The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [994]
Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick’s burnished bay;
The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray:
The Beauty-freighted barges bound afar
To the soft music of the gay guitar.
I quote further:
—— the oblivious world of sleep —
That rayless realm where Fancy never beams —
That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams. . . . . .
Folded his arms across his sable vest,
As if to keep the heart within his breast.
————— he lingers by the streams,
Pondering on incommunicable themes. . . . . .
Nor notes the fawn that tamely by him glides
The violets lifting tip their azure eyes
Like timid virgins whom Love’s steps surprise. . . . . .
And all is hushed — so still — so silent there
That one might hear an angel wing the air. . . . . .
Adown the groves and dewy vales afar
Tinkles the serenader’s soft guitar. . . . . .
—— her tender cares,
Her solemn sigh, her silent streaming tears,
Her more than woman’s soft solicitude
To soothe his spirit in its frantic mood. . . . . .
Now by the crags — then by each pendant bough
Steadies his steps adown the mountain’s brow. . . . . .
Sinks on his crimson couch, so long unsought,
And floats along the phantom stream of thought. . . . . .
Ah, no! for there are times when the sick soul
Lies calm amid the storms that round it roll,
Indifferent to Fate or to what haven
By the terrific tempest it is driven. . . . . .
The Dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,
Peer pensively upon her pallid face,
While the sweet songster o’er the oaken door
Looks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!”. . . . .
—— lovely in her misery,
As jewel sparkling up through the dark sea. . . . . .
Where hung the fiery moon and stars of blood,
And phantom ships roiled on the rolling flood. . . . . .
My mind by grief was ripened ere its time,
And knowledge came spontaneous as a chime
That flows into the soul, unbid, unsought;
On Earth and Air and Heaven I fed my thought —
On Ocean’s teachings — Ætna’s lava tears —
Ruins and wrecks and nameless sepulchres. . . . . .
Each morning brought to them untasted bliss.
No pangs — no sorrows came with varying years —
No cold distrust — no faithlessness — no tears —. . . . .
But hand in hand as Eve and Adam trod
Eden, they walked beneath the smile of God.
It will be understood, of course, that we quote these brief passages by no means as the best, or even as particularly excelling the rest of the poem, on an averaged estimate of merit, but simply with a view of exemplifying some of the author’s more obvious traits — those, especially, of vigorous rhythm, and forcible expression. In no case can the loftier qualities of a truly great poem be conveyed through the citation of its component portions, in detail, even when long extracts are given — how much less, then, by such mere points as we have selected.
“The Broken Heart” (included with “The Child of the Sea”) is even more characteristic of Mrs. Lewis than that very remarkable poem. It is more enthusiastic, more glowing, more passionate, and perhaps more abundant in that peculiar spirit of abandon which has rendered Mrs. Maria Brooks’ “Zophiel” so great a favorite with the critics. “The Child of the Sea” is, of course, by far the more elaborate and more artistic composition, and excels “The Broken Heart” in most of those high qualities which immortalize a work of art. Its narrative, also, is more ably conducted and more replete with incident — but to the delicate fancy or the bold imagination of a poet, there is an inexpressible charm in the latter.
The minor poems embraced in the volume published by Mr. Putnam, evince a very decided advance in skill made by their author since the issue of the “Records of the Heart. “ A nobler poem than the “La Vega” could not be easily pointed out. Its fierce energy of expression will arrest attention very especially — but its general glow and vigor have rarely