The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [950]
And racks have rung my spirit-frame
To which the strain of joints were tame
And battle strife itself were nought
Beside the inner fight I’ve fought. etc., etc.
Nor do we regard any portion of it (so far as rhythm is concerned) as at all comparable to some of the better ditties of William Slater. Here, for example, from his Psalms, published in 1642:
The righteous shall his sorrow scan
And laugh at him, and say “behold
What hath become of this here man
That on his riches was so bold.”
And here, again, are lines from the edition of the same Psalms, by Archbishop Parker, which we most decidedly prefer:
Who sticketh to God in stable trust
As Sion’s mount he stands full just,
Which moveth no whit nor yet can reel,
But standeth forever as stiff as steel.
“The Martyr” and the “Retreat of Seventy-Six” are merely Revolutionary incidents “done into verse,” and spoilt in the doing. “The Retreat” begins with the remarkable line,
Tramp! tramp! tramp! tramp!
which is elsewhere introduced into the poem. We look in vain, here, for anything worth even qualified commendation.
“The Diary” is a record of events occurring to the author during a voyage from New York to Havre. Of these events a fit of sea-sickness is the chief. Mr. Ward, we believe, is the first of the genus irritabile who has ventured to treat so delicate a subject with that grave dignity which is its due:
Rejoice! rejoice! already on my sight
Bright shores, gray towers, and coming wonders reel;
My brain grows giddy — is it with delight?
A swimming faintness, such as one might feel
When stabbed and dying, gathers on my sense —
It weighs me down — and now — help! — horror! —
But the “horror,” and indeed all that ensues, we must leave to the fancy of the poetical.
Some pieces entitled “Humorous” next succeed, and one or two of them (for example, “The Graham System” and “The Bachelor’s Lament”) are not so very contemptible in their way, but the way itself is beneath even contempt.
“To an Infant in Heaven” embodies some striking thoughts, and, although feeble as a whole, and terminating lamely, may be cited as the best composition in the volume. We quote two or three of the opening stanzas:
Thou bright and star-like spirit!
That in my visions wild
I see ‘mid heaven’s seraphic host —
Oh! canst thou be my child?
My grief is quenched in wonder,
And pride arrests my sighs;
A branch from this unworthy stock
Now blossoms in the skies.
Our hopes of thee were lofty,
But have we cause to grieve?
Oh! could our fondest, proudest wish
A nobler fate conceive?
The little weeper tearless!
The sinner snatched from sin!
The babe to more than manhood grown,
Ere childhood did begin!
And I, thy earthly teacher,
Would blush thy powers to see!
Thou art to me a parent now,
And I a child to thee!
There are several other pieces in the book — but it is needless to speak of them in detail. Among them we note one or two political effusions, and one or two which are (satirically?) termed satirical. All are worthless.
Mr. Ward’s imagery, at detached points, has occasional vigor and appropriateness; we may go so far as to say that, at times, it is strikingly beautiful — by accident of course. Let us cite a few instances. At page 53 we read —
O! happy day! — earth, sky is fair,
And fragrance floats along the air;
For all the bloomy orchards glow
As with a fall of rosy snow.
At page 91 —
How flashed the overloaded flowers
With gems, a present from the showers!
At page 92 —
No! there is danger; all the night
I saw her like a starry light
More lovely in my visions lone
Than in my day-dreams truth she shone.
‘T is naught when on the sun we gaze
If only dazzled by his rays,
But when our eyes his form retain
Some wound to vision must remain.
And again, at page 234, speaking of a slight shock of an earthquake, the earth is said to tremble
As if some wing of passing angel, bound
From sphere to sphere, had brushed the golden chain
That hangs our planet to the throne of God.
This latter passage, however, is, perhaps, not altogether original with