Edgar Allan Poe to John Neal — October–November 1829 (letter and poetry excerpts) — reading text

Edgar Allan Poe to John Neal — October–November 1829 (letter and poetry excerpts) This is the original December 1829 printed witness under “Unpublished Poetry,” preserving Neal’s introduction, the quoted letter passage, its accompanying poetry excerpts, and Neal’s responses. The letter’s exact date is not written in this printing; October–November 1829 is the scholarly assignment. The original manuscript is unlocated, so this record claims the complete four-page publication, not a recovered complete autograph letter. Separate quotations and editorial comments remain visibly distinguished in the scan. Source: The Yankee and Boston Literary Gazette, new series, number 6, December 1829, pages 295–298. The local PDF retains the source page content and embedded images unchanged. Searchable text is repository machine OCR and contains recognition errors; consult the scan for exact wording. [Printed page 295] Unpublished Poetry. UNPUBLISHED POETRY. Tue following passages are from the manuseript-works of a young author, about to be published in Baltimore. He is entirely a stranger to us, but with all their faults, if the remainder of Al Aaraaf and Tamerlane are as good as the body of the extracts here given—to say nothing of the more extraordinary parts, he will deserve to stand high—very high—in the estimation of the shi- ning brotherhood. Whether he will do so however, must de- pend, not so much upon his worth now in mere poétry, as upon his worth hereafter in something yet loftier and more generous— we allude to the stronger properties of the mind, to the magna- nimous determination that enables a youth to endure the present, whatever the present may be, in the hope, or rather in the be- lief, the fixed, unwavering belief, that in the future he will find his reward. “I am young,” he says in a letter to one who has laid it on our table for a good purpose, “I am young—not yet twenty—am a poet—if deep worship of all beauty can make me one—and wish to be so in the more common meaning of the word. I would give the world to embody one half the ideas afloat in my imagination. (By the way, do you remember—or did you ever read the exclamation of Shelley about Shakspeare >—‘ What a number of ideas must have been afloat before such an author could arise !’) I appeal to you as a man that loves the same beau- ty which I adore—the beauty of the natural blue sky and the sunshiny earth—there can be no tie more strong than that of brother for brother—it is not so much that they love one another, as that they both love the same parent—their affections are al- ways running in the same direction—the same channel—and can- not help mingling. I am and have been, from my childhood, an idler. It cannot therefore be said that * I left a calling for this idle trade, A duty broke—a father disobeyed’— for I have no father—nor mother. I am about to publish a volume of ‘ Poems,’ the greater part written before I was fifteen. Speaking about ‘ Heaven,’ (1) the edi- tor of the Yankee says, ‘He might write a beautiful, if not a magnificent poem’—(the very first words of encouragement I ever remember to have heard.) I am very certain that as yet I have not written either—but that I can, I will take oath—if they will give me time. The poems to be published are ‘ Al Aaraaf’—‘ Tamerlane’— (1) A poem by the author of Al Aaraaf, mentioned in No. III: 168. [Printed page 296] 296 Unpublished Poetry. December, one about four, and the other about three hundred lines, with smaller pieces. ‘Al Aaraaf? has some good poetry, and much extravagance, which I have not had time to throw away. (2) * Al Aaraaf? is a tale of another world—the star discovered by Tycho Brahe, which appeared and disappeared so suddenly— or rather, it is no tale at all. I will insert an extract, about the palace of its presiding Deity, in which you will see that I have supposed many of the lost sculptures of our world to have flown (in spirit) to the star ‘ Al Aaraaf’—a delicate place, more suited to their divinity. Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthened air— * Flashing, from Parian marble, that twin-smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair : Of molten stars their pavement—such as fall Thro’ the ebon air—besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution while they die— Adorning, then, the dwellings of the sky ; A dome by linked light (3) from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown ; A window of one circular diamond there Looked out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow’d all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th’ Empyrean, and that ring, Some eager spirit flapp’d a dusky wing : But, on the pillars, seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world : that grayish green ‘That nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave, Lurked in each cornice—round each architrave— And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling ventured (4) out, Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche— Archaian statues in a world so rich ? Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis— From Balbec and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah !—oh ! the wave Is now upon thee—but too late to save ! Far down within the crystal of the lake Thy swollen pillars tremble—and so quake The hearts of many wanderers who look in Thy luridness of beauty—and of sin. (2) This will remind the reader of the following anecdote. Your sermon was too long sir—why didn’t you make it shorter? J hadn’t time. (3) The idea of linked light is beautiful; but, the moment you read it aloud, the beauty is gone. To say link-ed light would be queer enough, notwith- standing Moore’s ‘* wreath-ed shell ;’’ but to say link’d-light would spoil the rhythm, (4) The word in the original was peered: we have changed it for the reason stated above. ; * Alluding to a prior part. [Printed page 297] Unpublished Poetry. 297 ——Silence is the voice of God— Ours is a world of words: quiet we call «* Silence’’—which is the merest word of all. Here Nature speaks—and ev’n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings ; But ah ! not so, when in the realms on high, The eternal voice of God is moving by, And the red winds are withering in the sky ! From Tamerlane— The fever’d diadem on my brow I claimed and won usurpingly : Hath not the same fierce heirdom given Rome to the Cesar—this to me? The heritage of a kingly mind And a proud spirit, which hath striven Triumphantly with human-kind. * * * * On mountain soil I first drew life, The mists of the Taglay have shed Nightly their dews upon my head ; And, I believe, the winged strife And tumult of the headlong air Hath nestled in my very hair. * * » * So late from Heaven, that dew, it fell, Mid dreams of one unholy night, Upon me with the touch of Hell— While the red flashing of the light From clouds that bung, like banners, o’er, Seem’d then to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy ; And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar Came hurriedly upon me telling Of human battle (near me swelling. ) * * * * The rain came down upon my head Unshelter’d, and the heavy wind Was giantlike—so thou, my mind ! It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me—and the ruash— The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires—with the captive’s prayer ; The hum of suitors, and the tone Of flattery round a sovereign-throne. * * * * Young Love’s first lesson is the heart : For mid that sunshine and those smiles, When, from our little cares apart, And laughing at her girlish wiles, I’d throw me on her throbbing breast, And pour my spirit out in tears, There was no need to speak the rest— No need to quiet any fears Of her—who ask’d no reason why, But turned on me her quiet eye. 8 VOL. 11.—no. 6. 3 —— SS EO LN PT [Printed page 298] 298 Unpublished Poetry. Tamerlane dying— Father ! I firmly do believe— I know—for Death, who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, (Where there is nothing to deceive) Hath left his iron gate ajar ; And rays of truth you cannot see Are flashing thro Eternity— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path ; Else how when in the holy grove I wandered of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt offerings From the most undefiled Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trelliced rays from Heaven No mote may shun—no tiniest fly oo lighting of his eagle eye. How was it that Ambition crept Unseen, amid the revels there, Till, growing bold, he laugh’d and a In the tangles of Love’s brilliant hair Passage from the minor poems. If my peace hath flown away In a night—or in a day— In a vision—or in none— Is it therefore the less gone ? 1 am standing mid the roar Of a weatherbeaten shore, And I hold within my hand Some perticles of sand— How few ! and how they creep a my fingers to the deep ! My early hopes — ent gloriously awa Like lightning from t e sky At one so will I. Having allowed our youthful writer to be heard in his own be- half,—what more can we do for the lovers of genuine poetry ? Nothing. They who are judges will not need more; and they who are not—why waste words upon them? We shall not.