Chapter X: Letter VIII: The Rejected “national Hymns.” (4)

In 1881 a charming little volume of Essays, entitled, “_Waifs_,” was published by Messrs. Maclehose, of Glasgow. Mr. William Tait Ross, the author of these papers is well known in the northern capitals for his writings, published under the _nom de plume_ of Herbert Martyne. One of the most humorous chapters in “Waifs” is entitled _A Séance with a Sequel_, which recounts the author’s experiences at a spiritualistic meeting in Glasgow. He there interviews the ghost of one of the geese who saved Rome; the spirit of a duck who sailed in Noah’s Ark; the spirit of the late lamented Cock Robin; of the mouse turned over by Robbie Burns’s plough; and of the donkey celebrated by the Poet Coleridge.

There is a good deal of dry humour in their replies, but the _séance_ comes to an untimely end, owing to a wild outburst of spiritual enthusiasm on the part of the table used for communicating with the spirits.

This excitable piece of furniture suddenly made for the door, and was with difficulty restrained by four strong men. One of the party then getting alarmed, turned on the gas; in a moment all the commotion ceased; and so the séance ended.

“I will add,” says the author, “nothing by way of comment, except this, that the answers obtained from the various spirits seem to me to be even more sensible and important than those obtained at any _séance_ recorded in the annals of spirit rapping.”

The chapter concludes with the following verses in imitation of “The Raven,” entitled――

A SEQUEL.
THE SPIRITS.

Lately on a midnight dreary,
Sitting by the fire so cheery,
Listening to the storm that beat and blew
With blustering gust and roar;
While I sat serenely smoking,
Suddenly there came a knocking
As of some one rudely poking,
Poking at my chamber-door――
“’Tis some dirty ill-bred spirit
Knocking at my chamber-door――
Only that, and nothing more.”

But to face the audacious knocker,
I seized the shining poker,
While my heart went jumping, thumping,
As I never felt before;
For through the storm’s loud shrieking
I heard high voices speaking――
’Tis some thief’s ghost that is sneaking
On the outside of the door――
Some vile spirit entrance seeking
By the keyhole of the door――
This, perhaps, and nothing more.

Hesitating then no longer,
Presently my legs grew stronger,
And, brandishing the poker,
I strode towards the door;
When, without one word of fable,
The ponderous parlour-table
Marched as fast as it was able
Right across the parlour floor;
Danced across the room, and then assumed
Its post beside the door――
Which is true, and something more.

Outside louder grew the knockings,
Till I shook within my stockings,
And then there came a thundering bang,
Far louder than before;
While the ponderous parlour table
Danced as fast as it was able
Kicking up a noise like Babel,
Which I could not well explore;
Let my legs be firm a moment,
And this mystery explore――
’Tis a drunken man, no more.

For now I well remember,
In the dark days of December,
Full many a drouthy crony
Proceeds from door to door――
Pouring forth the flowing whiskey,
And, thereby getting frisky,
Plays many a curious plisky,
And raises many a splore――
It may be spirit rappers
On t’other side the door――
Only that, and nothing more.

So pulling up my breeches,
With many tugs and hitches,
I turned the key within the lock
And opened wide the door,
When arose a mighty bawling,
And a sudden stick came mauling,
That sent me quickly sprawling,
Sprawling on the parlour floor;
And I said _that_ spirit rapping
I very much deplore――
I think I rather swore.

And, shouting for a bobby,
Till my voice rang through the lobby,
I made efforts to collect myself
Lying spilt upon the floor;
But it is a fact outrageous
That no guardian beak courageous,
With whiskers so umbrageous,
Hears, however loud you roar;
So, assisted by the poker,
I crawled towards the door――
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Still the table it kept prancing,
And a private hornpipe dancing,
As if its soul rejoiced to see
The sufferings that I bore.
Wrathful at the wooden joker,
I smashed it with the poker,
When the loud tumultuous knocker
Fled from my chamber door,
Shouting out, to spirit rappers,
“Never open wide your door any more.”
And I murmured, “Nevermore!”

――――――――

THE DRAMA DESPONDENT!
(_A Poe-etical Parody._)

As one evening in my study, seated by the firelight ruddy,
I was busily absorbing portions of dramatic lore,
Suddenly I heard a creaking, as of some one slyly sneaking
(Setting both the hinges squeaking), sneaking through my study door.
And I murmured, _sotto voce_, “Who’s that fiddling with the door?
Doubtless some unwelcome bore!”

“Come in!” I sternly muttered, while my breast with anger fluttered,
When there sidled in a Figure, such as ne’er was seen before;
Like some stagey apparition, in a woe-begone condition――
And it took up its position just inside my chamber-door.
“What might be your name?” I asked it. And it answered from the door――
“I’m the Drama!”――nothing more!

“Oh, indeed!” I said, politely. “Take a chair!” but that unsightly,
Not to say dejected Figure, an unwilling manner bore.
I remarked, “You seem in sorrow,――still bear up, perhaps to-morrow
(Though some trouble has beset you, which at present you deplore)
You may meet with better fortune, and be brilliant as of yore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”

“Why this tone of bitter anguish?” I inquired; “you seem to languish
’Neath some very dreadful burden; state the reason, I implore!
Tell me plainly, now, what is it, that has caused this sudden visit――
Why the unexpected entrance of your figure through my door?
Why that stagey exclamation that you uttered just before,――
That expression, ‘Nevermore?’”

Still it groaned, and I retreated, as that sentence it repeated.
“What! again?” I said. “Pray, drop it; though your grief is doubtless sore,
_You_ can’t help trash being written for the theatres of Britain
And ‘swells’ won’t be _always_ waiting for their ‘pets’ at each stage-door,
And ere long the undressed syrens, may be swept away galore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”

Then the poor old Drama, sneering, took the cue for disappearing,――
And it pulled its mantle round it, and stalked slowly to the door――
And its groan was something fearful, as it said in accents tearful,
As it sadly bent its optics on the carpet-covered floor――
“Look here, old poetic party, I shall bet you ten to four,――
’Twill be better, Nevermore!――
That is, hardly evermore!”
H. C. N.
_The Entr’acte_, February 11, 1882.

――――――――

A VOICE.

In the dusk, within my chamber, I sat and sadly pondered――
Pondered o’er life’s problems with my hand upon my brow.
“When,” I asked, “will adverse fortune cease to torment and
oppress me?”
A voice from out the window, shrill and piercing, answered,
“_Now!_”
Thrilled and startled by the answer, coming from an unknown being,
I said again: “If blessing is in store, oh tell me how
Release will come, and joy and peace? Say, when, when will it be?”
And through the open casement promptly came the answer “_N-n-now!_”
Half in fear and half in frenzy, for methought the being mocked me,
I said: “Unlock the mystery of my fate, or else I vow
To curse thee for thy falseness. Tell me when I shall have blessing.”
The weird, shrill voice responded still, as ever, only “_N-n-ow-w!_”
To my feet I sprang in anger, flinging wide the casement shutter:
“Djinn!” I shrieked, “or devil, or angelic being thou
_Shalt_ say when peace wilt come and joy to calm my troubled spirit!”
The cat upon the moonlit shed below responded “_N-a-ow-w-w!_”

_Free Press Flashes_, 1883.

――――――――

DUNRAVEN.

(_A November Night’s Vision, after reading Edgar Poe and the Earl of Dunraven’s Address on “Fair Trade,” delivered by him, as President of the National Fair Trade League, at Sheffield, on November_ 12_th_, 1884.)

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary
Over many a dry and tedious tome of economic lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a snapping
As of some small terrier yapping, yapping at my study-door,
’Tis old _Ponto_ there, I muttered, yapping at my study-door,――
Only that, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was early in November
When to town the wearied Member came, and thought the thing a bore.
Eagerly I hoped the morrow SALISBURY some sense might borrow,
And I thought with ceaseless sorrow of the streamside and the moor,
Of the rare and radiant raptures of the streamside and the moor.
Heather’s sweep and trout-stream’s roar.

Open then I flung the doorway, when, with blast as chill as Norway,
In there stepped “Fair Trade” DUNRAVEN, solemn as a monk of yore;
Not the least apology made he, though I thought his manners “shady,”
But, as stiff as TATE and BRADY, stood within my study-door,
Underneath a bust of COBDEN just above my study-door,――
Stood, and scowled, and nothing more.

Then this sombre guest, beguiling my tired spirit into smiling
By the _doctrinaire_ decorum of the countenance he wore,
“Smugly trimmed and deftly shaven, though I trust I’m not a craven,
You have startled me, DUNRAVEN,” said I, “yapping at my door.
Tell me what your little game is, late at night at this my door?”
Quoth DUNRAVEN, “Tax once more!”

Much I chuckled (though urbanely) him to hear talk so insanely,
For his answer little wisdom, little relevancy bore;
And one cannot help agreeing no sane living human being
In “Fair Trade” salvation seeing, could come yapping at one’s door,
Snapping, late at night in winter, at a fellow’s study-door,
Just to bid him, “Tax once more!”

But DUNRAVEN, standing lonely under COBDEN’S bust, spake only
Those same words as though his creed in those few words he did
outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; calm he looked, and quite
unfluttered,
Then unto myself I muttered, “Other fads have flown before;
Very soon _this_ fad will vanish, as Protection did before.”
Quoth DUNRAVEN, “Tax once more!”

Startled at the silence broken by reply so patly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what he utters is his only stock and store,――
Caught from some bad fiscal master, whom trade-loss or farm-disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his talk one burden bore,――
Till the dirges of his craft one economic burden bore,――
Of ‘Tax――tax Corn once more!’

“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, Trade is going to the devil,
Is the plea of you and LOWTHER, CHAPLIN, many another bore.
Sophists dull, yet all undaunted, _do_ you think the thing that’s
wanted
By our land, depression-haunted,――tell me truly, I implore,――
Is it, _can_ it be Protection? Answer plainly, I implore!”
Quoth DUNRAVEN, “Tax once more!”

“Prophet,” said I, “of things evil, I _don’t_ wish to be uncivil,
But, by heaven! this Fair Trade figment is becoming a big bore.
Think you Corn with taxes laden means an economic Aidenn
For that somewhat ancient maiden who ‘protected’ was of yore,
For that very ancient maiden, Agriculture?” With a roar
Yelled DUNRAVEN “Tax once more!”

“Then it’s time that we were parting, Parroteer!” I cried, upstarting,
“Get thee back to silly Sheffield, twaddle on St. Stephen’s floor,
_I_ require no further token of the rot your League hath spoken,
Fair Trade phalanx to be broken by experience sad and sore.
Take thy BEAKEY’S words to heart, who said Protection’s day was o’er!”
Quoth DUNRAVEN, “Tax once more!”

And DUNRAVEN, dolefuller waxing, still stands croaking of Corn-taxing,
Underneath the bust of COBDEN, just above my study-door,
And his talk has all the seeming of a monomaniac’s dreaming――
Here I woke, and day was streaming through the lattice on the floor,
And I hope that no such vision e’er again my ears will bore
With the burden “Tax once more!”

_Punch_, November 22, 1884.

――――――――

THE RAVENOUS BULL AND THE BICYCLE.
(_With Apologies._)

My name is William Rory, and I’m going to tell a story,
Tell the story of an accident I’ve never told before.
How when coming home from Dover I felt myself in clover,
And I will say, moreover, that my feet were rather sore;
The landlord said, “You’ll rue it,”
But I said, “I mean to do it.” But I’ll do it nevermore.

And right well do I remember, ’twas early in September,
When that landlord said, “I’d rue it,” as he stood against the door,
When my feet were sore with walking for that day I had been stalking
Up and down the streets of Dover, where I’d never been before,
And I squinted at that landlord, and his warning did ignore.
But I’ll do it nevermore.

So says I, “You’re only joking, and at me it’s fun you’re poking.”
But the landlord looked quite solemn, and spat upon the floor.
And says he, “You must be silly to attempt a road so hilly.
And see the time for starting, why it’s just now striking four!
Pray, sir, now do not do it, but stay over, I implore.”
This he oft had said before.

But then he looked more willing, as I threw to him a shilling
To drink my health in whisky, as oft I’d done before.
And then I took my spanner, and all the bolts did hammer,
And tightened up the nuts, an operation I abhor,
Then I jumped into my saddle, shouting to him “_au revoir_.”
Only this, and nothing more.

And as I felt aweary, the road to me seemed dreary
Drearier than ever it had seemed to me before,
But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster,
And like a wingèd demon, along the road I tore,
In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score.
This I’d done, and nothing more.

And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster,
Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore.
While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing,
When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar;
And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar.
This I thought, and something more.

Just then a corner turning, my blood went through me burning,
For there in front, with fiery eyes, a bull straight for me tore.
A moment he stood eyeing, then bike and me sent flying,
The perspiration trickled down my skin from every pore,
And I rather think that in my flight I must have somehow swore.
Merely swore, and nothing more.

After such a fearful riot, I laid there on the quiet,
For he treated me so lively, and I wished the joke was o’er.
He had pitched me in a gutter, and my nerves were in a flutter,
And into a thousand pieces my new uniform he tore,
And says I he must be waiting for a taste of human gore.
This I said, and nothing more.

While in the gutter lying, I saw that bull go flying
Along the road, at such a speed he’d never gone before.
So I let him go and curs’d him, and prayed the fates might burst him,
For my bicycle he’d humbugged, and he’d made me “awful” sore,
And I felt he’d quite undone me, but he’d never do so more.
And I muttered nevermore.

I collected up the ruins of that nasty mad bull’s doin’s,
And straightway did I take them unto my cottage-door.
And my wife, when she espied me, said I wasn’t looking tidy.
And I told the awful story to the wife whom I adore,
And she said, “My dear, stop riding; do give up for evermore.”
And I have, for evermore.
A. J. FREELAND.
Wheeling Annual, 1885.

――――――――

A CAT-AS-TROPHY.

The other night as I lay musing, and my weary brain confusing o’er the topics of the day, suddenly I heard the rattling, as of serious hosts a-battling, as they mingled in the fray. “What’s that?” I cried, upstarting, and into the darkness darting, slap! I ran against the door. “Oh, ’tis “naught,” young _Hornet_ grumbled, as o’er a huge arm-chair, I stumbled,” ’tis a flea, and nothing more.” “Then,” said I, my anger rising, for I thought it so surprising that a flea should thus offend, “do you think a small insect, sir, thus would all the air infect, sir? No, ’tis not a flea, my friend.”

Now becoming sorely frightened, round my waist my pants I tightened, and put on my coat and hat, and into the darkness peering, I saw, with trembling and much fearing, the glaring eyes of Thomas Cat, Esq.

With astonishment and wonder I gazed upon this son of thunder, as he sat upon the floor, when resolution taking, a rapid movement making, lo! I opened wide the door. “Now clear out,” I hoarsely shouted, as o’er my head my boot I flouted; take your presence from my floor!” Then, with air and mien majestic, this creature, called domestic, made his exit through the door. Made his exit without growling, neither was his voice heard howling, not a single word he said.――And with feelings much elated, to escape a doom so fated, I went back to my bed.

_The Hornsey Hornet_, October, 1866.

――――――――

THE END OF “THE RAVEN.”

You’ll remember that a Raven in my study found a haven
On a plaster bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And that with no sign of flitting, he persisted there in sitting
Till, I’m not above admitting, that I found that bird a bore.
Found him, as he sat and watched me, an indubitable bore,
With his dreary “Never more.”

But it was, in fact, my liver caused me so to shake and shiver,
And to think a common Raven supernatural influence bore;
I in truth had, after dining, been engaged some hours in “wining”――
To a grand old port inclining――which its date was ’44!
And it was this crusted vintage, of the season ’44,
Which had muddled me so sore.

But next morn my “Eno” taking, for my head was sadly aching,
I descended to my study, and a wicker cage I bore.
There the Raven sat undaunted, but I now was disenchanted,
And the sable fowl I taunted as I “H-s-s-h-d!” him from my door,
As I took up books and shied them till he flew from off my door,
Hoarsely croaking, “Never more!”

“Now, you stupid bird!” I muttered, as about the floor it fluttered.
“Now you’re sorry p’raps you came here from where’er you lived
before?”
Scarcely had I time to ask it, when, upsetting first a casket,
My large-size waste-paper basket he attempted to explore,
Tore the papers with his beak, and tried its mysteries to explore,
Whilst I ope’d the cage’s door.

Ever in my actions quicker, I brought up the cage of wicker,
Placed it on the paper basket, and gave one loud “H-s-s-h!” once more.
When, with quite a storm of croaking, as though Dis himself invoking,
And apparently half choking, in it rushed old “Never more!”――
Right into the cage of wicker quickly popped old “Never more!”
And I smartly shut the door.

Then without the least compunction, booking to St. John’s Wood
Junction,
To the “Zoo” my cage of wicker and its sable bird I bore.
Saw the excellent Curator, showed him the persistent prater――
Now in manner much sedater――and said, “Take him, I implore!
He’s a nuisance in my study, take him, Bartlett, I implore!”
And he answered, “Hand him o’er.”

“Be those words our sign of parting!” cried I, suddenly upstarting,
“Get you in amongst your kindred, where you doubtless were before.
You last night, I own, alarmed me (perhaps the cucumber had harmed
me!),
And you for the moment charmed me with your ceaseless ‘Never more!’――
Gave me quite a turn by croaking out your hollow ‘Never more!’
But ‘Good-bye!’ all that is o’er!”

* * * * *

Last Bank Holiday, whilst walking at the Zoo, and idly talking,
Suddenly I heard low accents that recalled the days of yore;
And up to the cages nearing, and upon the perches peering――
There, with steak his beak besmearing, draggle-tailed, sat “Never
more!”
Mutual was our recognition, and, in his debased condition, he too
thought of heretofore;
For anon he hoarsely muttered, shook his draggled tail and
fluttered, drew a cork at me and swore――
Yes, distinctly drew three corks, and most indubitably swore!
Only that, and nothing more!

_Funny Folks Annual_, 1884.

――――――――

SEQUEL TO THE “RAVEN.”

The author of the following was R. Allston Lavender, Jr., a maniac in the lunatic asylum at Raleigh, N.C. He fancied that it was dictated by the spirit of Edgar A. Poe:

Fires within my brain were burning,
Scorning life, despairing, yearning;
Hopeless, blinded in my anguish;
Through my body’s open door
Came a Raven, foul and sable,
Like those evil birds of fable,
Downward swooping where the drooping
Spectres haunt the Stygian’s shore.

Ghosts of agonies departed,
Festering wounds that long had smarted,
Broken vows, returnless mornings,
Griefs and miseries of yore,
By some art revived, undaunted,
I gazed steadfast; the enchanted,
Black, infernal Raven uttered
A wild dirge――not Evermore.

Gazing steady, gazing madly
On the bird, I spoke, and sadly
Broke down, too deep for scorning,
Sought for mercy to implore.
Turning to the bird, I blessed it――
In my bosom I caressed it;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.

I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they――not blooming pansies――
Made me think the bird a spirit.
Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape――be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!
From thy banquet rise――be human!
I have seen thee oft before;
Thou art a bird, but something more.

Tapping, tapping, striking deeper,
Rousing pain, my body’s keeper,
Thou hast oft ere while sought entrance
At the heart’s great palace door;
Leave me, leave me, gloomy demon,
Fiend or spirit, most inhuman;
Strike me through, but first unveiling,
Let me scan thee o’er and o’er――
Thou art a bird, but something more.

Still with sable pinions flapping,
The great Raven tapping, tapping,
Struck into my breast his talons.
Vast his wings outspread, and o’er
All my nature cast a pallor,
But I strove with dying valor,
With the poinard of repulsion,
Striking through the form it wore――
Of a bird, and something more.

Oh! thou huge, infernal Raven,
Image that Hell’s King hath graven,
Image growing more gigantic,
Nursed beyond the Stygian shore,
Leave me, leave me, I beseech thee,
I would not of wrong, impeach thee;
I cried madly, then earth opened,
With a brazen earthquake roar.

Downward, downward, circling, speeding,
Cries of anguish still unheeding,
Striking through me with his talons,
Still the Raven shape he bore;
Unto Erebus we drifted,
His huge wings by thunder lifted,
Beat ’gainst drifts of white-flamed lightning,
Sprinkled red with human gore――
’Twas a bird, but demon more.

I’m no bird, “an angel brother,”
A bright spirit and none other,
I have waited, blissful tended
Thee for thirty years and more.
In thy wild, illusive madness;
In thy blight, disease and sadness,
I have sounded, tapping, tapping
At thy spirit’s Eden door,
Not a bird, but angel more.

In my Palmyrenian splendor,
In Zenobian regnance tender,
More than Roman thought Aurelian,
Were the kingly name I bore;
I have left my angel-palace,
Dropping in thy sorrow’s chalice
Consolation; oh! ’twas blessed,
Sweet thy pillow to bend o’er,
Not a bird, love’s angel more.

Shining down with light Elysian
Through the pearly gate of vision,
On thy tranced soul lighted fancy,
When across thy chamber-floor,
Fell the spirit moonlight laden,
Laden with soft dews from Aidenn,
Shaken downward, still Nepenthe
Drunk by dreaming bards of yore.

Eden is life’s mocking fever,
Where through citron groves for ever
Blow the spice winds, and the love-birds
Tell their raptures o’er and o’er,
From earth’s hell by Afrits haunted,
From its evil disenchanted,
I have borne thee, gaze upon me,
Didst thou see me ne’er before?

Then I wakened, if to waken
Be to dwell by grief, forsaken,
With the God who dwelt with angels
In the shining age of yore.
And I stood sublime, victorious,
While below lay earth with glorious
Realms of angels shining,
Crown-like on her temples evermore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.

Earth, I cried, thy clouds are shadows
From the Asphodelian meadows
Of the sky-world floating downward,
Early rains that from them pour;
Love’s own heaven thy mother bore thee,
And the Father God bends o’er thee,
’Tis His hand that crowns thy forehead,
Thou shalt live for evermore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.

As a gem has many gleamings,
And a day hath many beamings,
And a garden many roses
Thrilled with sweetness to the core;
So the soul hath many ages,
And the life’s book many pages,
But the heart’s great gospel opens
Where the Seraphims adore,
Not on earth, an Eden more.

I will write a book hereafter,
Cheerful as a baby’s laughter
When its mother’s breast o’er leans it,
On the sainted spirit shore;
Like Apollo, the far data,
I, the poet and the martyr,
Will chant paeans of soul music
That shall live for evermore,
Not a friend, a brother more.

_American Paper._

In many instances, authors have selected the curious metre of “The Raven,” with its double echoes, and sonorous refrain, for imitation in poems of too serious a character to be styled Parodies. One clever poem of this description appeared a few years ago in “Lloyd’s Poetical Magazine,” and has recently been republished by its author, Mr. Ernest S. T. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne. It is entitled, “A Vigil Vision,” and is a very musical though rather sad poem, in form and versification much resembling “The Raven,” but having no refrain.

Any extracts would do it injustice, and it is too long to quote in full; moreover, it scarcely comes within the compass of this collection.

Before quitting “The Raven” and the parodies it has given rise to, it must be mentioned that Mr. J. H. Ingram has clearly pointed out that it was not in itself a perfectly original poem. Indeed Poe, himself, in his half-serious, half-jesting “Philosophy of Composition” remarks, “Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm, or the metre of “The Raven;” adding, however, that nothing approaching the peculiar combination of the verses into stanzas had ever been previously attempted.

The first printed version of “The Raven” appeared in the _Evening Mirror_ (New York) on the 29th of January, 1845; in 1843 Poe had been writing for the _New Mirror_, another New York paper, which in the number for Saturday, October 14th, 1843, contained a poem in twelve stanzas, entitled _Isadore_. This poem was written by Mr. Albert Pike, a well-known American _littérateur_, and was prefaced by an editorial note, stating that the poem was one of the imagination only, as the Poet’s wife was then alive and perfectly well.

――――――――

ISADORE.

“Thou art lost to me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore,――
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine:
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!”

“My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore.”

* * * * *

“Thou art gone from me for ever, I have lost thee, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore.
If it were not for our children’s sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,――
And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.”

In “Isadore” the most distinctive――the only salient――feature is the refrain with which each stanza concludes; the metre and rhythm are much less dexterously managed than in “The Raven,” but it was evidently the author’s intention to produce an effect similar to that which Poe, with superior skill, did subsequently create.

ANNABEL LEE.

I.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

II.

_I_ was a child, and _she_ was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

III.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

IV.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

V.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we――
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

VI.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling――my darling――my life, and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.

(First published after the author’s death.)

――――――――

SAMUEL BROWN.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.

I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,――
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling-house,
In a street quite up in the town.

The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,――
Of many far wiser than we,――
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.

_Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields), Boston, United States, 1854.

――――――――

THE CANNIBAL FLEA.

I.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a District styled E.C.,
That a monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea;
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live,――and to live on me!

II.

I was in bed, and he was in bed,
In the District named E.C.,
When first in his thirst, so accursed he burst
Upon me the Cannibal Flea!
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me!

III.

And this is the reason why long ago,
In that District called E.C.,
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night, until morning came,
Kept boring away at me!
It wore me down to a skeleton,
In the District hight, E.C.

IV.

From the hour that I sought my bed――eleven――
Till daylight he tortured me,――
Yes!――that was the reason (as all men know,
In that District named E.C.),
I so often jumped out of my bed by night,
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.

V.

But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he,――
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.

VI.

For at night with a scream I am waked from my dream,
By the terrible Cannibal Flea,
And at morn I ne’er rise without the bites,――of such size!――
From the terrible Cannibal Flea;
So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside
In the District――the District――where he doth abide,
The locality known as E.C.――
That is postally known as E.C.!
TOM HOOD, the younger.

――――――――

[3]THE L. C. D. AND THE L. S. D.

It was many and many a year ago――
How many boots little to me――
That a railway was made, which you may know
By the name of the L. C. D.
Crowns have tottered, and armies have fought,
And Empires have ceased to be,
Since that line from city to sea was brought――
Absorbing much L. S. D.

A friend of my youth, long under the turf,
In a cinque port by the sea,
Once walking beside the rolling surf
On the sands thus spoke to me:
“A dear old Nunky, who sleeps in peace
In a sepulchre here by the sea,
Was graciously pleased on his decease,
To leave me some L. S. D.

“In Bank Consols, which are safe and sound,
But yield only percentage three,
While seven at least, all the season round
Might be shared from the L. C. D.”
_I_ was a child, and _he_ was a child,
And precious noodles we,
Who might as well in the ocean wild
Have scattered our L. S. D.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of many far wiser than we,
Who declared the first dividend meeting would prove
The last from the L. C. D.
But when through the hills and valleys of Kent
Our railway reached the sea,
We hoped at length our capital spent
Would return us some L. S. D.

But neither the increase of traffic and fares,
Nor the strangers from over the sea,
Did ever dissever a coin from our shares
In the profitless L. C. D.
Yet the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of a dividend yet to be,
After centuries past, to gladden at last
Our descendants with L. S. D.
JOSEPH VEREY.
_Hornet_, February 5, 1873.

――――――――

ST. ROSE OF LIMA, PERU (A.D. 1617.)

It was many and many a year ago,
In a World they call the New,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
As the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than the penances she could do.

She was a child, yet never a child
Did holiness so pursue,
By morning and night, and by candle-light
In wisdom and grace she grew,
And ever would strive to all earthly faults
And pleasures to say adieu.

An angel in beauty, she thought it was right
To spoil it to mortals’ view,
She scratch’d it with briars, and burnt it in fires,
Until she was known by few;
(O maidens whose charms you but live to adorn
This never would do for _you_!)

But her fear of the world was more than her fear
Of loveliness losing its due――
Of tortures that thrill’d her through:
And neither the sackcloth she wore to her skin,
Nor her spiky belt thereto,
Could ever elicit the faintest complaint
From the blessed St. Rose of Peru.

When Love drew near with its honey’d words,
And tenderly tried to woo,
The name of wife and the joys of life
She rigidly would eschew.
She prick’d, for her sins, her head with pins,
And the blood in streamlets drew,
And tears they were spilt for her fancied guilt,
By the blessed St. Rose of Peru.

And oft she would fast, but to eat at last
The bitterest herbs she knew,
And all that was pleasant and good to the taste
In horror away she threw;
She stripp’d her garden of all sweet flowers,
And sow’d it with thorns and rue.

And angels would come and make her one
(In dreams) of their seraph crew,
And often the Fiend, in his beauty screen’d,
Her spirit would fain subdue,
But evil could only fail to prevail
With the blessed St. Rose of Peru.

And these are the reasons her fame would grow
In the World they call the New,
But youth wasn’t past ere the wintry blast
The flame of her life out-blew;
There issued a breath from the mouth of Death
Chilling and killing the Rose of Peru.

And many and many a year flew by
In that World they call the New,
While marvels divine were wrought at the shrine
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru.
(I should beat my breast and be much distress’d
If you call’d this part untrue.)

But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake,
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute
Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru;
And so I decide my pangs to abide
Like her who suffer’d――and braved――and died
In the capital of Peru,
The region they call Peru.

_Lays of the Saintly._ By Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.), London, 1882.

――――――――

BEAUTIFUL B.

It was many and many a year ago,
By a theatre known as P.
That a little boy stood, whom now we know
By the name of Wilson B.
Whose soul was filled with no other thought
Than to act the Prince of D.

He _was_ a boy, and still like a boy,
In that theatre known as P.,
He plays in a play, that is not mere play,
And as Hamlet Prince of D.,
With many a clutch at his manly breast,
And a smile that is sweet to see.

For this is the reason some time ago,
At his theatre known as P.,
In “Lights of London” and “Romany Rye,”
And the “Silver King” did he
Lead up to the higher “Claudian” rôle
Of poetic tragedee,
Till he’d raised the taste of that theatre
To Hamlet, Prince of D.

For Irving, o’er sated with London’s praise
Went once more across the sea.
Yes! that was the reason, as all men know,
And not the mere L. S. D.
That the Lyceum company, touring, had left
The coast clear for Wilson B.

But his rôle was more youthful by far than the rôle
Of actors more thrilling than he
Of parties intenser than he;
And neither the posing, nor withering smile,
Of a smothered agonee,
Can ever confuse his rôle with the rôle
Of the actor now over the sea.

The play never plays, without crowding the ways
To that theatre we’ve named P.
And the lamps are not lit, ’ere the crowd at the pit
Are waiting for Wilson B.
And all the night long he is there with his stride
Of his youth, his beauty, in lime-light’s pride
In the theatre there you still may see
Beautiful B. as Prince of D.
J. W. G. W., November, 1884.

(Written expressly for this collection, during the run of _Hamlet_ at the Princess’s Theatre, London, with Mr. Wilson Barrett as the Prince of Denmark. Mr. Henry Irving, who had recently been performing the same part at the Lyceum, being then on tour in the United States.)

――――――――

ANNABEL LEE.

’Twas more than a million years ago,
Or so, it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighbourhood
But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree――
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree.
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and the desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn’t just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree.
For had she stayed below with me,
We’d had no hickory nuts, may be,
But I would have had my Annabel Lee.

_Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke._ By Stanley Huntley, of the “_Brooklyn Eagle_.”

ULALUME.

I.

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere,――
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir,――
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

II.

Here once, through an alley Titanic
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,――
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,――
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,――
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

III.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,――
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year!
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dark tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

* * * * *

VIII.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom――
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb――
By the door of a legended tomb,
And I said, “What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?”
She replied, “Ulalume――Ulalume――
’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

* * * * *
EDGAR A. POE.

――――:o:――――

PARALUNE.
(_A Poe-tic Fragment_).

[A new moonshade, called a Paralune, has been introduced to preserve Ladies’ complexions from the alleged injurious effects of moonlight.]

Then I looked round for SUKEY, and missed her;
But back she came bounding right soon;
And I said, “What’s the matter, sweet Sister?”
She pointed at once to the moon,
To the silvery sheeny full moon.
“Hang it, SUKEY,” I cried, “you’re a twister!
What’s _that_? To explain were a boon.”
She replied, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the moonshade, the new Paralune.”

Then she said, “She’s a danger is Dian,
A Satellite Ladies mistrust,
To the skin she is terribly tryin’,
And makes one’s complexion like dust.
Red, freckled, or dingy as dust――
Nay, tanned like the tawny-maned Lion.”
“What nonsense!” cried I, in disgust.
SUKEY sobbed, “You’re unjust, you’re unjust!
And carry a moonshade I _must_!”

Then I melted, and tried to look pleasant,
And tempted her out ’neath the moon!
Explained the full disc and the crescent,
Each scoriac rock and lagoon;
And her moonshade she dropped very soon;
But next morning her nose was rubescent,
Her temper was much out of tune;
And she wailed, “Paralune! Paralune!
’Tis the fault of my lost Paralune!”

_Punch_, September 10, 1881.

――――:o:――――

THE WILLOWS.

The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year;
Like the skies I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,――
At the Nightingale,――perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here, once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,――
Of Ten-pins,――with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,――
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I marked not the night of the year;
I forgot that sweet _morceau_ of Auber
That the band oft performed down here,
And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
With the Nightingale’s music of Shear.

And now as the night was senescent,
And the star-dials pointed to morn,
And car-drivers hinted of morn.
At the end of the path a liquescent
And bibulous lustre was born;
’Twas made by the bar-keeper present,
Who mixéd a duplicate horn,――
His two hands describing a crescent
Distinct with a duplicate horn.

And I said: “This looks perfectly regal,
For its warm, and I know I feel dry,――
I am confident that I feel dry;
We have come past the emeu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;
Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,――
To the swan and the monkey on high,――
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not enveigle,――
Bully boy with the vitreous eye;
He surely would never inveigle,――
Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.”

But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, “Sadly this bar I mistrust,――
I fear that this bar does not trust.
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly,――let us fly,――ere we must!”
In terror she cried, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,――
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Parasol till it trailed in the dust,――
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom,――
By some words that were warning of doom,
And I said, “What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?”
She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room.”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and drear,――
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, “It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed――I journeyed down here,――
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah! to me that inscription is clear;
Well I know now, I’m perfectly sober,
Why no longer they credit me here,――
Well I know now that music of Auber,
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.”
BRET HARTE.

――――:o:――――

WHAT IS IN A NAME.
(_From “Ravings,” by E. A. Poe_――_t._)

The autumn upon us was rushing,
The parks were deserted and lone――
The streets were unpeopled and lone;
My foot through the sere leaves was brushing,
That over the pathway were strown――
By the wind in its wanderings strown.
I sighed――for my feelings were gushing
Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne,
Like lava liquescent lay gushing,
And rose to the porphyry throne――
To the filigree footstool were gushing,
That stands on the steps of that throne――
On the solid stone steps of that throne.

I cried――“Shall the winter leaves fret us?”
Oh, turn――we must turn to the fruit,
To the freshness and force of the fruit!
To the gifts wherewith autumn has met us――
Her music that never grows mute
(That maunders but never grows mute),
The tendrils, the vine branches net us,
The lily, the lettuce, the lute――
The esculent, succulent lettuce,
And the languishing lily, and lute;――
Yes;――the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce;
Late lily and lingering lute.

“Then come――let us fly from the city!
Let us travel in orient isles――
In the purple of orient isles――
Oh, bear me――yes, bear me in pity
To climes where a sun ever smiles――
Ever smoothly and speciously smiles!
Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty
Enhances pyramidal piles:
Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty
Awakens pyramidal piles――
Yes:――his pointless perpetual ditty
Perplexes pyramidal piles!”

_Vere Vereker’s Vengeance_, by Thomas Hood.

J. C. HOTTEN, London, 1865.

――――:o:――――

YOU’LL RESUME!
AIR (_more or less_) “_Ulalume_.”
_Premier sings_――

I had passed through a Session Satanic,
And Irish, with “Pussy,”[4] sleek Peer.
Those were the days of explosion volcanic,
The nights of delirium drear,
Long speeches, and labours Titanic,
PAT outrage, Egyptian panic,
Rude ruction, Obstruction, and fear,
French shirking, and shyness Germanic――
A most unforgettable year!

The Session, in fact, was a twister,
Had filled us with doubt and with gloom;
But we’d got to the end of its vista,[5]
For starry-eyed Hope there seemed room.
We could flee from Big Ben’s heavy boom.
Yet Forecast, Hope’s heavy-browed sister,
Kept whispering words of dark doom
In my ear, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
In two months from to-day, you’ll resume!”

“We are off!” Pussy cried. “This _is_ pleasant!
How jolly! From Westminster far!”
“Ah, precisely,” said I, “_for the present_!”
Cried he, “What a croaker you are!
What a――well Grand old Croaker you are!
Let us think of the grouse and the pheasant,
And not of St. Stephen’s war,
Of popping at partridge and pheasant,
Not worry, and WARTON, and war.”

Then I said, “My dear Pussy, be sober!
Remember we’re bound to be here
By the end of the month of October,
Of this unforgettable year――
By the twenty-fourth day of October.
This very identical year.
Ha! doesn’t _that_ make you feel queer?”

“We shall yet have to work, Puss, like winking.
Tourists? _Cloture_-ists also I trust.
Obstruction to fight without shrinking
Will call us all back――come we must,
To St. Stephens’s shindy and dust.”
“Oh, hang it!” cried Puss, his face sinking;
“That bothering _Cloture_ be――bust!”

Then I pacified Pussy, and chid him
For giving vulgarity room.
And he promised to do as I bid him,
But there passed o’er his features a gloom――
A settled and sable-hued gloom――
As black as the pall o’er a tomb.
And I said――of it hoping to rid him――
“Dear Puss, what’s the cause of this gloom?”
He replied, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume!
’Tis the thought of those words, You’ll resume!”

_Punch_, August 26, 1882.

――――:o:――――

HOPE: AN ALLEGORY.

The metre of this Poem is adapted from Edgar A. Poe’s “Ulalume.”

King Phœbus came forth in his splendour
Bedight in his garments of gold,
And round the young treelings so tender,
His raiments of rays did enfold――
Round Hebe, the young and the slender,
His mantle of magic he roll’d,
To keep her from blight and defend her
From sorrow, temptation, or cold.

And while he with Hebe was walking――
Whose face in the flow’rs was seen――
In the rosebud with red in between――
Violet-veined Venus came talking――
Oh! talking with Love came his queen,――
With Cupid she talking was seen;
With Cupid for hearts she was hawking――
Was hawking o’er Hebe’s own green,
To snare the warm heart of the Sun-king
From Hebe, its self-chosen queen.

And while the young pair were still parting,
To Phœbus came blue-eyed Love;
To the Sun-king came Venus’s dove,
And then, from the bushes, upstarting,
Soared into a cloudlet above.
Then came from his bow swiftly darting
An arrow――the arrow of Love.

With the pain King Phœbus was sobbing,
When Venus came by with her balms,
And eased the Sun-king of his throbbing,
As he lay in her beautiful arms;
The wound of its pain quickly robbing;
She sooth’d him with nepenthè calms;
She sooth’d the Sun-king in his sobbing,
By the sound of her Letheian psalms.

Then King Phœbus with poppies she crown’d,
While Somnus o’erwhelm’d him with sleep;
And with slumber his senses they drown’d,
And they soundly his senses did steep;
And Venus her arms then unwound,
While out of his heart Love did leap,
And they left him alone on the ground――
They left him alone in deep sleep.

* * * * *