the works of edgar allan poe-5-第28章
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and depression。 After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry； there
follows； inevitably； a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgment
can force us to admire； but if； upon completing the work； we read it
again； omitting the first book that is to say； commencing with the
second we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we
before condemned that damnable which we had previously so much admired。
It follows from all this that the ultimate； aggregate； or absolute effect
of even the best epic under the sun； is a nullity： and this is
precisely the fact。
In regard to the Iliad； we have； if not positive proof； at least very
good reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics； but； granting
the epic intention； I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect
sense of art。 The modem epic is； of the supposititious ancient model； but
an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation。 But the day of these artistic
anomalies is over。 If； at any time； any very long poem _were _popular in
reality； which I doubt； it is at least clear that no very long poem will
ever be popular again。
That the extent of a poetical work is； _ceteris paribus； _the measure
of its merit； seems undoubtedly； when we thus state it； a proposition
sufficiently absurd yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
Reviews。 Surely there can be nothing in mere _size； _abstractly considered
there can be nothing in mere _bulk； so _far as a volume is concerned；
which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturnine
pamphlets！ A mountain； to be sure； by the mere sentiment of physical
magnitude which it conveys； _does _impress us with a sense of the sublime
but no man is impressed after _this _fashion by the material grandeur
of even 〃The Columbiad。〃 Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be
so impressed by it。 As _yet； _they have not _insisted _on our estimating
Lamar〃 tine by the cubic foot； or Pollock by the pound but what else
are we to _infer _from their continual plating about 〃sustained effort〃？
If； by 〃sustained effort；〃 any little gentleman has accomplished an epic；
1* us frankly commend him for the effort if this indeed be a thing conk
mendablebut let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account。 It
is to be hoped that common sense； in the time to come； will prefer
deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes by the
effect it produces than by the time it took to impress the effect； or
by the amount of 〃sustained effort〃 which had been found necessary in
effecting the impression。 The fact is； that perseverance is one thing and
genius quite another nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom
confound them。 By and by； this proposition； with many which I have been
just urging； will be received as self…evident。 In the meantime； by being
generally condemned as falsities； they will not be essentially damaged as
truths。
On the other hand； it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief。
Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism。 A very short poem；
while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid； never produces a
profound or enduring effect。 There must be the steady pressing down of the
stamp upon the wax。 De Beranger has wrought innumerable things； pungent
and spirit…stirring； but in general they have been too imponderous to
stamp themselves deeply into the public attention； and thus； as so many
feathers of fancy； have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the
wind。
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a
poem； in keeping it out of the popular view； is afforded by the following
exquisite little Serenade
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night；
When the winds are breathing low；
And the stars are shining bright。
I arise from dreams of thee；
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me who knows how？
To thy chamber…window； sweet！
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream；
The nightingale's complaint；
It dies upon her heart；
As I must die on shine；
O； beloved as thou art！
O； lift me from the grass！
I die； I faint； I fail！
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale。
My cheek is cold and white； alas！
My heart beats loud and fast：
O； press it close to shine again；
Where it will break at last。
Very few perhaps are familiar with these linesyet no less a poet
than Shelley is their author。 Their warm； yet delicate and ethereal
imagination will be appreciated by all； but by none so thoroughly as by
him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night。
One of the finest poems by Willis the very best in my opinion which
he has ever writtenhas no doubt； through this same defect of undue
brevity； been kept back from its proper position。 not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway；
'Twas near the twilight…tide
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride。
Alone walk'd she； but； viewlessly；
Walk'd spirits at her side。
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet；
And Honor charm'd the air；
And all astir looked kind on her；
And called her good as fair
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care。
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true
For heart was cold to all but gold；
And the rich came not to won；
But honor'd well her charms to sell。
If priests the selling do。
Now walking there was one more fair
A slight girl； lily…pale；
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn；
And nothing could avail。
No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world's peace to pray
For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air；
Her woman's heart gave way！
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway！
In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who
has written so many mere 〃verses of society。〃 The lines are not only
richly ideal； but full of energy； while they breathe an earnestness； an
evident sincerity of sentiment； for which we look in vain throughout all
the other works of this author。
While the epic mania； while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity
is indispensable； has for some years past been gradually dying out of the
public mind； by mere dint of its own absurdity； we find it succeeded by a
heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated； but one which； in the
brief period it has already endured； may be said to have accomplished more
in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies
combined。 I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic。 _It has been assumed；
tacitly and avowedly； directly and indirectly； that the ultimate object of
all Poetry is Truth。 Every poem； it is said； should inculcate a morals and
by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged。 We
Americans especially have patronized this happy idea； and we Bostonians
very especially have developed it in full。 We have taken it into our heads
that to write a poem simply for the poem's sake； and to acknowledge such
to have been our design； would be to confess ourselves radically wanting
in the true poetic dignity and force：but the simple fact is that would
we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediately
there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor _can _exist any
work more thoroughly dignified； more supremely noble； than this very poem；
this poem _per se； _this poem which is a poem and nothing more； this poem
written solely for the poem's sake。
With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of
man； I would nevertheless limit； in some measure； its modes of
inculcation。 I would limit to enforce them。 I would not enfeeble them by
dissipation。 The demands of Truth are severe。 She has no sympathy with the
myrtles。 All _that _which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all
_that _with which _she _has nothing whatever to do。 It is but making he
