the works of edgar allan poe-5-第23部分

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The　champak　odors　fail
　　　　Like　sweet　thoughts　in　a　dream；
The　nightingale's　complaint；
　　　　It　dies　upon　her　heart；
As　I　must　die　on　shine；
　　　　O；　beloved　as　thou　art！

O；　lift　me　from　the　grass！
　　　　I　die；　I　faint；　I　fail！
Let　thy　love　in　kisses　rain
　　　　On　my　lips　and　eyelids　pale。
My　cheek　is　cold　and　white；　alas！
　　　　My　heart　beats　loud　and　fast：
O；　press　it　close　to　shine　again；
　　　　Where　it　will　break　at　last。

　　　　Very　few　perhaps　are　familiar　with　these　linesyet　no　less　a　poet
than　Shelley　is　their　author。　Their　warm；　yet　delicate　and　ethereal
imagination　will　be　appreciated　by　all；　but　by　none　so　thoroughly　as　by
him　who　has　himself　arisen　from　sweet　dreams　of　one　beloved　to　bathe　in
the　aromatic　air　of　a　southern　midsummer　night。

　　　　One　of　the　finest　poems　by　Willis　　the　very　best　in　my　opinion　which
he　has　ever　writtenhas　no　doubt；　through　this　same　defect　of　undue
brevity；　been　kept　back　from　its　proper　position。　not　less　in　the

The　shadows　lay　along　Broadway；
　　　　'Twas　near　the　twilight…tide
And　slowly　there　a　lady　fair
　　　　Was　walking　in　her　pride。
Alone　walk'd　she；　but；　viewlessly；
　　　　Walk'd　spirits　at　her　side。

Peace　charm'd　the　street　beneath　her　feet；
　　　　And　Honor　charm'd　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　heart　was　cold　to　all　but　gold；
　　　　And　the　rich　came　not　to　won；
But　honor'd　well　her　charms　to　sell。
　　　　If　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　walk'd　forlorn；
　　　　And　nothing　could　avail。

No　mercy　now　can　clear　her　brow
　　　　From　this　world's　peace　to　pray
For　as　love's　wild　prayer　dissolved　in　air；
　　　　Her　woman's　heart　gave　way！
But　the　sin　forgiven　by　Christ　in　Heaven
　　　　By　man　is　cursed　alway！

　　　　In　this　composition　we　find　it　difficult　to　recognize　the　Willis　who
has　written　so　many　mere　〃verses　of　society。〃　The　lines　are　not　only
richly　ideal；　but　full　of　energy；　while　they　breathe　an　earnestness；　an
evident　sincerity　of　sentiment；　for　which　we　look　in　vain　throughout　all
the　other　works　of　this　author。

　　　　While　the　epic　mania；　while　the　idea　that　to　merit　in　poetry　prolixity
is　indispensable；　has　for　some　years　past　been　gradually　dying　out　of　the
public　mind；　by　mere　dint　of　its　own　absurdity；　we　find　it　succeeded　by　a
heresy　too　palpably　false　to　be　long　tolerated；　but　one　which；　in　the
brief　period　it　has　already　endured；　may　be　said　to　have　accomplished　more
in　the　corruption　of　our　Poetical　Literature　than　all　its　other　enemies
combined。　I　allude　to　the　heresy　of　_The　Didactic。　_It　has　been　assumed；
tacitly　and　avowedly；　directly　and　indirectly；　that　the　ultimate　object　of
all　Poetry　is　Truth。　Every　poem；　it　is　said；　should　inculcate　a　morals　and
by　this　moral　is　the　poetical　merit　of　the　work　to　be　adjudged。　We
Americans　especially　have　patronized　this　happy　idea；　and　we　Bostonians
very　especially　have　developed　it　in　full。　We　have　taken　it　into　our　heads
that　to　write　a　poem　simply　for　the　poem's　sake；　and　to　acknowledge　such
to　have　been　our　design；　would　be　to　confess　ourselves　radically　wanting
in　the　true　poetic　dignity　and　force：but　the　simple　fact　is　that　would
we　but　permit　ourselves　to　look　into　our　own　souls　we　should　immediately
there　discover　that　under　the　sun　there　neither　exists　nor　_can　_exist　any
work　more　thoroughly　dignified；　more　supremely　noble；　than　this　very　poem；
this　poem　_per　se；　_this　poem　which　is　a　poem　and　nothing　more；　this　poem
written　solely　for　the　poem's　sake。

　　　　With　as　deep　a　reverence　for　the　True　as　ever　inspired　the　bosom　of
man；　I　would　nevertheless　limit；　in　some　measure；　its　modes　of
inculcation。　I　would　limit　to　enforce　them。　I　would　not　enfeeble　them　by
dissipation。　The　demands　of　Truth　are　severe。　She　has　no　sympathy　with　the
myrtles。　All　_that　_which　is　so　indispensable　in　Song　is　precisely　all
_that　_with　which　_she　_has　nothing　whatever　to　do。　It　is　but　making　her　a
flaunting　paradox　to　wreathe　her　in　gems　and　flowers。　In　enforcing　a　truth
we　need　severity　rather　than　efflorescence　of　language。　We　must　be　simple；
precise；　terse。　We　must　be　cool；　calm；　unimpassioned。　In　a　word；　we　must
be　in　that　mood　which；　as　nearly　as　possible；　is　the　exact　converse　of　the
poetical。　_He　_must　be　blind　indeed　who　does　not　perceive　the　radical　and
chasmal　difference　between　the　truthful　and　the　poetical　modes　of
inculcation。　He　must　be　theory…mad　beyond　redemption　who；　in　spite　of
these　differences；　shall　still　persist　in　attempting　to　reconcile　the
obstinate　oils　and　waters　of　Poetry　and　Truth。

　　　　Dividing　the　world　of　mind　into　its　three　most　immediately　obvious
distinctions；　we　have　the　Pure　Intellect；　Taste；　and　the　Moral　Sense。　I
place　Taste　in　the　middle；　because　it　is　just　this　position　which　in　the
mind　it　occupies。　It　holds　intimate　relations　with　either　extreme；　but
from　the　Moral　Sense　is　separated　by　so　faint　a　difference　that　Aristotle
has　not　hesitated　to　place　some　of　its　operations　among　the　virtues
themselves。　Nevertheless　we　find　the　_offices　_of　the　trio　marked　with　a
sufficient　distinction。　Just　as　the　Intellect　concerns　itself　with　Truth；
so　Taste　informs　us　of　the　Beautiful；　while　the　Moral　Sense　is　regardful
of　Duty。　Of　this　latter；　while　Conscience　teaches　the　obligation；　and
Reason　the　expediency；　Taste　contents　herself　with　displaying　the　charms：
　waging　war　upon　Vice　solely　on　the　ground　of　her　deformity　　her
disproportion　　her　animosity　to　the　fitting；　to　the　appropriate；　to　the
harmonious　　in　a　word；　to　Beauty。

　　　　An　immortal　instinct　deep　within　the　spirit　of　man　is　thus　plainly　a
sense　of　the　Beautiful。　This　it　is　which　administers　to　his　delight　in　the
manifold　forms；　and　sounds；　and　odors　and　sentiments　amid　which　he　exists。
And　just　as　the　lily　is　repeated　in　the　lake；　or　the　eyes　of　Amaryllis　in
the　mirror；　so　is　the　mere　oral　or　written　repetition　of　these　forms；　and
sounds；　and　colors；　and　odors；　and　sentiments　a　duplicate　source　of　de〃
light。　But　this　mere　repetition　is　not　poetry。　He　who　shall　simply　sing；
with　however　glowing　enthusiasm；　or　with　however　vivid　a　truth　of
description；　of　the　sights；　and　sounds；　and　odors；　and　colors；　and
sentiments　which　greet　_him　_in　common　with　all　mankind　　he；　I　say；　has
yet　failed　to　prove　his　divine　title。　There　is　still　a　something　in　the
distance　which　he　has　been　unable　to　attain。　We　have　still　a　thirst
unquenchable；　to　allay　which　he　has　not　shown　us　the　crystal　springs。　This
thirst　belongs　to　the　immortality　of　Man。　It　is　at　once　a　consequence　and
an　indication　of　his　perennial　existence。　It　is　the　desire　of　the　moth　for
the　star。　It　is　no　mere　appreciation　of　the　Beauty　before　us；　but　a　wild
effort　to　reach　the　Beauty　above。　Inspired　by　an　ecstatic　prescience　of
the　glories　beyond　the　grave；　we　struggle　by　multiform　combinations　among
the　things　and　thoughts　of　Time　to　attain　a　portion　of　that　Loveliness
whose　very　elements　perhaps　appertain　to　eternity　alone。　And　thus　when　by
Poetry；　or　when　by　Music；　the　most　entrancing　of　the　poetic　moods；　we　find
ourselves　melted　into　tears；　we　weep　then；　not　as　the　Abbate　Gravina
supposes；　through　excess　of　pleasure；　but　through　a　certain　petulant；
impatient　sorrow　at　our　inability　to　grasp　now；　wholly；　here　on　earth；　at
once　and　for　ever；　those　divine　and　rapturous　joys　of　which　_through'　_the
poem；　or　_through　_the　music；　we　attain　to　but　brief　and　indeterminate
glimpses。

　　　　The　struggle　to　apprehend　the　supernal　Loveliness　　this　struggle；　on
the　part　of　souls　fittingly　constituted　　has　given　to　the　world　all
_that　_which　it　（the　world）　has　ever　been　enabled　at　once　to　understand
and　_to　feel　_as　poetic。

　　　　The　Poetic　Sentiment；　of　course；　may　develop　itself　in　various　modes
in　Painting；　in　Sculpture；　in　Architecture；　in　the　Dance　　very
especially　in　Music　　and　very　peculiarly；　and　with　a　wide　field；　in　the
com　position　of　the　Landscape　Garden。　Our　present　theme；　however；　has
regard　only　to　its　manifestation　in　words。　And　here　let　me　speak　briefly
on　the　topic　of　rhythm。　Contenting　myself　with　the　certainty　that　Music；
in　its　various　modes　of　metre；　rhythm；　and　rhyme；　is　of　so　vast　a　moment
in　Poetry　as　never　to　be　wisely　rejected　　is　so　vitally　important　an
adjunct；　that　he　is　simply　silly　who　declines　its　assistance；　I　will　not
now　pause　to　maintain　its　absolute　essentiality。　It　is　in　Music　perhaps
that　the　soul　most　nearly　attains　the　great　end　for　which；　when　inspired
by　the　Poetic　Sentiment；　it　struggles　　the　creation　of　supernal　Beauty。
It　_may　_be；　indeed；　that　here　this　sublime　end　is；　now　and　then；　attained
in　_fact。　_We　are　often　made　to　feel；　with　a　shivering　delight；　that　from
an　earthly　harp　are　stricken　notes　which　_cannot　_have　been　unfamiliar　to
the　angels。　And　thus　there　can　be　little　doubt　that　in　the　union　of　Poetry
with　Music　in　its　popular　sense；　we　shall　find　the　widest　field　for　the
Poetic　development。　The　old　Bards　and　Minnesingers　had　advantages　which　we
do　not　possess　　and　Thomas　Moore；　singing　his　own　songs；　was；　in　the
most　legitimate　manner；　perfecting　them　as　poems。

　　　　To　recapitulate　then：　　I　would　define；　in　brief；　the　Poetry　of　words
as　_The　Rhythmical　Creation　of　Beauty。　_Its　sole　arbiter　is　Taste。　With
the　Intellect　or　with　the　Conscience　it　has　only　collateral　relations。
Unless　incidentally；　it　has　no　concern　whatever　either　with　Duty　or　with
Truth。

　　　　A　few　words；　however；　in　explanation。　_That　_pleasure　which　is　at　once
the　most　pure；　the　most　elevating；　and　the　most　intense；　is　derived；　I
maintain；　from　the　contemplation　of　the　Beautiful。　In　the　contemplation　of
Beauty　we　alone　find　it　possible　to　attain　that　pleasurable　elevation；　or
excitement　_of　the　soul；　_which　we　recognize　as　the　Poetic　Sentiment；　and
which　is　so　easily　distinguished　from　Truth；　which　is　the　satisfaction　of
the　Reason；　or　from　Passion；　which　is　the　excitement　of　the　heart。　I　make
Beauty；　thereforeusing　the　word　as　inclusive　of　the　s