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obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real.

But in subjects so handled, however skillfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required, - first, some amount of complexity, or, more properly, adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness, some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It is the excess of the suggested meaning, it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current of the theme, which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists.

Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem; their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines —

“ Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from

off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

It will be observed that the words," from out my heart,” involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer, “ Nevermore,” dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the raven as emblematical; but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of mournful and never-ending remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:

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, And the lamp-light 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!


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.

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 wingéd seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

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 high-born kinsman came,

And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

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.

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.

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 sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace -

Radiant palace— reared its head. .
In the monarch Thought's dominion,

It stood there;
Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow;
(This — all this — was in the olden

Time long ago ;)
And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A wingéd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tunéd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing

And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn! for never morrow

Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travelers now, within that valley,

Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out for ever,

And laugh — but smile no more.

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