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Poetry.
For the Spectator.
EDGAR A. POE.
MESSRS. EDITORS:
The following lines, written by EDGAR A. POE, were copied from the fly-leaf of a music book, belonging to a lady of Richmond. I have every reason to believe that they are genuine, as they were in his hand-writing, and over the initials of E. A. P. Of their merit I have nothing to say — but they evidently bear the stamp of the morbid temper of the poet.
CHIPS.
——
To Irene.
Thou wert alone — thy harp was mute,
And grief was written on thy face;
A sigh, it's tell-tale attribute,
Stole softly from its native place.
Why fade the roses from thy brow?
Art thou, too, wedded unto woe?
It is too true — thou grievest now,
And scalding tears profusely flow.
’Tis so with me: my journey past
Has been o’er thorns of toil and grief;
My hours of youth were overcast,
Tears blotted Fate's mysterious leaf.
I never lov’d or garner’d up
A little bliss, but what some power
Would dash away the sweeten’d cup,
Or blight and crush the cherish’d flower.
My heart's a charnel house, where sleep
The bones of hopes, once fondly cherish’d,
What have I now to do, but weep
And groan o’er pleasures long since perish’d?
What — but to laugh when thou dost sigh?
What — but to gloat o’er one so fair,
Whose glad star once shone proudly high,
Only to set in dark despair?
Weep on, weep on — thy hot tears flow
Like blood-drops oozing from the heart;
We’ve laugh’d together — now of woe
Thou, surely, must receive thy part.
Together we will riot in
The carnival of sighs and tears,
Hugging the hooded form of Sin
That haunts the tomb of perish’d years.
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Notes:
“Chips” was a pseudonym used by John Hill Hewitt.
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[S:0 - SS, 1869] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Doubtful - To Irene (Thou wert alone ...)