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[page 1, column 5, continued:]
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THE
POETS & POETRY
OF PHILADELPHIA.
NUMBER II.
The Portraits engraved and the
biographies
written
expressly for the Philada. Saturday Museum.
Edgar Allan Poe.
For the materials of the present biography, we
are
indebted. . . . [[much text of the article here has been
omitted]]
. . . A second edition of the volume was published in Baltimore, by
Hatch
and Dunning, we believe in 1827 [[actually 1829]]; a third during the
author's
cadetship at West Point. Of these editions, the two first attracted but
little attention, on account of their slovenly printing and their modes
of publication — John Neal, however, whose judgment will not be
disputed,
said of them that "they put him in mind of no less a poet than
Shelley."
The critic quoted from "Al Aaraaf," in support of his opinion the
following: |
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SPIRIT'S INVOCATION.
Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue,
The boundary of the star,
That turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar —
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets, who were cast
From their pride, and from their throne
To be drudges till the last —
To be carriers of fire,
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire,
And with pain that shall not part —
Who livest — that we know —
In Eternity — we feel —
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
——
"Neath blue-bell, or streamer,
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer
The moonbeam away —
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half-closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like —— eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now —
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours!
And shake from your tresses,
Encumbered with dew,
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them, too —
(Oh! how without you, Love,
could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true love
That lulled you to rest:
Up! shake from your wings
All hindering things!
The dew of the night —
It will weigh down your flight,
And true love caresses —
Oh, leave them apart;
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
——
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
Say, is it thy will
On the breezes to toss,
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatross,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
LIGEIA, whatever
Thine image shall be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a deep dreamy sleep,
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep.
The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower —
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass,
Are the music of things,
But are modelled, alas!
Away then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray,
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the myriad star-isles
That enjewel its breast. |
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This we conceive
to be a truly wonderful poem to
have
emanated from the pen of a boy of fourteen. Ligeia, (a Greek word
signifying
canorous, or high-sounding,) is intended as a personification of Music,
and the picture, which we have italicised, of the Spirit soaring, is
surpassed
by no American poet. From "Al Aaraaf" we select only three more
passages;
and they might be quoted as gems even from Keats.
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Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
Silence, which is the merest word of all.
Here Nature speaks, and even ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings.
——
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain,
And hallow'd all the Beauty twice again,
Save, when between th' Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing:
Within the centre of this hall, to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath
The fairy light that kissed her golden hair,
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!
From the wild energy of wanton haste,
Her cheek was flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone, that clung around her gentle waist,
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Nyctanthes, too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night;
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth
And died ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart, in spirit to wing
Its way to heaven, from garden of a king;
And Valisnerian lotus thither flown,
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone;
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante,
Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats forever
With Indian Cupid down the Holy River.
[[. . . . ]]
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