One half as passionately,

And a stormier note than this would swell

From my lyre within the sky.

(213) THE CITY IN THE SEA. A comparison with the first form, in the volume of 1831 (where the title is "The Doomed City"), will show Poe's skill in revision: 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 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-

me.

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.

(215) THE SLEEPER. The text is that of the 1845 edition, with the corrections by Poe in J. Lorimer Graham's copy. "Your appreciation of 'The Sleeper' delights In the higher qualities of poetry t is better than 'The Raven'; but there is not one man in a million who could be brought to agree with me in this opinion. 'The Raven,' of course, is far the better as a work of art; but in the true basis of all art 'The Sleeper' is the superior. I wrote the latter when quite a boy."-Poe in an undated letter (Harrison's edition of Poe, Vol. XVII, p. 207).

(216) TO ONE IN PARADISE. The text is that of the 1845 edition, with the Graham corrections.

(217) THE HAUNTED PALACE. First published in The Baltimore Museum, April, 1839; afterward incorporated in the tale, "The Fall of the House of Usher." "By "The Haunted Palace' I mean to imply a mind haunted by phantoms-a disordered brain."-Poe, in a letter to Griswold, March 29, 1841. ¶ 22. Porphyrogene="born in the purple" (Greek Toppúpa, "purple"; yevvnтbs, "born"), i.e., of royal birth, purple being formerly the distinguishing color of royal robes; here it refers to the kingliness of the human mind.

(218) THE CONQUEROR WORM. The text is that of the 1845 edition, with the Graham corrections. First published in Graham's Magazine, January, 1843; afterward incorporated in the tale, "Ligeia." 19. Mimes = actors.

(219) 25. mimic rout = throng of actors.

(219) THE RAVEN. The text is that of The Richmond Examiner, September 25, 1849, which received Poe's last revision. First published in The Evening Mirror. January 29, 1845.

See Poe's "Philosophy of Composition" for his own account of the mode of composing the poem The following extracts give most of the main points.

"The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem-some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects . . . I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the refrain. . . . . I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect by adhering in general to the monotone of sound while I continually varied that of the thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects by the variation of the application of the refrain, the refrain itself remaining for the most part unvaried.

"These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. .. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain. The question now arose as to the character of the

word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary, the refrain forming the close of each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis admitted no doubt; and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with as the most producible consonant. The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word 'nevermore.' In fact it was the very first which presented itself.

"The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word 'nevermore.' . . . . Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot in the first instance suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a raven, as equally capable of speech and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.

"I had now gone so far as the conception of a raven-the bird of ill omenmonotonously repeating the one word 'nevermore' at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself, 'Of all melancholy topics what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?' 'Death' was the obvious reply. 'And when,' I said, 'is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?' From what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is obvious: 'When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world; and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover. . . .

"The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the raven; and the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest or the fields; but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident-it has the force of a frame to a picture. . . . . I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber-in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished-this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty as the sole poetical thesis.

"The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird; and the thought of introducing him through the window was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter is a 'tapping' at the door originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked. I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the raven's seeking admission, and, secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber. I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas also for the effect of contrast between the marble

and the plumage-it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word 'Pallas' itself. . . . .

"It will be observed that the words, 'from out my heart' [1. 101], involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer 'Nevermore,' dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the raven as emblematical; but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza that the intention of making him emblematical of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen."

"The late Buchanan Read informed Robert Browning that Poe described to him (i.e., Read) the whole process of the construction of his poem, and declared that the suggestion of it lay wholly in a line from 'Lady Geraldine's Courtship,' 'With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air the purple curtain.""-J. H. Ingram's life of Poe, Vol. I, p. 276. Cf. "The Raven," 1. 13. For other reports of the mode of composition see Stedman and Woodberry's edition of Poe, Vol. X, and Woodberry's life of Poe, Vol. II, p. III.

"The Raven' has had a great 'run,' Thomas; but I wrote it for the express purpose of running-just as I did the 'Gold-Bug,' you know. The bird beat the bug, though, all hollow."-Poe, in a letter to F. W. Thomas, May 4, 1845.

The eccentric poet, Thomas H. Chivers, wrote to Griswold, March 28, 1851: "He [Poe] no doubt felt piqued when I accused him of having stolen his 'Raven' from my poem, 'To Allegra Florence in Heaven'—which you know he did, if you know anything at all about it. The same is true of his lectures on Poetry-besides many other things." A few stanzas from Chivers's poem will afford a fair basis for a judgment as to the justice of his claim:

Holy angels now are bending
To receive thy soul ascending
Up to Heaven to joys unending,

And to bliss which is divine;
While thy pale, cold form is fading
Under death's dark wings now shading
Thee with gloom which is pervading

...

This poor, broken heart of mine. . .
With my bowed head thus reclining
On my hand, my heart repining,
Shall my salt tears, ever shining

On my pale cheeks, flow for thee-
Bitter soul-drops ever stealing
From the holy fount of feeling,
Deepest anguish now revealing,
For thy loss, dear child, to me.
As an egg, when broken, never
Can be mended, but must ever
Be the same crushed egg forever,

So shall this dark heart of mine;
Which, though broken, is still breaking,
And shall never more cease aching
For the sleep which has no waking-
For the sleep which now is thine

(220) 36-54. "About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic-approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible is given to the raven's entrance. In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out. ment being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness."-Poe, "The Philosophy of Composition."

The effect of the dénoue

(222) 80. "Your objection to the tinkling of the footfalls is far more pointed, and in the course of composition occurred so forcibly to myself that I hesitated to use the term. I finally used it because I saw that it had, in its first conception, been suggested to my mind by the sense of the supernatural with which it was, at the moment, filled. No human or physical foot could tinkle on a soft carpet, therefore the tinkling of feet would vividly convey the supernatural impression. This was the idea, and it is good within itself; but if it fails (as I fear it does) to make itself immediately and generally felt, according to my intention, then in so much is it badly conveyed, or expressed."-Poe, in an undated letter (Harrison's edition of Poe, Vol. XVII, p. 207). ¶82. nepenthe: a soothing draught (Greek vn, "not"; Tévoos, "sorrow"). ¶91-96. “I composed this stanza, at this point, first that. by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover; and, secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza-as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpass this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect."-Poe, "The Philosophy of Composition." ¶93. Aidenn: a modified form of the Arabic "Adn," Eden. 106. "It is true that in several ways, as you say, the lamp might have thrown the bird's shadow on the floor. My conception was that of the bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust, as is often seen in the English palaces and even in some of the better houses of New York."Poe, in an undated letter (Harrison's edition of Poe, Vol. XVII, p. 206).

(223) ULALUME. The text is that of Griswold's edition, in 1850. First published in The American Whig Review, December, 1847. Poe's wife had died on January 30 of the same year. 37. Astarte's: Astarte was the Canaanitish goddess of love and of the moon.

(224) 44. Lion: one of the constellations of the Zodiac.

(225) THE BELLS. The text is that of Sartain's Union Magazine, November, 1849. First published in The Home Journal, April 28, 1849.

(228) ANNABEL LEE. The text is that of The New York Tribune, in which the poem was first published, on October 9, 1849. The poem seems to refer to the poet's wife; according to his own statement, it was written in 1849, some two years after her death (see his letter to "Annie" in Vol. XVII, p. 346, of Harrison's edition of Poe; the letter is undated, but its contents show that it was written early in 1849) On the other hand, Professor Harrison says (Vol. VII, p. 219) that Mrs. S. A. Weiss informed him that Poe had told her that the poem was composed years before his wife's death and had no reference to her."