to become believers in the sanguine theories of those, who prophesy so much future enjoyment of well-regulated freedom. for the people of America, when we turn our attention to the fearless independence of this poet, which comes bursting forth in a torrent of words, appropriately graphic, and patriotically suggestive; and we regret that space prohibits us from dwelling any longer on the beauties of one, who presents such a worthy type of the genius and patriotism of America, as evinced by the fire and beauty of his numerous lyrics, to which we earnestly direct the attention of the reader.

The poetry of one of the most extraordinary writers, of his own, or of any other country, is now before us; with the marvellous prose productions of Edgar Allan Poe, so eminently characterized by originality, acuteness, and ingenuity, we have nothing to do. We shall therefore confine ourselves to a consideration of his poetical efforts. Poe is, indeed, a most sad instance of unfortunate genius. Gifted with an intellect of the loftiest, and the most vigorous order, naturally endowed with a physical constitution, which would have warranted him in undertaking the most weighty and stupendous labors to which the intellect can be subjected, he has not only abstained from the adequate exercise of such powers, but he has over and over again, placed the most effectual barriers against the realization of any important achievement, by habits of the most abandoned depravity. "That seductive besetment," as he termed the disposition to exceed in intoxicating drinks, was the ruin of Poe; but for it, he might have completely eclipsed all his cotemporaries, and left his successors such evidences of gigantic intellect, as would tax their united energies to equal. It is hardly credible that one so highly gifted as Poe, and embued with such a sensitive love for the beautiful, could by any combination of circumstances be induced to enter into a systematised habit of the very lowest order of vice. Yet, so it was, whether from defective moral training, or an irresistible tendency of his constitution, is a mystery, and his case furnishes the world with one of the most awful and solemn warnings to genius, to which it has ever been its lot to listen. Limited as it is in space, the poetry of Poe is characterized by the most extraordinary and admirable evidences of imaginative power, consistent developement of idea, unprecedented sway over language, and wonderful melody

C

in rythm. There never yet was a poet who has evinced more capability in investing his subjects with fascinating mystery, or in sustaining his extraordinary ideas with more apposite skill.

In perusing the slender stock of poems which he has given to the world, we cannot help experiencing the most poignant regret, that he, who could mould these perfect forms of art, and endow them with such vitality, has not left us more extended evidences of his genius, that he has not achieved those sublime triumphs which must necessarily have been his reward, had not the baleful influence of some hidden cause presented insuperable obstacles to the activity of his genius.

The well known poem of "The Raven," offers an exemplification sufficiently convincing of the peculiar magnitude and mysterious grandeur of Poe's poetry; and also, exhibits in a manner quite unmistakeable, the identity between the author and his subject, which marks almost all Poe's efforts in verse, and which assimilates his poetry, in this respect, to that of Byron. The extraordinary peculiarity of Poe's intellect, will be more apparent to the reader, unacquainted with his productions, when he learns that "The Raven," from which we shall subsequently extract, is the result, according to the author's declaration, of a synthetical process, the most subtle, laborious, and profound. "It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referible either to accident or intention that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem." A mind capable of such Herculean energy might triumph over the most enormous obstacles. In the following quotation, the author's subjectivity will inevitably be detected, by those who have any knowledge of his life :

"But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Never more."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless,' said I, what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, 'till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of 'Never-never more.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,

Meant in croaking 'Never more.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch!,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Never more!'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil !-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me-tell me, I implore!
Quoth the Raven, 'Never more

'Prophet said I, 'thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, Never more.'

Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting-
Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Raven, Never more.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door,

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted, Never more."

But it is not alone the subjectivity which we observe in these stanzas; the almost miraculous symphony with which each line rings upon the ear, the admirable sustainment of the leading idea, and the awful shade of mystery which envelopes the whole, are vividly impressed upon our minds. We bow instinctively before the Titanic genius, the product of whose labor is so stupendous. Take another instance of vague, mysterious sorrow :—

"BRIDAL BALLAD."

"The ring is on my hand,

And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell-

For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,

While a reverie came o'er me,

And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"
And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And though my faith be broken,
And though my heart be broken,
Behold the golden token

That proves me happy now!
Would God I could awaken!

For I dream, I know not how;
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now."

The marvellous melody of the author was never so

apparent

as in his poem of "The Bells," where the power which he wields in the adaptation and convolution of language, is seemingly supernatural.

To those who have been accustomed to consider Poe as an

unsympathizing misanthrope, incapable of sensitive feeling, or anything approaching to tenderness, the ensuing lines will constitute a theme for unexpected admiration.

"ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived, whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more
than love-

I and my Annabel Lee

With a love that the winged scraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautisul Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me

Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling aud killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than
the love

Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bring-
ing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sido

Of my darling-my darling-my life and
my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea."

He who has been travelling over mountains "whose vast walls are pinnacled in clouds," by rivers of mighty grandeur and through forests of colossal height, and immense expanse, will turn with interest and fresh delight, to survey the culti vated beauty of the wood-crowned hill, the deep green meadows, encircled with the dapper hedge row, and the trim parterre adorned with the many-hued flowers: so we, whose admiration and reverence, have been so willingly commanded by the vigorous beauties of Whittier and Lowell, and the solemn magnificence of Longfellow, Bryant, Sigourney, and Poe, will have no objection to rest our dazzled eyes by a peaceful survey of a few of the unpretending beauties of Thomas Buchanan Read.

The poetry of Read produces that soothing effect upon the mind, experienced by the contemplation of quiet scenery; like it, it abounds in simple, unostentatious pictures of calm loveliness; it contains in its unobstrusive pages, many a valuable gem which resembles

"A violet on a mossy bank, half hidden from the eye.” The author forms no exception to that bright host of poets who have chosen virtue as their motto, and its sacred cause meets an appropriate embellishment in the unaffected grace