THE VILLAGE STREET
IN these rapid, restless shadows, Once I walked at eventide, When a gentle, silent maiden, Wal ked in beauty at my side She alone there walked beside me All in beauty, like a bride.
Pallidly the moon was shining On the dewy meadows nigh; On the silvery, silent rivers, On the mountains far and high On the ocean's star-lit waters, Where the winds a-weary die.
Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door, Underneath the elm's long branches To the pavement bending o'er; Underneath the mossy willow And the dying sycamore.
With the myriad stars in beauty All bedight, the heavens were seen, Radiant hopes were bright around me, Like the light of stars serene; Like the mellow midnight splendor Of the Night's irradiate queen.
Audibly the elm-leaves whispered Peaceful, pleasant melodies, Like the distant murmured music Of unquiet, lovely seas: While the winds were hushed in slumber In the fragrant flowers and trees.
Wondrous and unwonted beauty Still adorning all did seem, While I told my love in fables 'Neath the willows by the stream; Would the heart have kept unspoken Love that was its rarest dream!
Instantly away we wandered In the shadowy twilight tide, She, the silent, scornful maiden, Walking calmly at my side, With a step serene and stately, All in beauty, all in pride.
Vacantly I walked beside her. On the earth mine eyes were cast; Swift and keen there came unto me Ritter memories of the past On me, like the rain in Autumn On the dead leaves, cold and fast.
Underneath the elms we parted, By the lowly cottage door; One brief word alone was uttered Never on our lips before; And away I walked forlornly, Broken-hearted evermore.
Slowly, silently I loitered, Homeward, in the night, alone; Sudden anguish bound my spirit, That my youth had never known; Wild unrest, like that which cometh When the Night's first dream hath flown.
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze.
Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight Through the sighing foliage streams; And each morning, midnight shadow, Shadow of my sorrow seems; Strive, 0 heart, forget thine idol! And, 0 soul, forget thy dreams!
THE FOREST REVERIE
'Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that ne'er did flow That in the sun Did rivulets run, And all around rare flowers did blow The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale And the queenly lily adown the dale (Whom the sun and the dew And the winds did woo), With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears The love of years Is wasted like the snow, And the fine fibrils of its life By the rude wrong of instant strife Are broken at a blow Within the heart Do springs upstart Of which it doth now know, And strange, sweet dreams, Like silent streams That from new fountains overflow, With the earlier tide Of rivers glide Deep in the heart whose hope has died-- Quenching the fires its ashes hide,-- Its ashes, whence will spring and grow Sweet flowers, ere long, The rare and radiant flowers of song!
NOTES
Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe,and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled Alonehave the chief claim to our notice. _Fac-simile _copies of this piecehad been in possession of the present editor some time previous to itspublication in Scribner's Magazine for September, 1875; but as proofsof the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrainedfrom publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet beenadduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence toguide us. Alone is stated to have been written by Poe in the album ofa Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and thefacsimile given in Scribner's is alleged to be of his handwriting. Ifthe caligraphy be Poe's, it is different in all essential respects fromall the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of thewriter of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which thecontributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added. Thelines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of hisearly mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one wellqualified to speak, are not unworthy on the whole of the parentageclaimed for them.
While Edgar Poe was editor of the Broadway Journal, some lines ToIsadore appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, boreno signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfyquestioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared sayingthey were by A. Ide, junior. Two previous poems had appeared in theBroadway journal over the signature of A. M. Ide, and whoever wrotethem was also the author of the lines To Isadore. In order, doubtless,to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his knownworks in his journal over _noms de plume, _and as no other writingswhatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of A. M. Ide, itis not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection maybe by the author of The Raven. Having been published without his usualelaborate revision, Poe may have wished to _hide _his hasty workunder an assumed name. The three pieces are included in the presentcollection, so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions theypossess to be by the author of The Raven.