as it is, without doubt, the best specimen of Poe's lyrical power: THE RAVEN. 'Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 66 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. Surely," said I-"surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. "Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. stayed he; Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore !" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore ; But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Of Never-never more.' 999 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking yore Meant in croaking "Never more." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 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, O 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- 66 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, 66 "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, And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, one of the most versatile of the younger poets of America, is the son of a clergyman of Boston, and was born in 1819. After leaving Harvard College, where he graduated in 1839, he commenced the study of law, but was soon led aside by the attractions of imaginative literature. In early life, he joined the anti-slavery movement, and his poems have always been characterised, more or less, by a didactic and philanthropic purport. This, in many instances, becomes a fault. The doctrine which might be suitably given in an essay, is out of place, as we conceive, in a poem that seems intended to be lyrical. Poetry, though united with the interests of real life and the progress of society, should maintain its own character, and ever remain distinct from dry argument and mere declamation. In his Fable for the Critics, the author seems to be fully conscious of his errors, for he says of himself— There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme : The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching? The 'preaching' is indeed very tiresome in numerous examples; especially when both text and sermon are equally vague and mystical. After contributing both prose and verse to periodicals, Lowell published, in 1841, a volume of poems entitled A Year's Life, which contained evidence that the writer had studied the diction of our old English poets, and had, perhaps unconsciously, imitated Tennyson, as may be clearly seen in the lines entitled The Syrens compared with the Lotos-eaters. It is the tone, rather than the imagery of the poem, that betrays imitation. Redundancy of words, and uncouth combinations, such as 'rapture-quivered,' are the chief faults in the volume, which contains, however, some specimens of genuine poetry, and gives proofs that the writer possesses warm feelings and power of imagination. In 1844, another volume of poems proved that the writer had made considerable progress in energy of thought and command of language; but the didactic tendency was made too prominent, and, in his lines entitled L'Envoi, the author attempted to justify his use of poetry for the advocacy of various reforms in society and government. He alludes to the common-place argument of certain critics who have supposed that America must produce a great poet because Niagara is a great water-fall :— 'They tell us that our land was made for song? But he maintains that the true purpose of modern poetry should be, not to celebrate the grandeur and beauty of lakes, rivers, cataracts, forests, and prairies, but to assert These are realities which make the shows Of outward Nature, be they ne'er so grand, It is very true that the imaginative writer should do something more than describe woods and rivers; it is also true that he should, in his own proper style, inculcate truth and good sentiments; but a great mistake is often found very near the truth. It must be a confused notion of the mission of poetry that has led Lowell to write such lines as these 'He who settles Freedom's principles, Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny; Who speaks the truth, stabs falsehood to the heart, This reads like a versified extract from a third-rate speech in Congress. However great the evils of society may be, it still remains true, that every department of literature should have its own distinct character, and verse should not be used for work that may be better done in prose. These remarks must be applied to the so-called reform-poetry, but by no means to all the verses of Lowell. As we have said, he is a versatile writer, and his poems include descriptive, narrative, lyrical, humorous, and satirical, as well as didactic specimens. In the descriptive poems-such as an Indian Summer's Reveriethere is a considerable wealth of imagery; but it is not always distinctly arranged. The finest images are often spoiled by false associations. In the tale of Rhocus, founded on Greek mythology, the poetical part is injured by its connection with a long moral application. Prometheus, another of the more important poems, has a noble design, but suffers under a load of prolixity. The warmest admirers of Lowell's poems must admit, that even the best want that conciseness which finished study might have attained. Lowell has read and admired the best sonnets and other short poems of Wordsworth, and must have noticed the examples of rich thoughtfulness compressed in single lines; or of long descriptions superseded by a few golden words. How were such effects produced? Not by rapid writing; but during many long meditations in the little garden which served as the poet's study, |