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Southern Poems.
Selected, Arranged and Edited with Biographical Notes:
Electronic Edition.

ed. by Kent, Charles William, 1860-1917

Text scanned (OCR) by Don Sechler
Text encoded by Jordan Davis and Natalia Smith
First edition, 1997.
ca. 400K
Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
1997.
        © This work is the property of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It may be used freely by individuals for research, teaching and personal use as long as this statement of availability is included in the text.


Call number PS551 .K4 (Davis Library, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

        The electronic edition is a part of the UNC-CH database "Documenting the American South."

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Library of Congress Subject Headings, 21st edition, 1998

SOUTHERN POEMS

SELECTED, ARRANGED AND EDITED
WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

BY

CHARLES W. KENT
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge



COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Page iii


PREFACE

        THESE poems are selected from the wide range of Southern poetry, that the South's contribution to our national literature may be in part apprehended. For a long time the productions of Southern writers were so inaccessible that authors of text-books on American Literature were disposed to neglect them altogether; and even later the admission of any Southern author, save one or two of international fame, was somewhat grudging and apologetic. In recent years, especially since the publication of the Library of Southern Literature, by which a new perspective for American literature was afforded, fuller treatment has been accorded these Southern authors; but very few students 1 of American literature have yet comprehended clearly and fully that, for some periods of our literary history and in some significant; and far-reaching movements, literature in the South has been the dominant and controlling factor.

        These selections, however, have not been made to establish any cause or exemplify any theory, but partly to illustrate chronological development, and mainly to portray Southern life and sentiment in poems of individual literary merit. In giving preference to such poems as reveal characteristics of Southern climate, conditions, and life, the danger has not been escaped of presenting an occasional sentiment heated by the


1. A notable exception is Dr. C. Alphonso Smith, in his Amerikanische Literatur, published by Weidmannische Buchhandlung, Berlin, Germany.
Page iv

passions of war or heightened by the presence of a dramatic crisis. It would be strange indeed if at that time no such sentiment were cherished or uttered: it would be even stranger to-day if we could not read these sentiments with the sympathy that belongs to their circumstances or the intellectual detachment that belongs to ours. As a nation we can recognize the literary merit of the Battle Hymn of the Republic and Maryland, My Maryland, even though as individuals we may not commend all the sentiments of either.

        In choosing these poems free use has been made of, first, the Library of Southern Literature, edited by Charles W. Kent and others, published by the Martin & Hoyt Company, Atlanta, Georgia; second, Three Centuries of Southern Poetry, edited by Carl Holliday, published by the Publishing House of the Methodist Church, South, Nashville, Tennessee; third, Songs of the South, edited by Jennie Thornley Clarke, published by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. Acknowledgments to holders of copyright are made at appropriate points throughout the following pages.


Page v


CONTENTS


Page 1

SOUTHERN POEMS


BACON'S EPITAPH

UNKNOWN

        In 1814 the Massachusetts Historical Society published the Burwell Papers, so called because of the family in whose possession these papers had long remained. At the close of Bacon's Proceedings in these papers stands the following remarkable poem, entitled Bacon's Epitaph, Made by his Man, and presumably written soon after Bacon's death in 1676.


                        DEATH, why so cruel? What! No other way
                        To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay
                        Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,
                        Which through thy tyranny with him 1 must fall
                        To its late chaos?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                        . . . . . . . . . . . Now we must complain, 5
                        Since thou, in him, hast more than thousand slain,
                        Whose lives and safeties did so much depend
                        On him their life, with him their lives must end.
                        . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                        Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood
                        The Heathen made and drew into a flood? 10
                        Who is 't must plead our cause? Nor trump nor drum


1. Nathaniel Bacon, born in Suffolk, England, in 1647; established a plantation on James River Virginia; without a commission marched against the Indians in 1676; declared a rebel; died on October 1,1676.
Page 2


                        Nor Deputations; these, alas! are dumb
                        And cannot speak. Our Arms (though ne'er so strong)
                        Will want the aid of his commanding tongue
                        Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew 15
                        Only the outward frame; this could subdue
                        The rugged works of nature. Souls replete
                        With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat
                        Drawn forth of reason's limbic. In a word,
                        Mars and Minerva both in him concurred 20
                        For art, for arms, whose pen and sword alike,
                        As Cato's did, may admiration strike
                        Into his foes; while they confess withal
                        It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.
                        Only this difference does from truth proceed; 25
                        They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.
                        While none shall dare his obsequies to sing
                        In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring
                        Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free
                        To sound his praises to posterity. 30


                        Here let him rest; while we this truth report
                        He 's gone from thence unto a higher Court
                        To plead his cause, where he by this doth know
                        Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.


RESIGNATION: OR, DAYS OF MY YOUTH

ST. GEORGE TUCKER


                        DAYS of my youth, ye have glided away;
                        Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray;
                        Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more;
                        Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er;
                        Strength of my youth, all your vigor is gone; 5
                        Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown.

Page 3


                        Days of my youth, I wish not your recall;
                        Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye shall fall;
                        Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen;
                        Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears have you been; 10
                        Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray;
                        Strength of my youth, why lament your decay?


                        Days of my age, ye will shortly be past;
                        Pains of my age, yet a while ye can last;
                        Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight; 15
                        Eyes of my age, be religion your light;
                        Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod;
                        Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God.


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

        Written during the bombardment of Fort McHenry, in Baltimore, in 1814.


                        O! SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
                        What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming -
                        Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight,
                         O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
                         And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 5
                        Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
                        O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
                        O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Page 4


                        On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
                        Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 10
                        What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
                        As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
                        Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
                        In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
                        'T is the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave 15
                        O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!


                        And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
                        That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
                        A home and a country should leave us no more?
                        Their blood has washed out their foul footstep's pollution. 20
                        No refuge could save the hireling and slave
                        From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
                        And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
                        O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.


                        O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 25
                        Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
                        Blessed with victory and peace, may the Heav'n- rescued land
                        Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!
                        Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
                        And this be our motto-"In God is our trust!" 30
                        And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
                        O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Page 5


MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE

RICHARD HENRY WILDE

        Originally entitled Stanzas, and inscribed to Ellen Adair, daughter of General John Adair of Kentucky.


                        MY life is like the summer rose,
                        That opens to the morning sky,
                        But, ere the shades of evening close,
                        Is scattered on the ground - to die!
                        Yet on the rose's humble bed 5
                        The sweetest dews of night are shed,
                        As if she wept the waste to see -
                        But none shall weep a tear for me!


                        My life is like the autumn leaf
                        That trembles in the moon's pale ray: 10
                        Its hold is frail - its date is brief,
                        Restless - and soon to pass away!
                        Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
                        The parent tree will mourn its shade,
                        The winds bewail the leafless tree - 15
                        But none shall breathe a sigh for me!


                        My life is like the prints which feet
                        Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
                        Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
                        All trace will vanish from the sand; 20
                        Yet, as if grieving to efface
                        All vestige of the human race,
                        On that lone shore loud moans the sea -
                        But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

Page 6


I SIGH FOR THE LAND OF THE CYPRESS AND PINE

SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON


                        I SIGH for the land of the cypress and pine,
                        Where the jessamine blooms, and the gay woodbine;
                        Where the moss droops low from the green oak tree, -
                        Oh, that sun-bright land is the land for me!


                        The snowy flower of the orange there 5
                        Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air;
                        And the Indian rose delights to twine
                        Its branches with the laughing vine.


                        There the deer leaps light through the open glade,
                        Or hides him far in the forest shade, 10
                        When the woods resound in the dewy morn
                        With the clang of the merry hunter's horn.


                        There the hummingbird, of rainbow plume,
                        Hangs over the scarlet creeper's bloom;
                        While 'midst the leaves his varying dyes 15
                        Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes.


                        There the echoes ring through the livelong day
                        With the mock-bird's changeful roundelay;
                        And at night, when the scene is calm and still,
                        With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will. 20

Page 7


                        Oh! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine,
                        Of the laurel, the rose, and the gay woodbine,
                        Where the long, gray moss decks the rugged oak tree, -
                        That sun-bright land is the land for me.

A HEALTH 1

EDWARD COOTE PINKNEY


                        I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
                        A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
                        To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
                        A form so fair that, like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven.


                        Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, 5
                        And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
                        The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
                        As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.


                        Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours;
                        Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers; 10


1. According to Holliday (Three Centuries of Southern Poetry, Nashville, 1908), this poem was written in honor of Miss Rebecca Somerville, of Baltimore.
Page 8


                        And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her she appears
                        The image of themselves by turns - the idol of past years!


                        Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,
                        And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
                        But memory, such as mine of her, so very much endears, 15
                        When death is nigh my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.


                        I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
                        A woman of her gentle sex the seeming paragon -
                        Her health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame, 19
                         That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

THE SWAMP FOX

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS


                        WE follow where the Swamp Fox 1 guides,
                        His friends and merry men are we;
                        And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
                        We burrow in the cypress tree.
                        The turfy hammock is our bed, 5
                        Our home is in the red deer's den,
                        Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
                        For we are wild and hunted men.


1. General Francis Marion of Revolutionary fame.
Page 9


                        We fly by day and shun its light,
                        But prompt to strike the sudden blow, 10
                        We mount and start with early night,
                        And through the forest track our foe,
                        And soon he hears our chargers leap,
                        The flashing saber blinds his eyes,
                        And ere he drives away his sleep, 15
                        And rushes from his camp, he dies.


                        Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
                        That will not ask a kind caress
                        To swim the Santee at our need,
                        When on his heels the foemen press - 20
                        The true heart and the ready hand,
                        The spirit stubborn to be free,
                        The twisted bore, the smiting brand -
                        And we are Marion's men, you see.


                        Now light the fire and cook the meal, 25
                        The last, perhaps, that we shall taste;
                        I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
                        And that's a sign we move in haste.
                        He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
                        You hear his order calm and low. 30
                        Come, wave your torch across the dark,
                        And let us see the boys that go.


                        We may not see their forms again,
                        God help 'em, should they find the strife!
                        For they are strong and fearless men, 35
                        And make no coward terms for life;
                        They'll fight as long as Marion bids,
                        And when he speaks the word to shy,

Page 10


                        Then, not till then, they turn their steeds,
                        Through thickening shade and swamp to fly. 40


                        Now stir the fire and lie at ease -
                        The scouts are gone, and on the brush
                        I see the Colonel bend his knees,
                        To take his slumbers too. But hush!
                        He's praying, comrades; 't is not strange; 45
                        The man that's fighting day by day
                        May well, when night comes, take a change,
                        And down upon his knees to pray.


                        Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand
                        The sly and silent jug that 's there; 50
                        I love not it should idly stand
                        When Marion's men have need of cheer.
                        'T is seldom that our luck affords
                        A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
                        And dry potatoes on our boards 55
                        May always call for such a draught.


                        Now pile the brush and roll the log;
                        Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
                        That's half the time in brake and bog
                        Must never think of softer bed. 60
                        The owl is hooting to the night,
                        The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
                        And in that pond the flashing light
                        Tells where the alligator sank.


                        What! 't is the signal! start so soon, 65
                        And through the Santee swamp so deep,
                        Without the aid of friendly moon,
                        And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!

Page 11


                        But courage, comrades! Marion leads;
                        The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night; 70
                        So clear your swords and spur your steeds,
                        There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.


                        We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
                        We leave the swamp and cypress tree,
                        Our spurs are in our coursers' sides, 75
                        And ready for the strife are we.
                        The Tory camp is now in sight,
                        And there he cowers within his den;
                        He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
                        He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 80

ISRAFEL

EDGAR ALLAN POE

        "And the angel, Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures." - The Koran.


                        IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
                        Whose heartstrings are a lute;
                        None sing so wildly well
                        As the angel Israfel,
                        And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 5
                        Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
                        Of his voice, all mute.


                        Tottering above
                        In her highest noon,
                        The enamored moon 10
                        Blushes with love,
                        While, to listen, the red levin
                        (With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Page 12


                        Which were seven)
                        Pauses in Heaven. 15


                        And they say (the starry choir
                        And the other listening things)
                        That Israfeli's fire
                        Is owing to that lyre
                        By which he sits and sings, - 20
                        The trembling living wire
                        Of those unusual strings.


                        But the skies that angel trod,
                        Where deep thoughts are a duty,
                        Where Love's a grown-up God, 25
                        Where the Houri glances are
                        Imbued with all the beauty
                        Which we worship in a star.


                        Therefore thou art not wrong,
                        Israfeli, who despisest 30
                        An unimpassioned song;
                        To thee the laurels belong,
                        Best bard, because the wisest:
                        Merrily live, and long!


                        The ecstasies above 35
                        With thy burning measures suit:
                        Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
                        With the fervor of thy lute;
                        Well may the stars be mute!


                        Yes, Heaven is thine; but this 40
                        Is a world of sweets and sours;
                        Our flowers are merely - flowers,

Page 13


                        And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
                        Is the sunshine of ours.


                        If I could dwell 45
                        Where Israfel
                        Hath dwelt, and he where I,
                        He might not sing so wildly well
                        A mortal melody,
                        While a bolder note than this might swell 50
                        From my lyre within the sky.

ANNABEL LEE

EDGAR ALLAN POE

        This poem appeared in the New York Tribune, October 9, 1849, two days after Poe's death. Presumably the poem refers to Mrs. Poe. 1


                        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 5
                        Than to love and be loved by me.


                        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; 10
                        With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
                        Coveted her and me.


1. For another interpretation see vol. VII, p. 218, of the Virginia edition of Poe's Works, edited by James A. Harrison, New York, 1902.
Page 14


                        And this was the reason that, long ago,
                        In this kingdom by the sea,
                        A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 15
                        My beautiful Annabel Lee;
                        So that her highborn kinsmen came
                        And bore her away from me,
                        To shut her up in a sepulcher
                        In this kingdom by the sea. 20


                        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, 25
                        Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.


                        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, 30
                        Nor the demons down under the sea,
                        Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
                        Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:


                        For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
                        Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 35
                        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 her sepulcher there by the sea, 40
                        In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Page 15

THE RAVEN

EDGAR ALLAN POE

        First published in The Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845.


                        ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
                        Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, -
                        While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
                        As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
                        " 'T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door: 5
                        Only this and nothing more."


                        Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
                        And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
                        Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
                        From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore, 10
                        For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
                        Nameless here for evermore.


                        And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
                        Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

Page 16


                        So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating: 15
                        " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
                        Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:
                        This it is and nothing more."


                        Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
                        "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 20
                        But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
                        And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
                        That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door: -
                        Darkness there and nothing more.


                        Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, 25
                        Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
                        But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
                        And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
                        This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
                        Merely this and nothing more. 30


                        Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Page 17


                        Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
                        "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
                        Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;
                        Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore: 35
                        'T is the wind and nothing more."


                        Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
                        In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
                        Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
                        But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, 40
                        Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:
                        Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


                        Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
                        By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, -
                        "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 45
                        Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:
                        Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
                        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Page 18


                        Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
                        Though his answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; 50
                        For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
                        Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
                        Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                        With such name as "Nevermore."


                        But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 55
                        That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
                        Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
                        Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before:
                        On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
                        Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 60


                        Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
                        "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
                        Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
                        Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
                        Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 65
                        Of 'Never - nevermore.' "

Page 19


                        But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
                        Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
                        Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
                        Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 70
                        What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
                        Meant in croaking "Nevermore."


                        Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
                        To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
                        This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 75
                        On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
                        But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
                        She shall press, ah, nevermore!


                        Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
                        Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 80
                        "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
                        Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
                        Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
                        Quoth the Raven. "Nevermore."

Page 20


                        "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! 85
                        Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
                        Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
                        On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore:
                        Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
                        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 90


                        "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
                        By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
                        Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
                        It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
                        Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!" 95
                        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


                        "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
                        "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
                        Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
                        Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! 100
                        Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                        Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Page 21


                        And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
                        On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
                        And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 105
                        And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:
                        And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                        Shall be lifted - nevermore!


ODE TO THE MOCKING-BIRD

ALBERT PIKE


                        THOU glorious mocker of the world! I hear
                        Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
                        Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,
                        Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,
                        And floods the heart. Over the spherèd tombs 5
                        Of vanished nations rolls thy music tide;
                        No light from History's starlit page illumes
                        The memory of these nations; they have died:
                        None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing
                        O'er me perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring 10
                        Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.


                        Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
                        The world's mad turmoil and incessant din,
                        Where none in other's honesty believe,
                        Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve,
                        Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:
                        Thou fleest far into the dark green woods,

Page 22


                        Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win
                        Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes
                        No discord on thy melodies. O, where, 20
                        Among the sweet musicians of the air,
                        Is one so dear as thou to these odd solitudes?


                        Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain
                        Goes floating through the tangled passages
                        Of the still woods, and now it comes again, 25
                        A multitudinous melody, - like a rain
                        Of glassy music under echoing trees,
                        Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul
                        With a bright harmony of happiness,
                        Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll 30
                        Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become,
                        With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,
                        And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal.


                        I cannot love the man who doth not love,
                        As men love light, the song of happy birds; 35
                        For the first visions that my boy heart wove
                        To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove
                        Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds
                        Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun
                        Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words 40
                        From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one,
                        And vanish in the human heart; and then
                        I reveled in such songs, and sorrowed when,
                        With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done.


                        I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, 45
                        Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,
                        Alone with nature - but it may not be;

Page 23


                        I have to struggle with the stormy sea
                        Of human life until existence fades
                        Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar 50
                        Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered glades,
                        While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er
                        The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear,
                        As now, my garments of regret and care,
                        As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. 55


                        Yet why complain? What though fond hopes deferred
                        Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom?
                        Content's soft music is not all unheard;
                        There is a voice sweeter than shine, sweet bird,
                        To welcome me within my humble home: 60
                        There is an eye, with love's devotion bright,
                        The darkness of existence to illume.
                        Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight
                        Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest
                        Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast, 65
                        Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light.

LAND OF THE SOUTH

ALEXANDER BEAUFORT MEEK

        These stanzas were introduced in an address entitled "The Day of Freedom," delivered in 1838.

I

                        LAND of the South! - imperial land! -
                        How proud thy mountains rise!
                        How sweet thy scenes on every hand!
                        How fair thy covering skies!

Page 24


                        But not for this - oh, not for these - 5
                        I love thy fields to roam;
                        Thou hast a dearer spell to me, -
                        Thou art my native home!

II


                        Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth,
                        Unequaled to the sea; 10
                        Thy hills and valleys bloom with health,
                        And green with verdure be!
                        But not for thy proud ocean streams,
                        Not for thy azure dome,
                        Sweet, sunny South, I cling to thee, - 15
                        Thou art my native home!

III


                        I've stood beneath Italia's clime,
                        Beloved of tale and song,
                        On Helvyn's 1 hills, proud and sublime,
                        Where nature's wonders throng; 20
                        By Tempe's classic sunlit streams,
                        Where Gods, of old, did roam, -
                        But ne'er have found so fair a land
                        As thou, my native home!

IV


                        And thou hast prouder glories, too, 25
                        Than nature ever gave;
                        Peace sheds o'er thee her genial dew,
                        And Freedom's pinions wave;
                        Fair Science flings her pearls around,
                        Religion lifts her dome, - 30
                        These, these endear thee to my heart,
                        My own, loved native home!

1. Helvyn, poetical name for Switzerland.
Page 25

V


                        And "Heaven's best gift to man" is thine -
                        God bless thy rosy girls!
                        Like sylvan flowers they sweetly shine, 35
                        Their hearts are pure as pearls!
                        And grace and goodness circle them,
                        Where'er their footsteps roam;
                        How can I then, whilst loving them,
                        Not love my native home? 40

VI


                        Land of the South! - imperial land! -
                        Then here 's a health to thee:
                        Long as thy mountain barriers stand,
                        May'st thou be blest and free!
                        May dark dissension's banner ne'er 45
                        Wave o'er thy fertile loam!
                        But should it come, there's one will die
                        To save his native home!


FLORENCE VANE

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE

        Published in The Gentleman's Magazine in 1839, while Poe was its editor. It was not personal in its address.


                        I LOVED thee long and dearly,
                        Florence Vane;
                        My life's bright dream and early
                        Hath come again;
                        I renew in my fond vision 5
                        My heart's dear pain,
                        My hope and thy derision,
                        Florence Vane!

Page 26


                        The ruin, lone and hoary,
                        The ruin old, 10
                        Where thou didst hark my story,
                        At even told, -
                        That spot - the hues Elysian
                        Of sky and plain -
                        I treasure in my vision, 15
                        Florence Vane.


                        Thou wast lovelier than the roses
                        In their prime;
                        Thy voice excelled the closes
                        Of sweetest rhyme; 20
                        Thy heart was as a river
                        Without a main.
                        Would I had loved thee never,
                        Florence Vane!


                        But, fairest, coldest wonder 25
                        Thy glorious clay
                        Lieth the green sod under -
                        Alas the day!
                        And it boots not to remember
                        Thy disdain - 30
                        To quicken love's pale ember,
                        Florence Vane!


                        The lilies of the valley
                        By young graves weep,
                        The pansies love to dally 35
                        Where maidens sleep:
                        May their bloom, in beauty vying,
                        Never wane
                        Where thine earthly part is lying,
                        Florence Vane! 40

Page 27


THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

THEODORE O'HARA

        Read by its author when his comrades who had fallen in Mexico were buried in Frankfort, Kentucky, in 1847.


                        THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
                        The soldier's last tattoo;
                        No more on life's parade shall meet
                        That brave and fallen few.
                        On Fame's eternal camping-ground 5
                        Their silent tents are spread,
                        And Glory guards, with solemn round,
                        The bivouac of the dead.


                        No rumor of the foe's advance
                        Now swells upon the wind; 10
                        No troubled thought at midnight haunts
                        Of loved ones left behind;
                        No vision of the morrow's strife
                        The warrior's dream alarms;
                        No braying horn nor screaming fife 15
                        At dawn shall call to arms.


                        Their shivered swords are red with rust,
                        Their plumèd heads are bowed;
                        Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
                        Is now their martial shroud. 20
                        And plenteous funeral tears have washed
                        The red stains from each brow,
                        And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
                        Are free from anguish now.


                        The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 25
                        The bugle's stirring blast,

Page 28


                        The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
                        The din and shout, are past;
                        Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
                        Shall thrill with fierce delight 30
                        Those breasts that never more may feel
                        The rapture of the fight.


                        Like the fierce northern hurricane
                        That sweeps this great plateau,
                        Flushed with triumph yet to gain, 35
                        Came down the serried foe. 1
                        Who heard the thunder of the fray
                        Break o'er the field beneath,
                        Knew well the watchword of that day
                        Was "Victory or death." 40


                        Long had the doubtful conflict raged
                        O'er all that stricken plain,
                        For never fiercer fight had waged
                        The vengeful blood of Spain;
                        And still the storm of battle blew, 45
                        Still swelled the gory tide;
                        Not long, our stout old chieftain 2 knew,
                        Such odds his strength could bide.


                        'T was in that hour his stern command
                        Called to a martyr's grave 50
                        The flower of his beloved land
                        The nation's flag to save.
                        By rivers of their fathers' gore
                        His firstborn laurels grew,
                        And well he deemed the sons would pour 55
                        Their lives for glory too.


1. General Santa Anna commanded 21,000 Mexicans.

2. Zachary Taylor.
Page 29


                        Full many a norther's breath has swept
                        O'er Angostura's plain -
                        And long the pitying sky has wept
                        Above its moldering slain. 60
                        The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
                        Or shepherd's pensive lay,
                        Alone awakes each sullen height
                        That frowned o'er that dread fray.


                        Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 1 65
                        Ye must not slumber there,
                        Where stranger steps and tongues resound
                        Along the heedless air.
                        Your own proud land's heroic soil