The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [881]
In tales (written with deliberation for the magazines) he has shown greater constructiveness than I should have given him credit for had I not read his compositions of this order — for in this faculty all his other works indicate a singular deficiency. The chief charm even of these tales, however, is still referable to fancy.
As a poet, Mr. Willis is not entitled, I think, to so high a rank as he may justly claim through his prose; and this for the reason that, although fancy is not inconsistent with any of the demands of those classes of prose composition which he has attempted, and, indeed, is a vital element of most of them, still it is at war (as will be understood from what I have said in the foot note) with that purity and perfection of beauty which are the soul of the poem proper. I wish to be understood as saying this generally of our author’s poems. In some instances, seeming to feel the truth of my proposition, (that fancy should have no place in the loftier poesy,) he has denied it a place, as in “Melanie,” and his Scriptural pieces; but, unfortunately, he has been unable to supply the void with the true imagination, and, these poems consequently are deficient in vigor, in stamen. The Scriptural pieces are quite “correct,” as the French have it, and are much admired by a certain set of readers, who judge of a poem, not by its effect on themselves, but by the effect which they imagine it might have upon themselves were they not unhappily soulless, and by the effect which they take it for granted it does have upon others. It cannot be denied, however, that these pieces are, in general, tame, or indebted for what force they possess to the Scriptural passages of which they are merely paraphrastic. I quote what, in my own opinion, and in that of nearly all my friends, is really the truest poem ever written by Mr. Willis.
[[”UNSEEN SPIRITS.”]]
The shadows lay along Broadway,
‘Twas near the twilight tide,
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride —
Alone walked she, yet viewlessly
Walked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And honor charmed the air,
And all astir looked kind on her
And called her good as fair —
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo.
Ah, honored well are charms to sell
When priests the selling do!
Now, walking there was one more fair —
A slight girl, lily-pale,
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail —
‘Twixt want and scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world’s peace to pray —
For, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way;
And the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway.
There is about this little poem (evidently written in haste and through impulse) a true imagination. Its grace, dignity and pathos are impressive, and there is more in it of earnestness, of soul, than in anything I have seen from the pen of its author. His compositions, in general, have a taint of worldliness, of insincerity. The identical rhyme in the last stanza is very noticeable, and the whole finale is feeble. It would be improved by making the last two lines precede the first two of the stanza.
In classifying Mr. W.’s writings I did not think it worth while to speak of him as a dramatist, because, although he has written plays, what they have of merit is altogether in their character of poem. Of his “Bianca Visconti “ I have little to say; — it deserved to fail, and did, although it abounded in eloquent passages. “Tortesa” abounded in the same, but had a great many dramatic points well calculated to tell with a conventional