Edgar Allan Poe - The Complete Poetry

Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the Broadway Journal , some lines "To Isadore" appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore no signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they were by "A. Ide, junior." Two previous poems had appeared in the Broadway Journal over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote them 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 known works in his journal over noms de plume , and as no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of "A. M. Ide," it is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the author of "The Raven." Having been published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection, so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by the author of "The Raven."

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An Acrostic

Beloved Physician

The Doomed City

Deep in Earth

The Divine Right of Kings

Elizabeth

Enigma

Epigram for Wall Street

Evangeline

Fanny

Impromptu – To Kate Carol

Lines on Ale

O, Tempora! O, Mores!

Poetry

Serenade

Spiritual Song

Stanzas

Stanzas – to F. S. Osgood

Tamerlane (early version)

To ——

To Isaac Lea

To Margaret

To Miss Louise Olivia Hunter

To Octavia

The Valley Nis

Visit of the Dead

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Elizabeth it is in vain you say

"Love not"—thou sayest it in so sweet a way:

In vain those words from thee or L. E. L.

Zantippe's talents had enforced so well:

Ah! if that language from thy heart arise,

Breathe it less gently forth—and veil thine eyes.

Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried

To cure his love—was cured of all beside—

His folly—pride—and passion—for he died.

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The pulse beats ten and intermits;

God nerve the soul that ne'er forgets

In calm or storm, by night or day,

Its steady toil, its loyalty.

. . .

. . .

The pulse beats ten and intermits;

God shield the soul that ne'er forgets.

. . .

. . .

The pulse beats ten and intermits;

God guide the soul that ne'er forgets.

. . .

. . . so tired, so weary,

The soft head bows, the sweet eyes close,

The faithful heart yields to repose.

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Lo ! Death hath rear'd himself a throne

In a strange city, all alone,

Far down within the dim west —

And the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines, and palaces, and towers

Are — not like any thing of ours —

O ! no — O! no — ours never loom

To heaven with that ungodly gloom!

Time-eaten towers that tremble not!

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

A heaven that God doth not contemn

With stars is like a diadem —

We liken our ladies' eyes to them —

But there ! that everlasting pall!

It would be mockery to call

Such dreariness a heaven at all.

Yet tho' no holy rays come down

On the long night-time of that town,

Light from the lurid, deep sea

Streams up the turrets silently —

Up thrones — up long-forgotten bowers

Of sculptur'd ivy and stone flowers —

Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —

Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —

Up many a melancholy shrine

Whose entablatures intertwine

The mask the — the viol — and the vine.

There open temples — open graves

Are on a level with the waves —

But not the riches there that lie

In each idol's diamond eye.

Not the gaily-jewell'd dead

Tempt the waters from their bed:

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass —

No swellings hint that winds may be

Upon a far-off happier sea:

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from the high towers of the town

Death looks gigantically down.

But lo! a stir is in the air!

The wave! there is a ripple there!

As if the towers had thrown aside,

In slightly sinking, the dull tide —

As if the turret-tops had given

A vacuum in the filmy heaven:

The waves have now a redder glow —

The very hours are breathing low —

And when, amid no earthly moans,

Down, down that town shall settle hence,

Hell rising from a thousand thrones

Shall do it reverence,

And Death to some more happy clime

Shall give his undivided time.

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Deep in earth my love is lying

And I must weep alone.

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The only king by right divine

Is Ellen King, and were she mine

I'd strive for liberty no more,

But hug the glorious chains I wore.

Her bosom is an ivory throne,

Where tyrant virtue reigns alone;

No subject vice dare interfere,

To check the power that governs here.

O! would she deign to rule my fate,

I'd worship Kings and kingly state,

And hold this maxim all life long,

The King — my King — can do no wrong. P.

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Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;

And I have other reasons for so doing

Besides my innate love of contradiction;

Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing

The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,

Has studied very little of his part,

Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool

Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,

Being ignorant of one important rule,

Employed in even the theses of the school-

Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name

(Called anything, its meaning is the same)

"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

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For the Baltimore Visiter

The noblest name in Allegory's page,

The hand that traced inexorable rage;

A pleasing moralist whose page refined,

Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;

A tender poet of a foreign tongue,

(Indited in the language that he sung.)

A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page

At once the shame and glory of our age,

The prince of harmony and stirling sense,

The ancient dramatist of eminence,

The bard that paints imagination's powers,

And him whose song revives departed hours,

Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,

In boldness of design surpassing all.

These names when rightly read, a name (make) known

Which gathers all their glories in its own.

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I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,

Better than banking, trade or leases —

Take a bank note and fold it up,

And then you will find your money in creases!