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MR. POE'S LAST POEM.
Edgar A. Poe Esq., who died in Baltimore, on the 7th inst., was one of the most remarkable of the literary men of the United States. He was a native of Baltimore, had enjoyed unusual advantages of education, and left many poems and fugitive prose pieces of marked genius. With considerable capacity for continued mental labor, he yet produced no great works on which to build his name; and the consequence is that in fifty years his reputation, like that of Denay, will be merely traditionary. The characteristic of his mind was its wonderful analytical power. This was the great secret of his literary success. He would take a great poem mentally to pieces, just as a mechanician would take to pieces a watch, and thus learn, like the artisan, how to construct a similar one. We were associated together, in 1842, in editing “Graham's Magazine;” and we speak from observation, therefore, when we describe the manner in which he produced his prose and poetical articles. His wonderful poem of “The Raven” was evidently thus written. His analytical faculty rendered him also a superior critic, and when not prejudiced, no man was his equal as a reviewer. But, though not mercenary Mr. Poe had strong likings and antipathies, which always colored his criticisms, and which, unfortunately for his consistency, frequently led him to censure and praise the same person at different times. In his private life, his sensibility, joined with many misfortunes, rendered him eminently unhappy; we think we never knew a man to whom life was so little of a pleasure. Over whatever follies he had, or may have been charged with, however, we draw a veil. The dead are sacred.
We quote below a poem by Mr. Poe, probably one of the last he ever wrote. It appears in Sartain's Magazine for November, and when analyzed, renders fully evident his manner of composition. The subject is a trite one, nor are the thoughts themselves fresh, yet with what novelty and art they are handled! No man indeed could make so much out of a subject as Mr. Poe. The wild and irregular style of the verse in the following poem; the skill with which the author avails himself of the subtle force that lies sometimes in the reiteration of a word; and many other peculiarities, none the result of chance, but all of the most careful thought, prove Mr. Poe to have been the greatest master of the mere art of composition, which this country, or perhaps this century, has produced.
THE BELLS.
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Hear the sledges with the bells —
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! —
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! — how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells —
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now — now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair! [column 2:]
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet [[Yes]], the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells —
Of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people — ah, the people —
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone —
They are neither man nor woman —
They are neither brute nor human —
They are Ghouls: —
And their king it is who tolls: —
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells —
Of the bells: —
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells —
To the sobbing of the bells: —
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells: —
To the tolling of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
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Notes:
As evident from the fact that this issue of October 20, 1849 reprints a poem from the November issue of Sartain's, monthly magazines were typically available about the middle of the month prior to the assigned imprint month. This patter was true at least for the better run magazines.
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[S:0 - MMAC (photograph), 1849] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Bookshelf - Mr. Poe's Last Poem (C. J. Peterson, 1849)