ALONE.

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were ­I have not seen As others saw ­I could not bring My passions from a common spring ­ From the same source I have not taken My sorrow ­I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone ­ And all I loved ­I loved alone ­ Thou ­in my childhood ­in the dawn Of a most stormy life ­was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still ­ From the torrent, or the fountain ­ From the red cliff of the mountain ­ From the sun that round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold ­ From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by ­ From the thunder and the storm ­ And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.

March 17, 1829.

TO ISADORE.

I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
             Whose shadows fall before
             Thy lowly cottage door ­
         Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves ­
         Within thy snowy clasped hand
             The purple flowers it bore. 
         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land ­
         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
             Most beauteous Isadore!

II.  And when I bade the dream
             Upon thy spirit flee,
             Thy violet eyes to me
         Upturned, did overflowing seem
         With the deep, untold delight
             Of Love’s serenity;
         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
         And pale as the Imperial Night
         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
             Enthralled my soul to thee!

III.  Ah! ever I behold
             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
             Blue as the languid skies
         Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;
         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
             And olden memories
         Are startled from their long repose
         Like shadows on the silent snows
         When suddenly the night-wind blows
             Where quiet moonlight lies.

IV.  Like music heard in dreams,
             Like strains of harps unknown,
             Of birds for ever flown, ­
         Audible as the voice of streams
         That murmur in some leafy dell,
             I hear thy gentlest tone,
         And Silence cometh with her spell
         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
         When tremulous in dreams I tell
             My love to thee alone!

V. In every valley heard,
             Floating from tree to tree,
             Less beautiful to me,
         The music of the radiant bird,
         Than artless accents such as thine
             Whose echoes never flee! 
         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine: ­
         For uttered in thy tones benign
         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
             Doth seem a melody!

THE VILLAGE STREET.

  In these rapid, restless shadows,
    Once I walked at eventide,
  When a gentle, silent maiden,
    Walked in beauty at my side. 
  She alone there walked beside me
  All in beauty, like a bride.

  Pallidly the moon was shining
    On the dewy meadows nigh;
  On the silvery, silent rivers,
    On the mountains far and high, ­
  On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
    Where the winds a-weary die.

  Slowly, silently we wandered
    From the open cottage door,
  Underneath the elm’s long branches
    To the pavement bending o’er;
  Underneath the mossy willow
    And the dying sycamore.

  With the myriad stars in beauty
    All bedight, the heavens were seen,
  Radiant hopes were bright around me,
    Like the light of stars serene;
  Like the mellow midnight splendor
    Of the Night’s irradiate queen.

  Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
    Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
  Like the distant murmured music
    Of unquiet, lovely seas;
  While the winds were hushed in slumber
    In the fragrant flowers and trees.

  Wondrous and unwonted beauty
    Still adorning all did seem,
  While I told my love in fables
    ’Neath the willows by the stream;
  Would the heart have kept unspoken
    Love that was its rarest dream!

  Instantly away we wandered
    In the shadowy twilight tide,
  She, the silent, scornful maiden,
    Walking calmly at my side,
  With a step serene and stately,
    All in beauty, all in pride.

  Vacantly I walked beside her. 
    On the earth mine eyes were cast;
  Swift and keen there came unto me
    Bitter memories of the past ­
  On me, like the rain in Autumn
    On the dead leaves, cold and fast.

  Underneath the elms we parted,
    By the lowly cottage door;
  One brief word alone was uttered ­
    Never on our lips before;
  And away I walked forlornly,
  Broken-hearted evermore.

  Slowly, silently I loitered,
    Homeward, in the night, alone;
  Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
    That my youth had never known;
  Wild unrest, like that which cometh
    When the Night’s first dream hath flown.

  Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
    Mad, discordant melodies,
  And keen melodies like shadows
    Haunt the moaning willow trees,
  And the sycamores with laughter
    Mock me in the nightly breeze.

  Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
    Through the sighing foliage streams;
  And each morning, midnight shadow,
    Shadow of my sorrow seems;
  Strive, O heart, forget thine idol! 
    And, O soul, forget thy dreams!

THE FOREST REVERIE.

      ’Tis said that when
      The hands of men
    Tamed this primeval wood,
  And hoary trees with groans of wo,
  Like warriors by an unknown foe,
    Were in their strength subdued,
      The virgin Earth
      Gave instant birth
    To springs that ne’er did flow ­
      That in the sun
      Did rivulets run,
  And all around rare flowers did blow ­
      The wild rose pale
      Perfumed the gale,
  And the queenly lily adown the dale
      (Whom the sun and the dew
      And the winds did woo),
  With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

      So when in tears
      The love of years
    Is wasted like the snow,
  And the fine fibrils of its life
  By the rude wrong of instant strife
    Are broken at a blow ­
      Within the heart
      Do springs upstart
    Of which it doth now know,
      And strange, sweet dreams,
      Like silent streams
  That from new fountains overflow,
      With the earlier tide
      Of rivers glide
  Deep in the heart whose hope has died ­
  Quenching the fires its ashes hide, ­
    Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
      Sweet flowers, ere long, ­
    The rare and radiant flowers of song!

NOTES.

Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe, and not included among his known writings, the lines entitled “Alone” have the chief claim to our notice.  ‘Fac-simile’ copies of this piece had been in possession of the present editor some time previous to its publication in ‘Scribner’s Magazine’ for September 1875; but as proofs of the authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from publishing it as requested.  The desired proofs have not yet been adduced, and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide us.  “Alone” is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the ‘fac-simile’ given in ‘Scribner’s’ is alleged to be of his handwriting.  If the caligraphy be Poe’s, it is different in all essential respects from all the many specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of the writer of the heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which the contributor of the poem acknowledges to have been recently added.  The lines, however, if not by Poe, are the most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made public, and, in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, “are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage claimed for them.”

Whilst Edgar Poe was editor of the ‘Broadway Journal’, some lines “To Isadore” appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore no signature.  They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared, saying they were by “A.  Ide, junior.”  Two previous poems had appeared in the ‘Broadway Journal’ over the signature of “A.  M. Ide,” and whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines “To Isadore.”  In order, doubtless, to give a show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works in his journal over ‘noms de plume’, and as no other writings whatever can be traced to any person bearing the name of “A.  M. Ide,” it is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the author of “The Raven.”  Having been published without his usual elaborate revision, Poe may have wished to hide his hasty work under an assumed name.  The three pieces are included in the present collection, so the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by the author of “The Raven.”