Complete Stories And Poems Of Edgar Allan Poe (90 page)

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be eitherthorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, theessentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to citefor consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems whichbest suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the mostdefinite impression. By “minor poems” I mean, of course, poems of littlelength. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regardto a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. Ihold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a longpoem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuchas it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in theratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through apsychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which wouldentitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout acomposition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at thevery utmost, it flags -- fails -- a revulsion ensues -- and then the poemis, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling thecritical dictum that the “Paradise Lost” is to be devoutly admiredthroughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, duringperusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losingsight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view itmerely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity -- itstotality of effect or impression -- we read it (as would be necessary) ata single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitementand depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, therefollows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgmentcan force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read itagain, omitting the first book -- that is to say, commencing with thesecond -- we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which webefore condemned -- that damnable which we had previously so much admired.It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effectof even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity: -- and this isprecisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least verygood reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, grantingthe epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfectsense of art. The modem epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, butan inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artisticanomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem
were
popular inreality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem willever be popular again. That the extent of a poetical work is,
ceteris paribus,
the measureof its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propositionsufficiently absurd -- yet we are indebted for it to the QuarterlyReviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere
size,
abstractly considered-- there can be nothing in mere
bulk, so
far as a volume is concerned,which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturninepamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physicalmagnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime-- but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeurof even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to beso impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimatingLamar” tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound -- but what elseare we to infer from their continual plating about “sustained effort”?If, by “sustained effort,” any little gentleman has accomplished an epic,1* us frankly commend him for the effort -- if this indeed be a thing conkmendable--but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort’s account. Itis to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will preferdeciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes -- by theeffect it produces -- than by the time it took to impress the effect, orby the amount of “sustained effort” which had been found necessary ineffecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing andgenius quite another -- nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendomconfound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have beenjust urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by beinggenerally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged astruths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces aprofound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of thestamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungentand spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous tostamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so manyfeathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down thewind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade:

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me—who knows how?—

To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark the silent stream—

The champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale’s complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

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 thine again,

Where it will break at last!

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet 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 written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the critical than in the popular view:

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 woo—

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.