the works of edgar allan poe-5-第30章
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Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies。
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care；
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer。
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice；
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice。
And the night shall be filled with music；
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs；
And as silently steal away。
With no great range of imagination； these lines have been justly
admired for their delicacy of expression。 Some of the images are very
effective。 Nothing can be better than
… the bards sublime；
Whose distant footsteps echo
Down the corridors of Time。
The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective。 The poem on the
whole； however； is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance _of
its metre； so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments； and
especially for the _ease _of the general manner。 This 〃ease〃 or
naturalness； in a literary style； it has long been the fashion to regard
as ease in appearance aloneas a point of really difficult attainment。
But not so：a natural manner is difficult only to him who should never
meddle with itto the unnatural。 It is but the result of writing with the
understanding； or with the instinct； that _the tone； _in composition；
should always be that which the mass of mankind would adoptand must
perpetually vary； of course； with the occasion。 The author who； after the
fashion of 〃The North American Review；〃 should be upon _all _occasions
merely 〃quiet；〃 must necessarily upon _many _occasions be simply silly； or
stupid； and has no more right to be considered 〃easy〃 or 〃natural〃 than a
Cockney exquisite； or than the sleeping Beauty in the waxworks。
Among the minor poems of Bryant； none has so much impressed me as the one
which he entitles 〃June。〃 I quote only a portion of it：
There； through the long； long summer hours；
The golden light should lie；
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by。
The oriole should build and tell
His love…tale； close beside my cell；
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there； and there be heard
The housewife…bee and humming bird。
And what； if cheerful shouts at noon；
Come； from the village sent；
Or songs of maids； beneath the moon；
With fairy laughter blent？
And what if； in the evening light；
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument？
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound。
I know； I know I should not see
The season's glorious show；
Nor would its brightness shine for me；
Nor its wild music flow；
But if； around my place of sleep；
The friends I love should come to weep；
They might not haste to go。
Soft airs and song； and the light and bloom；
Should keep them lingering by my tomb。
These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thoughts of what has been；
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene；
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills；
Is that his grave is green；
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice。
The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuousnothing could be more
melodious。 The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner。 The
intense melancholy which seems to well up； perforce； to the surface of all
the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave； we find thrilling us to the
soulwhile there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill。 The
impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness。 And if； in the remaining
compositions which I shall introduce to you； there be more or less of a
similar tone always apparent； let me remind you that （how or why we know
not） this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the
higher manifestations of true Beauty。 It is； nevertheless；
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain；
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain。
The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
of brilliancy and spirit as 〃The Health〃 of Edward Coate Pinckney：
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone；
A woman； of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon；
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair that； like the air；
'Tis less of earth than heaven。
Her every tone is music's own；
Like those of morning birds；
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words；
The coinage of her heart are they；
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose。
Affections are as thoughts to her；
The measures of her hours；
Her feelings have the flagrancy；
The freshness of young flowers；
And lovely passions； changing oft；
So fill her； she appears
The image of themselves by turns；
The idol of past years！
Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain；
And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain；
But memory； such as mine of her；
So very much endears；
When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's； but hers。
I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone；
A woman； of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon
Her health！ and would on earth there stood；
Some more of such a frame；
That life might be all poetry；
And weariness a name。
It was the misfortune of Mr。 Pinckney to have been born too far south。
Had he been a New Englander； it is probable that he would have been ranked
as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so
long controlled the destinies of American Letters； in conducting the thing
called 〃The North American Review。〃 The poem just cited is especially
beautiful； but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly
to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm。 We pardon his hyperboles for the
evident earnestness with which they are uttered。
It was by no means my design； however； to expatiate upon the _merits
_of what I should read you。 These will necessarily speak for themselves。
Boccalini； in his 〃Advertisements from Parnassus；〃 tells us that Zoilus
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book：
whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work。 He replied
that he only busied himself about the errors。 On hearing this； Apollo；
handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat； bade him pick out _all the chaff
_for his reward。
Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the criticsbut I am by
no means sure that the god was in the right。 I am by no means certain that
the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood。
Excellence； in a poem especially； may be considered in the light of an
axiom； which need only be properly _put； _to become self…evident。 It is
_not _excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such：and thus to
point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art； is to admit that
they are _not _merits altogether。
Among the 〃Melodies〃 of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished
character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view。
I allude to his lines beginning 〃Come； rest in this bosom。〃 The intense
energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron。 There
are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the
_all in all _of the divine passion of Love a sentiment which； perhaps；
has found its echo in more； and in more passionate； human hearts than any
other single sentiment ever embodied in words：
Come； rest in this bosom； my own stricken deer
Though the herd have fled from thee； thy home is still here；
Here still is the smile； that no cloud can o'ercast；
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last。
Oh！ what was love made for； if 'tis not the same
Through joy and through torment； through glory and shame？
I know not； I ask not； if guilt's in that heart；
I but know that I love thee； whatever thou art。
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss；
And thy Ange
