. Allan. But that gentleman, incensed at his conduct, would not receive him, and Poe was thus thrown penniless on the world.

He had already published a few poems, and now adopted the precarious profession of journalism, at which he laboured hard for several years, and then, with no settled income, still almost unknown, and with few prospects of an encouraging character, he was rash enough to marry his cousin, a girl but a little over fourteen years of age. This was in May, 1836; after a few years of struggling poverty and anxiety, his young wife broke a blood-vessel, and although she lingered on several years, it was as a doomed invalid, whose death was almost daily expected.

Poe was much attached to his wife, and having a highly strung sensitive nature, the grief and anxiety about her, unfitted him at times for all mental labour. On such occasions Poe had recourse to drink, thus adding new sorrow and fresh misery to his already darkened home. Yet, during this melancholy period of his life, Poe produced many of his wonderful tales of the imagination, and was maturing his finest poems.

His wife died early in 1846, and Poe, for a time, led a retired and solitary life; then he resumed his newspaper work, and his practice of lecturing on poetry and kindred topics. He was now fast making his way to a good position, his fame as a poet was rapidly spreading, his lecture engagements were remunerative, and it was rumoured that he was about to marry a wealthy widow.

With ordinary steadiness and application, a brilliant future awaited him, but his craving for drink proved fatal, although he struggled against it so far as to take the pledge of total abstinence. He started to visit New York, on business, and reached Baltimore on October 3, 1849, where it is supposed that he took some drugged whiskey, as he was found helpless in the streets. He was conveyed to the Washington University Hospital, where he died on the 7th of October, 1849.

Of his Poems, those which are the best known, and the most generally admired, are amongst the latest he produced. Thus, “The Raven,” which obtained a great and immediate success, was not published until early in 1845; “Eulalie,” in August, 1845; “Ulalume,” most musical, most melancholy of poems, appropriately appeared soon after his wife’s death.

“To my Mother” was addressed to his mother-in-law, and best friend, Mrs. Clemm, in 1849; “Eldorado” and “For Annie” came out in the same year; whilst the two very celebrated poems, “Annabel Lee” and “The Bells” were not published until after their author’s death.

All his poems have a melancholy tinge, and, unlike most modern American authors, Poe seems almost destitute of humour.

“The Raven” is at once the most characteristic and the most popular of his poems; it is also that which is most frequently selected for parody, or imitation. Many authors have also adopted the metre for serious poems, such as “The Gazelle” and “The Dove.” Poe wrote an ingenious and amusing account of the origin and growth of “The Raven.” The article is much too long, and too discursive, to give in full; but the following extracts contain its most important passages:――

THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.

* * * * *

Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree
of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while
not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I
conceived the proper _length_ for my intended poem――a length
of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and
eight.

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or
effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that,
throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the
design of rendering the work _universally_ appreciable. I
should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I
to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly
insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the
slightest need of demonstration――the point, I mean that
Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the Poem.

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question
referred to the _tone_ of its highest manifestation――and all
experience has shown that this tone is one of _sadness_.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development,
invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy
is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

These points being settled, I next bethought me of the
_nature_ of my _refrain_. Since its application was to be
repeatedly varied, it was clear that the _refrain_ itself
must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable
difficulty in frequent variations of application in any
sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the
sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the
variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best
_refrain_.

The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word.
Having made up my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the
poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary; the _refrain_
forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have
force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted
emphasis, admitted no doubt; and these considerations
inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous
vowel, in connection with _r_ as the most producible
consonant.

The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became
necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the
same time in the fullest possible keeping with that
melancholy which I had pre-determined as the tone of the
poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely
impossible to overlook the word “Nevermore.” In fact, it was
the very first which presented itself.

The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use
of the one word “Nevermore.” In observing the difficulty
which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible
reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to
perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the
pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or
monotonously spoken by _a human_ being――I did not fail to
perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the
reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason
on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then,
immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature
capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the
first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded
forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and
infinitely more in keeping with the intended _tone_.

I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven――the bird
of ill omen――monotonously repeating the one word,
“Nevermore,” at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of
melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now,
never losing sight of the object _supremeness_, or
perfection, at all points, I asked myself――“Of all
melancholy topics, what, according to the _universal_
understanding of mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?”
Death――was the obvious reply. “And when,” I said, “is this
most melancholy of topics most poetical?” From what I have
already explained at some length, the answer here also is
obvious――“When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_:
the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably,
the most poetical topic in the world――and equally is it
beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are
those of a bereaved lover.”

I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his
deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the
word, “Nevermore.” I had to combine these, bearing in mind
my design of varying, at every turn, the _application_ of
the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such
combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the
word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was
that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect
on which I had been depending――that is to say, the effect of
the _variation of application_. I saw that I could make the
first query propounded by the lover――the first query to
which the Raven should reply “Nevermore” that I could make
this first query a commonplace one――the second less so――the
third still less, and so on――until at length the lover,
startled from his original _nonchalance_ by the melancholy
character of the word itself――by its frequent repetition――and
by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl
that uttered it――is at length excited to superstition, and
wildly propounds queries of a far different character――queries
whose solution he has passionately at heart――propounds them
half in superstition, and half in that species of despair
which delights in self-torture――propounds them not
altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac
character of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely
repeating a lesson learned by rote) but because he
experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his
questions as to receive from the _expected_ “Nevermore” the
most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow.
Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me――or, more
strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the
construction I first established in mind the climax, or
concluding query――that query to which “Nevermore” should be
in the last place an answer――that query in reply to which
this word “Nevermore” should involve the utmost conceivable
amount of sorrow and despair.

Here, then, the poem may be said to have its beginning――at
the end, where all works of art should begin――for it was
here, at this point of my preconsiderations, that I first
put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:――

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil! prophet still if bird or
devil!
By that heaven that bends above us――by the God we both
adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name
Lenore――
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore,”

* * * * *

THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,――
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door,――
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;――vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow,――sorrow for the lost Lenore,――
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,――
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me――filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,――
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer:
“Sir,” said I, “or, madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you,”――here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,――
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;――
’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,――
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,――
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no
craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,――
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,――
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast, and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,――
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never――nevermore.’”

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and
door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er
_She_ shall press, ah! nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch!” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee――by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite――respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!――prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted――
On this home by Horror haunted――tell me truly, I implore,
Is there――_is_ there balm in Gilead?――tell me――tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!――prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us――by that God we both adore――
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore――
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
upstarting,
“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted――nevermore!

――――――――

At the time when Poe produced “The Raven” he was editor of “The Broadway Journal,” published in New York. The first number appeared on January 4, 1845, and in the number for April 26, 1845, Poe inserted the following editorial note, which shows that he was not averse to a parody of even his own most grave and solemn poem:――

A GENTLE PUFF.

“If we copied into our Journal all the complimentary notices
that are bestowed upon us, it would contain hardly anything
besides; the following done into poetry is probably the only
one of the kind that we shall receive, and we extract it from
our neighbour, the New World, for the sake of its uniqueness.”

Then with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had borne
him lately,
Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing floor;
As he passed the COURIER’S Colonel, then I saw THE BROADWAY
JOURNAL,
In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore,
And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly through
the door,
As if he pondered, evermore.

With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care beguiling,
Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and broad
claymore,
And with gallant presence dashing, ’mid his confreres stoutly
clashing,
He unpityingly went slashing, as he keenly scanned them o’er,
And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant presence bore,
As might awe them, evermore.

Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him
bleeding,
Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor;
While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor
lacking,
On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o’er,
As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion proudly bore,
Resisting error, evermore.

――――――――

C. C. Cooke, a young Virginian poet, who died at a very early age, also wrote “The Gazelle,” a poem of which Poe said “Although professedly an imitation, has a very great deal of original power.”

This was headed:――

“The following, from our new-found boy poet of fifteen years
of age, shows a most happy faculty of imitation”:――

THE GAZELLE.
(_After the manner of Poe’s “Raven.”_)

Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad
soul pondering,
Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time’s
ever-swinging bell,
While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the
fountain,
By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet
dell;
Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well.”

From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising,
Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded
knell,
Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice so
spell-like bound me,
While that voice so spell-like bound me――searching in that
tranquil dell,
Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his dimly-lighted
cell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”

Then I stooped once more, and drinking, heard once more the
silvery tinkling,
Of that dim mysterious utterance, like some fairy harp of
shell――
Struck by hand of woodland fairy, from her shadowy home and
airy,
In the purple clouds and airy, floating o’er that mystic
dell,
And from my sick soul its music seemed all evil to expel,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”

Then my book at once down flinging, from my reverie up
springing,
Searched I through the forest, striving my vain terror to
dispel,
All things to my search subjecting, not a bush or tree
neglecting,
When behind a rock projecting, saw I there a white gazelle,
And that soft and silvery murmur, in my ear so slowly fell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well!”

From its eye so mildly beaming, down its cheek a tear was
streaming,
As though in its gentle bosom dwelt some grief it could not
quell,
Still those words articulating, still that sentence ever
prating,
And my bosom agitating as upon my ear it fell,
That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a potent
spell,
Merely uttering, “Fare thee well!”

Then I turned, about departing, when she from her covert
starting,
Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony to swell,
And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit seeming,
To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel.
But, oh! that which followed after――listen while the tale I
tell――
Of that snow-white, sweet gazelle.

With her dark eye backward turning, as if some mysterious
yearning
In her soul to me was moving, which she could not thence
expel,
Through the tangled thicket flying, while I followed panting,
sighing,
All my soul within me dying, faintly on my hearing fell,
Echoing mid the rocks and mountains rising round that fairy
dell,
Fare thee, fare thee, fare thee well!

Now at length she paused and laid her, underneath an ancient
cedar,
When the shadowy shades of silence, from the day departing
fell,
And I saw that she was lying, trembling, fainting, weeping,
_dying_,
And I could not keep from sighing, nor from my sick soul
expel
The memory that those dark eyes raised――of my long lost
Isabel.
_Why_, I could not, _could_ not tell.

Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear ’tis
ringing,
And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed sweet
gazelle,
Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses flowing,
On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus’ mystic cell
Saw I in that seraph’s beauty, semblance of my Isabel,
Gently whispering, ‘Fare thee well!’”

“Glorious one,” I cried, upspringing, “art thou joyful tidings
bringing,
From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel?
Shall thy coming leave no token? Shall there no sweet word be
spoken?
Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell?
Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, but that fatal, ‘Fare thee
well!’”
Still it answered, ‘Fare thee well!’”

“Speak! oh, speak to me bright being! I am blest thy form in
seeing,
But shall no sweet whisper tell, me,――tell me that thou lovest
still?
Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or token given,
With no whispered token given――that thou still dost love me
well?
Give it, give it now, I pray thee――here within this blessed
dell,
Still that hated ‘Fare thee well.’”

Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence pressing,
With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to compel,
And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes
upraising,
To the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my Isabel,
Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the white
gazelle,
_Faintly whispering_, “Fare thee well!”
C.
_Evening Mirror_, New York, April 29, 1845.

――――――――

THE WHIPPOORWILL.

* * * * *

In the wilderness benighted, lo! at last my guide alighted
On a lowly little cedar that o’erspread a running rill;
Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly fluttered,
Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless wonder still;
“Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore me still?
Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill!

Soon beneath him, as he hover’d, by the starlight I discovered
That his gentle mate was lying on the dead leaves, dead and still:――
“Then,” said I, “he _did_ implore me, in my chamber flitting o’er me,
Flitting to and fro before me, to avert some fearful ill;――
With prophetic instinct surely, he entreated human skill
To save the dying Whippoorwill.”

* * * * *

O’er the lifeless bird then kneeling, all his grief within me feeling,
And my soul within me moving all its longing to fulfil,
On her velvet wing I laid her, in a grave my hands had made her,
Underneath the little cedar, and beside the running rill:――
Odorous leaves her shroud and pillow, and her dirge the running rill――
Buried I the Whippoorwill.

* * * * *

_Evening Mirror_, New York, May 30, 1845.

This somewhat dull imitation consists of twenty-four verses in all, the extracts sufficiently indicate its style. The numerous parodies to be found in the American papers as early as 1845 attest how rapidly “The Raven” had acquired popularity.

――――――――

The following clever parody appeared originally in “Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac” for 1853, but it was reproduced in “The Piccadilly Annual,” published in 1870 by John Camden Hotten. The parody was written by Robert Brough, and was most humorously illustrated by H. G. Hine:――

THE VULTURE:
AN ORNITHOLOGICAL STUDY.
(_After the late Edgar A. Poe._)

The Vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of birds of prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for the tenacity with which he invariably clings to the victim on whom he has fixed his gripe. He is not to be shaken off whilst the humblest pickings remain. He is usually to be found in an indifferent state of feather.――_New Translation of Cuvier._

Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling
O’er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then out-skipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door.
“’Tis the second floor,” I mutter’d, “flipping at my chambers door――
Wants a light――and nothing more!”

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore;
Falt’ringly I stirr’d the gruel, steaming, creaming o’er the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden’d nostril bore――
Nameless here for evermore!

And I recollect a certain draught that fann’d the window curtain
Chill’d me, fill’d me with the horror of two steps across the floor,
And, besides, I’d got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in,
To myself I sat repeating――“If I answer to the door――
Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door,
I’ll be ――――” that and something more.

Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!――your forgiveness I implore,
Such an observation letting slip, but when a man’s just getting
Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door,
Making such a row, forgetting”――Spoke a voice beyond the door:
“’Tisn’t Johnson”――nothing more!

Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered “Dammy!”
(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before)
Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking,
On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor,
Fix’d――and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor,
Look’d and groan’d, and nothing more.

Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp’d a hated mortal,
By the moderns call’d a VULTURE (known as _Sponge_ in days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation――
Scarce a nod of salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor;
Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor,
Help’d himself, and took some more!

Then this hungry beast untiring fix’d his gaze with fond admiring
On a piece of cold boil’d beef, I meant to last a week or more,
Quick he set to work devouring――plates, in quick succession, scouring――
Stout with every mouthful show’ring――made me ask, to see it pour,
If he quite enjoy’d his supper, as I watch’d the liquid pour;
Said the Vulture “Never more.”

Much disgusted at the spacious _vacuum_ by this brute voracious
Excavated in the beef――(he’d eaten quite enough for four)――
Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door――
“Going? well, I won’t detain you――mind the stairs and shut the door――――”
“Leave you, Tomkins!――never more.”

Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping
All his life――I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more――
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing,
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore,
Ask’d what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore
Meant in croaking “Never more?”

But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying
Sev’ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, fill’d the kettle; and with a _sang froid_ to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!

Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he’d find my door
Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door
He would pass, p’raps never more!

Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco――this was worse than all before;
“Smith!” I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been
expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor);
“Recollect it’s after midnight, _are_ you going?――mind the floor.”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”

“Smith!” I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers
flowing),
“If you want a bed, you know there’s quite a nice hotel next door,
Very cheap. I’m ill――and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before,
Really, you should not compel one――_Will_ you mizzle――as before?”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”

“Smith!” I cried, “that joke repeating merits little better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore.
Drop it, pray, it isn’t funny; I’ve to mix some rum and honey――
If you want a little money, take some and be off next door;
Run a bill up for me if you like, but _do_ be off next door.”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”

“Smith!” I shriek’d――the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler
I beheld him mix, “be off! you drive me mad――it’s striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door――
_Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!_”
Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!”

And the Vulture never flitting――still is sitting, still is sitting,
Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score;
And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding,
The new carpet’s tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor.
And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor,
Shall be sifted never more!

――――――――

THE TANKARD.

Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December,
Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time
enhances――
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,――
Aims to which I should aspire.

As I sat thus wond’ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I traced――
Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but care and
sadness,――
Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery’s hand effaced,――
Forms which Venus’ self had graced.

Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came a knocking,
Loud and furious,――such a rat-tat never had I heard before;
Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my mouth upleaping,
Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I “What a bore!”
Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I, “What a bore!”
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”

At this solemn warning trembling, some short time I stood
dissembling,
Till again the iron knocker beat its summons ’gainst the door,
Then, the oak wide open throwing, stood I on the threshold bowing――
Bows such as, save motley tumbler, mortal never bowed before,
Bows which even Mr. Flexmore never yet had tried before.
Said the echo, “Pay your score!”

Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round the dreary
landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the very floor;
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which that night I’d
drank hard,――
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days of yore.
In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had stood before,
Stood and muttered, “Pay your score!”

Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne’er in past or future
Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard learned in lore?
Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more immensely
When it added, “Come old boy, you’ve many a promise made before,
False they were as John O’Connell’s who would ‘die upon the floor.’
Now for once――come, pay your score!”

From my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard darting
With one furious hurl I flung it down before the porter’s door;
But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-same knocking,
And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as before,――
Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat before,――
Sitting, crying, “Pay your score!”

And the Tankard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the very self-same corner where it sat in days of yore:
And its pewter still is shining, and it bears the frothy lining,
Which the night when first I drained its cooling beverage it bore,
But my mouth that frothy lining never, never tasted more,
Since it muttered, “Pay your score!”
EDMUND H. YATES.
_Mirth and Metre_, 1855.

――――――――
THE PARROT.
_By Edgardo Pooh._

Once, as through the streets I wandered, and o’er many a fancy
pondered,
Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my mind of yore,――
Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a man I tumbled,
Who, beneath a sailor’s jacket, something large and heavy bore.
“Beg your pardon, sir!” I muttered, as I rose up, hurt and sore;
But the sailor only swore.

Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore!
But, in fact, my sense was napping――――” then the sailor answered,
rapping
Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the score,――
Answered he, “Come, hold your jaw!

“May my timbers now be shivered――” oh, at this my poor heart
quivered,――
“If you don’t beat any parson that I ever met before!
You’ve not hurt me; stow your prosing”――then his huge peacoat
unclosing,
Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he
bore,――
Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore,
Which at once drew corks and swore.

Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass and red as carrot,
Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sentences a score;
And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so intensely,
That I bid for it at once; and when I showed of gold my store,
Instantly the sailor sold it; mine it was, and his no more;
Mine it was for evermore.

Prouder was I of this bargain, e’en than patriotic Dargan,
When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the threshold of his
door;――
Surely I had gone demented――surely I had sore repented,
Had I known the dreadful misery which for me Fate had in store,――
Known the fearful, awful misery which for me Fate had in store,
Then, and now, and evermore!

Scarcely to my friends I’d shown it, when (my mother’s dreadful
groan!――it
Haunts me even now!) the parrot from his perch began to pour
Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. Ainsworth teaches――
Us were uttered by highway men and rapparees of yore!――
By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees of yore;
But which now are heard no more.

And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind――It was surprising,
That this favourite son, who’d never, never so transgressed before,
Should have brought a horrid, screaming――nay, e’en worse than
that――blaspheming
Bird within that pure home circle――bird well learned in wicked lore!
While he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a horrid bore,
Cried out “Cuckoo!” barked, and swore.

And since then what it has cost me,――all the wealth and friends it’s
lost me,
All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my bosom’s core,
Can’t be mentioned in these verses; till, at length, my heartfelt
curses
Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er――
Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned me o’er,
Laughed, drew several corks, and swore.

“Parrot!” said I, “bird of evil! parrot still, or bird or devil!
By the piper who the Israelitish leader played before,
I will stand this chaff no longer! We will see now which is stronger.
Come, now,――off! Thy cage is open――free thou art, and there’s the
door!
Off at once, and I’ll forgive thee;――take the hint, and leave my
door.”
But the parrot only swore.

And the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the very self-same perch where first he sat in days of yore;
And his only occupations seem acquiring imprecations
Of the last and freshest fashion, which he picks up by the score;
Picks them up, and, with the greatest _gusto_, bawls them by the
score,
And will swear for evermore.

_Our Miscellany_ (which ought to have come out, but didn’t), by E. H. Yates and R. B. Brough, 1856.

――――――――

THE CAT-FIEND.
(_An Original Adaptation._)

On a bleak evening of December I sat alone in my gloomy chambers and brooded over the past. I had sought in vain to turn the current of my thoughts by plunging into metaphysical researches: _Watts on the Mind_ lay open, but unheeded, beside me. Never had the apartment worn so ghostly an aspect. My lamp threw a fitful gleam upon the sumptuous but sombre furniture; the fire was expiring, yet I lacked energy to put on more coals. If I had been expiring myself I should have hated the man who put coals upon me.

The chief object of my memories was a young person to whom I had formerly been attached. I dwelt fondly, but bitterly, upon the day when my LEONORA, accompanied by her vulgar and intrusive mother, had brightened my dingy rooms in ――――’s Inn with her presence to tea, previous to visiting Drury Lane Theatre. That was all over now; LEONORA married into the city and left me desolate. I am not even acquainted with her present name; but it fills me with despondency to think that her graceful form will never again press the velvet lining of my quaintly carved arm-chair.

While I sat buried in my sad reflections, it seemed as though there came a soft rapping at my outer door. It was growing so late that I made my mind up to disregard the summons. “It is only BRIGGS,” I murmured; “if I admit him he will weary me with platitudes until the dawn. Or it is POTTER, perchance, advanced in liquor, I will none of him.”

At this point the rapping was renewed more loudly. My resolution suddenly changed, and I resolved that I would explore the mystery. Making my way to the door I flung it wide open. The landing was in darkness; no voice gave answer to my challenge, and, feeling a little nervous, I slammed the door and went back to my arm-chair by the fire.

Weird――ghastly――inscrutable――was the apparition that awaited me! Stretched upon the hearth-rug at my feet lay a large cat of ebon blackness, glaring at me with a pair of wild eyes in which anger was mingled with an expression of diabolical sarcasm. The blood curdled in my veins; I seized the poker and yelled, “Get out, beast! How dare you come in here? Go away directly, or――――!”

The lips of the animal opened and pronounced slowly and solemnly the words “_Never no more!_”

My hair stood on end, and the poker fell from my grasp.

“Horrible being!” I cried;――“fearful and ungrammatical being leave me, and return to darkness and the Stygian shore.”

“_Never no more!_” said the brute: “I’ve come to stay for ever.”

“Nonsense, monster; you are insane,” I shouted.

“Fact, I assure you,” replied my tormentor;――“they hadn’t got no raven handy, and so they sent _me_. It’s about the LEONORA business.”

“Ah, that name! Tell me, I implore you, tell me――is she a widow yet? May I hope? Shall I again behold her?”

“_Never no more!_”

This was too much. I ran and threw the door open again――came back――firmly grasped the poker, and――――

But the beast had sought refuge under the sofa. Thence it retreated beneath my table, and thence under the arm-chair. Round and round the apartment I chased it vainly. Its demoniac laugh thrilled me with rage and horror.