When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated-I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess : but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I reëchoed-I aided-I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said "Ha! ha! ha!-he! he!-a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo-he! he! he!— over our wine-he! he! he!" "The Amontillado!" I said. "He! he! he!-he! he! he!-yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone." "For the love of God, Montresor !" "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud— No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick-on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat! THE CITY IN THE SEA. O! Death has reared himself a throne Lo In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, uuu Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Around, by lifting winds forgot, The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy heaven come down Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- Resignedly beneath the sky So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town There open fanes and gaping graves But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave-there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere- For we knew not the month was October, We noted not the dim lake of Auber (Though once we had journeyed down here)— Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent I replied "This is nothing but dreaming: Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night: See! it flickers up the sky through the night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 1847. Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crispèd and sere― On this very night of last year That I journeyed-I journeyed down here— THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. [From the Lecture first delivered at Lowell, Mass., 1848.- Works. 1850.] IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms. I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychical necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags-fails-a revulsion ensues-and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such. There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, |