Complete Essays, Literary Criticism, Cryptography, Autography, Translations & Letters. Эдгар Аллан По

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       That he should cross the seas to win

       The dearest of the dear?

       I saw thee, lovely Ines,

       Descend along the shore,

       With bands of noble gentlemen,

       And banners waved before,

       And gentle youth and maidens gay,

       And snowy plumes they wore;

       It would have been a beauteous dream,

       If it had been no more!

       Alas, alas, fair Ines,

       She went away with song,

       With music waiting on her steps,

       And shoutings of the throng;

       But some were sad and felt no mirth,

       But only Music’s wrong,

       In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

       To her you’ve loved so long.

       Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

       That vessel never bore

       So fair a lady on its deck,

       Nor danced so light before,-

       Alas for pleasure on the sea,

       And sorrow on the shore!

       The smile that blest one lover’s heart

       Has broken many more!

      “The Haunted House,” by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever written — one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal — imaginative. I regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit me to offer the universally appreciated “Bridge of Sighs”:—

      One more Unfortunate,

       Weary of breath,

       Gone to her death!

       Take her up tenderly,

       Lift her with care,-

       Fashion’d so slenderly,

       Young and so fair!

       Look at her garments

       Clinging like cerements;

       Whilst the wave constantly

       Drips from her clothing;

       Take her up instantly,

       Loving, not loathing.

       Touch her not scornfully,

       Think of her mournfully,

       Gently and humanly,

       Not of the stains of her,

       All that remains of her

       Now is pure womanly.

       Make no deep scrutiny

       Into her mutiny

       Rash and undutiful;

       Past all dishonor,

       Death has left on her

       Only the beautiful.

       Where the lamps quiver

       So far in the river,

       With many a light

       From window and casement

       From garret to basement,

       She stood, with amazement,

       Houseless by night

       The bleak wind of March

       Made her tremble and shiver,

       But not the dark arch,

       Or the black flowing river:

       Mad from life’s history,

       Glad to death’s mystery,

       Swift to be hurl’d-

       Anywhere, anywhere

       Out of the world!

       In she plunged boldly,

       No matter how coldly

       The rough river ran,-

       Over the brink of it,

       Picture it,- think of it,

       Dissolute Man!

       Lave in it, drink of it

       Then, if you can!

       Still, for all slips of her

       One of Eves family-

       Wipe those poor lips of hers

       Oozing so clammily,

       Loop up her tresses

       Escaped from the comb,

       Her fair auburn tresses;

       Whilst wonderment guesses

       Where was her home?

       Who was her father?

       Who was her mother?

       Had she a sister?

       Had she a brother?

       Or was there a dearer one

       Still, and a nearer one

       Yet, than all other?

       Alas! for the rarity

       Of Christian charity

       Under the sun!

       Oh! it was pitiful

       Near a whole city full,

       Home she had none.

       Sisterly, brotherly,

       Fatherly, motherly,

       Feelings had changed:

       Love, by harsh evidence,

       Thrown from its eminence,

       Seeming estranged.

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