The Materialistic Maiden

Where I sip coffee and judge everyone.

Category: william henry leonard poe

A Fragment-By William Henry Leonard Poe

[ORIGINAL]
A FRAGMENT.

Well! I have determined–lightly it may be–but when there is nothing to live for–nothing that the heart craves anxiously and devotedly, life is but a kind of prison house from which we would be freed.

I feel even at this moment a something of impatience to know what death is–and although I am now writing the very last words this band will ever trace–yet even the outward show–the trifles of the world beguile me–

The ink is not good–I have stirred it–’tis better now, and I have mended my pen–’tis disagreeable, even if it is our very last letter, to write with a band pen–a blot!–I must erase it–this when an hour will finish my existence!–an existence of wretchedness–one of weary, bitter disappointment.

I feel as if hungry, and suddenly a sumptuous feast before me–surfeiting myself–revelling in my thoughts–indulging in what I have been afraid to think of–I have but a short hour to live, and the ticking of the clock before me, seems a laughing spectator of my death–I wish it had life–it would not then be so gay–nay, it might be a partner of my melancholy.

Pshaw! this pen–surely my hand must have trembled when I made it–I have held it up to the light–Heavens’ my hand does tremble–No! tis only the flickering of the lamp.

It will–at least it may be asked, why I have done this–they ay say I was insane–the body which is earthed cannot feel their taunts, and the soul cares not.

I have a strange wish even at this time–it is that some maiden would plant flowers on my grave–which my mortality would add life to.

When there is no hope–no cheering prospect to brighten, no land to mark the bewildered scaman’s way–why not try death?

“And come it slow or come it fast,
It is but death that comes at last.”

There are many who would rather linger in a life of wretchedness, disappointment–and other causes which blight many a youthful heart, and make ruin and desolation in the warmest feelings–yes! even the lip must smile and the eye be gay–although whne night brings us to our couch we unconsciously wish it was for the last time.

Such is man–such is mankind!–I have still one half hour to live–one half hour!–yet I look around me as if it was the journey of a day, and not an eternal adieu!–Why should I live? Delighting in one object, and she

“The fairest flow’r that glittered on a stem
To wither at my grasp.”

No more–the pistol–I have loaded it–the balls are new–quite bright–they will soon be in my heart–Incomprehensible death–what art thou?

I have put the pistol to my bosom–it snapped–I had forgotten to prime it–I must do it–

In the act of doing so it went off, and I awoke and found myself rolling on the floor, having fallen from my bed in the agitation of a most strange and singular dream.

W. H. P.

(*Transcribed while watching Plain Jane. Thought you all might like to know. This was posted, as requested, for a dear friend of mine. I quite liked this piece.)

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Monte Video-By William Henry Leonard Poe

(As per requested by a friend, here is a piece by dearest Henry. Please enjoy.) 

FOREIGN SCENES AND CUSTOMS.
LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE NORTH AMERICAN.
MONTE VIDEO.

After a passage in which we had the usual quantity of good and bad weather, we arrived at the entrance of the Giver Plate, where we saw a large Brazilian fleet at anchor–Not caring to be overhauled, and feeling a little proud of our vessel, we determined to shew them it was in our power, and not in theirs, whether we would submit to it or not–and so it proved, for the vessel they had sent in chase of us, whether from fear, as we looked “rakish,” or from dull sailing, was soon far behind, and ere night we had lost sight of her entirely. As we were now near the place of destination, Monte Video, we anchored until the coming day–our captain, with that caution so natural to a yankee, would not risk his vessel at the very port, after having successfully passed the dangers of “The dark and stormy ocean.”

It was almost sun-down when we arrived at the harbor, and there was something sombre and gloomy in the place which I did not like–perhaps the number of vessels which had seen their best days, and have by accident or design drifted on shore: or the gloomy towers of their large cathedral,–the low long dark buildings designed for barracks and hospitals–to which you may add a dark evening,–caused the feeling, but certain it is, the place made an unfavorable impression on me, although during my stay there I found it the very reverse of what I at first anticipated. Yet when I think of it, the impressions of my mind on first beholding the city, still forcibly revert back, notwithstanding the subsequent proof of the incorrectness with which they were formed:–so firmly does first ideas cling to the remembrance.

Monte Video is at present in possession of the Brazilians–but the Patriots were almost at the very gates, and it was a common occurrence to observe a skirmish between parties of the contending armies;–but whether it was the effusion of some hot-headed young officer, who thought it a pleasant way of ending the day, or was dictated by the more experienced head of age, I cannot determine; but the former opinion seems the most probable, as not benefit could be expected by either party from their occurrence, and they generally ended with the loss of two or three killed or wounded on either side.

I had the good fortune to be there during the Carnival–I say good fortune, but I think I am rather wrong, as I received some not very agreeable effects of their frolic–however, as I witnessed something novel, and as we must generally contribute in some manner for the indulgence of our curiosity, I must fain be satisfied. The officers of the French Corvette Zelé, then in port, with the gaiety peculiar to their nation, appeared to be in their proper element. On the morning of the first day, their largest boat, manned with sixteen oars and the white pennon of France flying, was seen approaching the town. In her bows, leaning on a staff and dressed only in a pair of tarry trowsers and tarpaulin hat, was a person whom I had taken for a negro, and it was therefore with no small surprise that I learnt he was the captain of the corvette–In the stern were seven or eight other officers, all in masquerade dresses. As this was the first scene of the kind which I had ever beheld, you may be assured it afforded me considerable amusement.

In strolling through the streets gazing at the strange figures before me, I received a blow, which gave me,–not the appendage of a gentleman,–in the appearance of an essential member of my physiognomy. Surprised at this unlooked for compliment, I turned round as hastily as the effects of my mishap would permit, and discovered that the persons who had thus cavalierly treated me, were some young ladies, stationed on a neighboring terrace, who immediately began to pelt me with eggs filled with cologne water, and from one of which well-aimed missiles I received the mark, which, in my own country, would have caused a suspension of my perambulations for some time–I was afterwards informed that iw as a great compliment to be noticed in so striking a manner by the fair ones of the city–but notwithstanding this intimation, I felt no anxiety to receive any more of them, if they were to be conferred in a similar coin.

The commerce of Monte Video is not very great. Its imports are beef, pork, soap, wines, brandy, gin, &c. Its exports are principally hides and horns, but vessels generally return from thence in ballast, as hides are frequently shipped at a great loss. It can never be a place of much trade–the harbour is gradually filling up, and vessels drawing more than sixteen feet water cannot come within some miles of the town–and lying in the open roads is very dangerous, as the anchorage is not good, and the heavy gales which are so frequent, have driven many a gallant ship from its proper element to the land. The Macedonian dragged her anchors to within an hundred yards of a reef–and our commodore after that, at the least appearance of a blow, had every thing safe and snug.

The inhabitants of Monte Video are principally Portuguese–but there are many Americans and Englishmen in the place, all intent on making money,–no matter how. It is an actual fact, that most of the vessels which have forced the blockade and arrived at Buenos Ayres, were first purchased at Monte Video–and I have many reasons to believe that the principal authorities wink at the procedure. The inhabitants are generally believed to be in favor  of the Patriots, but if so, they do not and dare not openly avow it.

Peaches, apples, melons, &c. are now (February,) in great plenty; and, whist I am complaining of the warmth, you are no doubt blowing your fingers, and wishing for a residence in a milder clime. But with all the novelties and all the attractions which a foreign country possesses, still in the midst of pleasure the heart will turn to its home, and long to be there. There is something in tis very name, which crowds the mind with such pleasurable sensations that it is impossible to describe them.

As an instance of the kindly feeling with which our countrymen greet each other in a foreign land, I will state a little circumstance that transpired whilst at Monte Video. One Sunday a friend and myself had strayed a short distance out of the gates, when we perceived two persons approaching us; I do not know if it was instinct, but I immediately fancied they were my countrymen–and I thought they were yankees-“You’ve guessed right,” says one; and in fifteen minutes we were almost as well acquainted as if we had been brothers–and I verily believe I never passed a more pleasant afternoon.

But I had nearly forgotten the ladies, who of course are entitled to some notice in my attempt to describe their city. They are generally rather handsome, with somewhat of the Spanish cast–and so far from being disinclined to intimacy with foreigners, as most of their countrymen are, many have intermarried with the English and Americans resident here, and are gradually losing that restraint imposed on their sex in Catholic countries. I am. &c.

W.H.P.

(*I apologize if there were any mistakes when transcribing this piece. Please let me know if this is the case, and I will fix it.)

The Pirate by Henry Poe-Part Two

This is my second and final installment of Henry Poe’s The Pirate. (I apologize that this had been put off so long until now.) You can read the first part here.

“The events of my boyhood I pass over–suffice it to say, I lost my parents at an early age, and was left to the care of a relation. I received a good education, and knew sorrow but by name until I had attained my eighteenth year. I then began a new existence–I was in love–Yes! if ever a man loved passionately–intensely,–I did. I was singular, romantic in my ideas, and Rosalie was equally so. I will pass over the few happy hours of our affection–they would be tedious, and I would not wish to bring them to my mind too foreibly–she promised me her hand, and declared that none but myself should ever possess it–Oh! my friend, you are young–but beware how you entrust your heart and happiness into the keeping of a woman!–it is this that has brought me to what I am–a wretched outcast–a murderer!–a broken-hearted, desperate being!”–The perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead–after a pause of a moment he continued:

“I was too much restricted by poverty to marry–but I believed that I possessed talents which would place me beyond the reach of its effects–I accordingly embraced an offer from a friend to engage in a trading voyage to the West Indies, and as my health was delicate, my friends considered the climate would restore my frame to its usual vigour. I bade a farewell to home and to Rosalie–that kiss!–that farewell kiss, was our last.

We were detained nearly a year trading to different ports, and altho’ I had written home every opportunity, had never received an answer. It was with such feelings of rapturous joy which language is incapable of defining, that I saw our vessel fast approaching my native land–a thousand endearing recollections rushed on my mind–the thought that my Rosalie was false, had never entered my brain–I would have blushed if it had done so.

It was night when our boast landed me at the wharf, and I flew with a beating heart towards her dwelling.

I forgot to mention the dagger–I purchased it with some other trinkets on account of its beauty, and had that day carelessly put it in my waistcoat pocket.

There were lights in the front of the house and I heard music–I wished to see her alone, and went to the garden gate–every thing reminded me of the blissful hours I had passed–I walked towards the servants’ houses, intending to get one of them to carry a message to Rose. The first one I met had often carried letters bewteen us–but she did not recognize me, until I spoke, when she exclaimed, “Oh Lord! Master Edgar is it you!–Miss Rose is to be married in half an hour!” and burst into tears. I have often since been surprised at my own firmness, for I listened calmly to her tale!–’twas short–a wealthy suitor had been proposed and was accepted. I asked if she could not procure me an interview–that, she said was impossible, but I would stand in the passage I might see her as she passed to the room. Thither I went, and as there was only a small lamp burning, I could not easily be discovered–I heard her laughing and talking gaily in her dressing room–strange feelings came over me–a thousand lights seemed to dance before my eyes–a difficulty of breathing, and a confused sensation of pain oppressed me–when I came to myself I was leaning against the wall and my hand convulsively grasping the dagger.

The door opened, and Rosalie with several others, came into the passage–I waited until she was nearly opposite to me, when I let fall the cloak with which I had concealed my face, and exclaimed “do you know me!–I am Edgar Leonard!”–She shrieked at the mention, and I buried my dagger in her bosom!”—-

He paused-his countenance was livid, and he bit his lip till the blood spouted on the table before him.–After a few moments he became more composed, and hastily swallowing a glass of wine, proceeded-

“I remember nothing afterwards until I found myself in the street–my hand felt stiff, and when I held it up in the moonlight, I discovered that it was blood–the truth flashed across my bewildered mind–’twas Rosalie’s life-blood! the dagger, too, looked dim–that too was stained with the blood of her, for whom, but one short hour previous to the fatal disclosure of her inconsistency, every drop in my own veins should have freely flowed!–I knew not how I got there, but I was in the boat, and I remember telling the men to land me on the opposite shore. I wished to fly, if possible, from thought, and embarked under a feigned name in a vessel for Colombia, intending to join the Patriots. On our passage we were captured by this vessel, and as I was now an outcast from society, I gladly joined them, and at the death of their captain I(?)* was chosen the commander.

I am weary of life, yet, although a murderer, I cannot commit suicide. I have courted death, but it shuns me–so true it is, that

“Life’s strange principle will longest lie
Deepest in those who wish the most die.”

You have now heard the history of my ill-fated life–but I have something more with you”–with this, he opened a chest and drew thence a bag of gold–“Take this,” said he,–“it may benefit you–me it never can–and yet,” he bitterly added, that at one time, perhaps, would have made me the happiest of mortals in the possession of my”–He stopped short–and suddenly clasping his hands to his forehead, he reeled and sunk senseless on the floor, ere I could recover from the bewildering maze which had seized upon my faculties.–He slowly recovered, and, when he seemed somewhat composed, I endeavored to persuade him to renounced his present mode of life, and again return to the bosom of civilized society–“Never!” exclaimed he, with a vehemence which made me shrink back with terror–“Never shall my outlawed foot pollute the soil of my much injured country–some speedy vengeance may here close my hated existence–but to bear in retirement those stings of remorse which which my guilt-stricken conscience is afflicted, would be worse than a thousand deaths on the ocean, where every nerve would be firmly strung in the conflict.” His firmness awed me into silence, and I felt no inclination to renew my endeavors to avert him from his purpose.

In a few days we fell in with a vessel bound to Charleston, in which I obtained a passage, and, after bidding an affectionate farewell to the youthful commander of the pirate, to whose attention and kindness I was mainly indebted for my restoration to health, we kept on our course homeward, and his little barque was soon beyond the reach of our observance. When the last glimpse was extinct, (and until then I stood motionless on the deck,) I retired to the cabin, where I found that not only my baggage had been safely and carefully delivered through his orders, but that the gold which I had intentionally left in the cabin of the corsair, was also placed in the hands of the captain, to be delivered to me.

After a pleasant run of five days we reached our destined port, and it being the sabbath day on which we landed, my first duty was fulfilled in repairing to the church and offering up my grateful acknowledgements for the signal display of the finger of providence in my behalf,–and in which a prayer for the unfortunate pirate was not forgotten.”

*I am unsure what this word is.

The Pirate by Henry Poe-Part One

In the next few posts, I will be scribing William Henry Leonard Poe’s stories, as I had done with his poetry.

Now, I happily present The Pirate, part one. 

[Original.]
To the Editor of the North American.
On my last voyage to the West Indies, a friend whom I met after a long separation, related to me the following adventure, and as it appeared singular and romantic, I made a memorandum of it, and I now transcribe it from my “log book” for your use, which you are at liberty to do with as you may deem proper. Yours, W.H.P.
__________________________
THE PIRATE.
I went to the Havana in the summer of 182-, on business, and having settled it to my satisfaction, engaged my passage in a vessel bound to New York–We had been but a few hours on the voyage when I felt that weariness and pain which indicates the approach of the yellow fever. I continued to grow worse, and to add to my distress, the vessel began to roll violently and sea-sickness with all its horrors cause upon me–I would have sacrificed every thing for a quiet place in which to die, as I felt that this was all I could wish for. Overcome at length with weakness, and completely exhausted, I fell asleep, from which I was awakened by a confused noise. I at first believed it was merely imagination, but as it became louder, I felt convinced that what I heard was a reality. At length the cabin door opened, and several persons descended. Our captain approached my birth and told me the vessel had been captured by pirates, and that we were now standing in for the land. I heard the first part of his speech with an apathy which my illness only can account for;-but the very name of land seemed to operate like a charm upon me. A young man now approached and told me to be under no apprehension, as no personal injury was intended, and that every care should be bestowed upon me. He inquired the nature and state of my disease, and brought me a cordial, which considerably relieved me. In a short time we were at anchor, and I was told our vessel would be detained for a day or two, and after a few articles had been taken out, permitted (cannot read word here) proceed on her voyage. The same person subsequently entered, and observed that I could be much better attended on shore, where I would be relieved from the bustle and confusion of the vessel. To this I cheerfully assented, and in the afternoon I was placed in a boat and carried to a hut near the beach;-here I was treated kindly, and every attention paid me. I had been three days on shore when the young man (whom I now discovered to be captain of the corsair) arrived, and told me our vessel would sail in an hour, and if I wished to proceed in her I was at liberty to do so, although he remarked, in my present state it would no doubt cost me my life:-and that if I would trust to him, and could bear the detention of a month or so, he would convey me to some part of Cuba, from whence I could easily procure a passage home. Believing a removal in my present state would be almost certain death, added to a strong desire to know more of a man who appeared so different from what I had heard of men engaged in the profession with which he was connected, made me assent to his proposal. In about a week I was decidedly convalescent, and I felt really grateful for the kindness of the youthful outlaw. One evening on entering my room he expressed himself gratified to see me so much recovered, as he was to sail in the morning for the other side of the islands, and it was his wish that I should accompany him, as it was likely he would fall in with some vessel bound to the United States, and I could thus get home–the next morning we were underweigh.

It was near midnight when I was awakened by a deep groan in the cabin in which I slept–I raised my head and perceived the captain gazing on a small but beautiful dagger, which he was holding to the light as if to see more plainly–before him on the table, as well as I could judge, lay a miniature–he was in tears, and appeared much affected–In a few moments he placed them in his desk and went on deck. I mused some time on the singularity of this man, who seemed fitted for a situation better than that of a piratical captain:–he was rather small in his person, but well formed–had been handsome, I should think, but sorrow seemed to have set her seal upon his brow; his hair exhibited the marks of premature old age, although he could not be more than twenty-three.

The next night I determined to watch and see if he would again look at the dagger–he at length came down, and after sitting some time in a contemplative posture, opened the desk and again the dagger met my eye–Curiosity could bear it no longer–“What a singularity beautiful dirk,” I exclaimed–he started as if he had been shot, but suddenly reocvering himself, said, with a look which seemed as if he would reach my very thoughts, “Why did you make that remark?” I felt abashed, but he immediately added, “Since you appear anxious to know my history, I will tell it you. Do you see that,” he exclaimed, as he moved the light nearer and placed the dagger before me–“‘Tis blood,” I answered, sickening at the sight–“Ay, ’tis blood!–blood! to save one drop of which I would give all this miserable body contains–and yet,” added he, wildly, “’twas I that shed it!”–He buried his face in his hands and groaned deeply–in a few moments he became more composed, and began his story.

Poe’s Brother’s Poetry-Extras

I was comparing the poems found in the book source from which I transcribed them from, with the EAPoe.org website, the most prominent Edgar Allan Poe website in my opinion. Below I will link to a list of Henry’s poetry, including poems that were not found in my book which may be read on that webpage. There are three poems, numbers 15, 16, and 18 which are not transcribed on my blog. There are also three poems, 13, 14, and 17 which I cannot find and are not displayed on the website. Please enjoy these extra poems provided by the Baltimore museum:

Click Here

Regards,
The Materialistic Maiden

Poe’s Brother’s Poetry-Part Four-Final

You can view the first three posts here, here, and here.

Let us commence.

[Original.]
WATERS OF LIFE.
There are thoughts so wild in our childhood’s hours,
That they charm the soul in its early dreaming–
We gaze and we clasp life’s with’ring flowers
While joy in our eye is gladly beaming.
Ah little we reek while life’s tide is flowing,
In laughing waves that will break at last,
That all those fond hopes which are fair and glowing,
Will languish and die when our youth is past.
Yes! gaily we sport on life’s sunny sea,
With our oars of Hope in the water splashing–
And gaily is flying life’s brilliant spray
As thro’ the waters we’re madly dashing.
The waters of Life! are they gently stealing,
Or do they come in their sternest power?
Wild’ring the soul with the wildest feeling,
Wearing the heart in its sadden’d hour.

JACOB’S DREAM
Inspir’d by faith’s illuming ray
To seek a home unknown,
Pensive the Patriarch trod his way,
Trusting in God alone.
Full many a wishful look he cast,
The wide, wide world around,
As on in solitude he passed,
Absorb’d in thought profound.
Dim night anon its curtain drew,
Soft slumber lent repose
When straight a figured scale in view,
With awful grandeur rose:
Then he beheld an angel throng
Strew’d o’er the glittering line,
That up and downward pass’d along
On embassies divine.
While yet the mystic pencil wrought
The visionary scene,
The soul new kindling fervours caught–
A glow of joy serene:
Though sunk in deep oblivion’s rest,
Each outward sense enchained,
There sprang an Eden in his breast–
Divine communion reigned.
Ah! why distrustful mortals, why
Renounce celestial care?
The arm that wields yon orbs on high
sustains each atom here!
Sooner shall fail the mother’s heart
Towards the infant son;
Sooner the floods their course depart,
And to their fountains run–
Than the blest streams of heav’nly love
In constant tides to flow,
From their enchantless source above,
To cherish man below!
The sun may set in lasting night,
The changeful moon decay–
And every brilliant star of light,
Fall from its sphere away!
Yet form’d on virtue’s lofty scale
From height to height to soar,
And o’er the grave and death prevail
When time shall be no more.
Still shall the soul’s essential fire
(Spark of the world of mind),
Burn on unquenched, when these expire,
And leave no trace behind.
While measuring out life’s little span
Of sorrows, crosses, joys,
Dispensed in mercy all to man–
And speaking wisdom’s voice.
HIs Maker’s Omnipresent pow’r
And watchful providence,
Are round him every live-long hour,
A succor and defence!
The meek and “contrite heart” he sways
And makes his temple there;
Attunes its trembling chords to praise,
And gratitude, and prayer.
He bids each boisterous tumult cease,
While hope high-winged o’er Time
Life Noah’s dove in search of peace,
Soars to a happier clime.

PSALM 139th
Lord! thou hast searched and scanned me through,
My inmost soul hast open thrown;
Naked I stand before thy yiew(possibly view, I believe this was a typo in the book)–
Each thought far off to thee is known.
My daily paths thou art among–
Around me, where I lay my head;
Thou know’st each word upon my tongue,
And spiest through all the walks I tread.
Filled with abasement and amaze–
Trembling before thee low I bend;
Such knowledge, such mysterious ways
I cannot reach, nor comprehend.
Where from thy presence shall I fly?
And whither from thy spirit go;
If I ascend to heaven on high–
Or make my bed in hell below,
Of if I take the wings of morn,
And dwell amid the utmost sea;
Thou still art there! no distant bourne–
From thy right hand shall set me free!
If of the darkness I should say,
‘Twill surely veil me–lo! the night,
Pierced by the all-pervading ray–
Around me shines with radiant light.
Alike to thee, night’s sable veil,
And the full day’s meridian blaze;
Thou source of light that ne’er shall fail,
And life that knows no end of days!
Thee will I praise–for thou hast joined
Thus fearfully my wondrous frame;
Thy marvellous works, Eternal mind!
All good, thy glorious power proclaim.

*Once again, the question marks are words that I am not able to discertain.

**These pieces have been copied out of the book Poe’s Brother, by Hervey Allen and Thomas Ollive Mabbott, copyright 1926, book no. 773/1000.

***I hope you have enjoyed! This is the final installment of his poetry, however I will be posting his stories and reviews soon. Be on the look out!

Poe’s Brother’s Poetry-Part Three

You may see the previous two posts here and here.

I shall proceed.

For the North American.
Despair! despair!–oh what art thou?
I wish to know thee now–
Art in the blue seas wave
That fain would lave
The tow’ring mountain’s base,
Yet can only chase
The ocean’s sands away?
Or art thou in the childish cry
That mourns for you bright moon on high?
Or art though (when the wilding sea
Is raging fierce, tempestuously)
In the seaman’s heart
When forced to part
From all his soul holds dear,
With nought to leave but one sad tear?–
Or art thou when bright swords are flashing
And gay and glorious souls are dashing,
In vain to save a hero’s life?
Wh falls–but ’tis in honor’s strife–
Or art thou with the lover?
When Hope itself is over–
What shriek is there?
It is Despair–
That wildly,–madly cries, “I’m there.”

[Original.]
LINES, written extempore on a tombstone with a pencil–1827.
There is a something in this holy place
That winds itself around the wearied–tired heart–
So still–nought save the moaning wind
As it rushes thro’ the wild and rankling grass–
(Flourishing green with the bloom of youth–
Luxuriant with the loveliness of life:)
Waking the thoughts which wander
To another and a better world–
And this I gaze upon is Beauty’s grave!
Can the charms that circled in this fairy form
Die forever?–Must the soul that spoke in eyes
Which shone as light’ning from the summer skies,
Moulder in the dust? Must it sleep on
As if the grave would never ope again?
If there is no Eternity–why shrink?
Why languish here?–when Death would be a blank–
An end forever!–‘Tis this reason,
This innate fear of what is reasonable!–
Can’st gaze on that bright heaven
And say, “there is no Eternity!“–the dumb language
Of those peopled stars–the rustling of the summer
wind
Speak to the doubting ear-Believe!

[Original.]
ON SEEING A LADY SLEEPING.
Dream’st thou of love?
Are sunny thoughts now playing o’er thy brain?
Or is it wilder’d with an anguishe’d pain?–
Are other worlds now living in thy breast
Where Hope lies still as if she fain would rest,
And Care is flying, in the distance seen
With wildest eye, and sad despairing mien–
As if now jealous of the smile that plays
Upon those lips—like thoughts of other days
Crossing the mind with sad and mournful sweetness–
With smiling sighs–sighs for their transient fleetness–
Or is a thought of madness(readness?) in they heart?
Of disappointment–rashness-and the smart,
Of wounded love! around thee stealing,
With all its wildness–bitterness of feeling,
That wears the soul–as if it lov’d to be
Banquetting on youthful hearts in madden’d ecstacy?

*Once again, the question marks are words that I am not able to discertain.

**These pieces have been copied out of the book Poe’s Brother, by Hervey Allen and Thomas Ollive Mabbott, copyright 1926, book no. 773/1000.

Poe’s Brother’s Poetry-Part Two

You can check out the first post here.

Now I shall continue my posting of William Henry Leonard Poe’s poetry.

For the North American. 
TO R.
Nay–’tis not so–it cannot be–
Those feelings ne’er will come again;
I gave my heart–my soul to thee,
And madly clasped the burning chain.
‘Tis severe’d now–and like the slave
When freed, will scorn the bars he wore,
And feels he would prefer the grave
Than wear those galling fetters more–
Yet not like him–for memory brings
A tear(?) to joys–to pleasures fled–
A something which still fondly clings–
“‘Tis vainly mourning o’er the dead.”
It cannot be! for pride will now
Relieve the anguish of my heart–
Thy faithless pledge! they broken vow:
‘Tis fit–’tis meet–that we should part.

[ORIGINAL.]
I’ve lov’d thee–but those hours are past
That bound my heart in woman’s wiles:
I’ve lov’d thee–but my fate is cast–
I trust no more to woman’s smiles.
To give a heart, as true as mine–
A soul,–whose hope was all in thee–
To love,–ay, love–till t’were a crime,
A dream–a madness–phantasy.
Yet still the pride, which once was mine,
Has come with all its force again–
And yet those eyes, those words of thine,
Hath wrung my heart with wildest pain.–
But fare thee well–I tremble not–
‘Tis madness too from thee to part–
To be as lost–as dead–forgot!–
Be still my wayward breaking heart!

[ORIGINAL.]
Scenes of my lore(or love?)! of boyhood’s thoughtless hour!
I bid you now a long, a sad farewell;
Vision of Glory! where is now thy power!
Ah! where the charm that would my bosom swell.
The day of joy is gone, and veil’d the light
That shone on days too bright–too fair to last;–
My life is now a chill and starless night,
And mercury weeps with bitter tears the past.
The friends so loved–from the too I must fly–
The grave–the gay–the love of youth’s first spring,
When no sad tear had dimmed my laughing eye,
And all was fancy’s wish imagining.
Yes, all farewell! our gallant bark flies fast00
My native land gleams faintly on my view;
One more fond look-that look perhaps the last–
A long farewell–a mournful, sad adieu.

*Once again, the question marks are words that I am not able to discertain.

**These pieces have been copied out of the book Poe’s Brother, by Hervey Allen and Thomas Ollive Mabbott, copyright 1926, book no. 773/1000.

Poe’s Brother’s Poetry-Part One

This will be the first of a few installments of William Henry Leonard Poe’s poetry (AKA Edgar Allan Poe’s brother’s poetry). (For a brief biography of Henry, you can read what I wrote about him here.)

Because not all of his poems are easily available online, at least to my knowledge, I will take the liberty of posting his poetry. I have received permission, his works are public domain, therefore on that note…let us start!

For the North American. 
On the Death of Miss E.S.B.
Died in June, 1827–AGED EIGHTEEN YEARS.
The eye which once with sweetest beauty shone,
E’en like the star, that lights the summer even;
The smile that gladden’d, and the heart that won,
Are fled from us to their more kindred heaven.
And shall we mourn? May we then dare repine?
And wish thee longer in this world of woe!
Yon heaven was formed for souls as pure as thine-
Then why not smile, and gladly bid thee go!
Perhaps in some soft hour–when all is bright,
And earth partakes of beauty with the sky;–
When stars are shining with their purest light,
And all with thee is minstrelsy:
E’en in that hour–when hearts approach the throne
Of Him who smiles on innocence like thine,
Thoul’t pray for those who would like thee be gone,
Who languish here–and for they brightness pine.

For the North American.
Oh! Give That Smile.
Arm(?)–Oh teach me home(?) from lore to fly.
Oh! give that smile–that smile again,
Tho’ e’en from thee I sever,
Thro’ years of joy, of care or pain,
I’ll ne’er forget–no–never!
Dear woman’s eye may oft be met,
And friendship’s voice may greet,
Yet still I never can forget,
The smile which beam’d so sweet.
Tho’ pleasure sparkle on my brow,
And glad this heart the while,
Yet even these–as e’en ’tis now,
I’ll ne’er forget they smile.
Ah! fare thee well! yet smile again,
Tho’ now from thee I sever,–
Thro’ years of care–of joy or pain.
I’ll ne’er forget–no–never!

For the North American. 
In a pocket book I lately found three locks of hair, from which originated the following lines:–
My Father’s!–I will bless it yet–
For thou hast given life to me:
Tho’ poor the boon–I’ll ne’er forget
The filial love I owe to thee.
My Mother’s too!–then let me press
This gift of her I loved so well,–
For I have had thy last caress,
And heard thy long, thy last farewell.
My Rosa’s! pain doth dim my eye,
When gazing on this pledge of thine–
Thou wer’t a dream–a falsity–
Alas!–’tis wrong to call thee mine!
A Father! he hath loved indeed!
A mother! she hath blessed her son,–
But Love is like the pois’ning weed,
That taints the air it lives upon.

*The question marks present in the second poem are placed there because I am unsure what those words are. The text is small and quite hard to read. I made an educated guess to the best of my ability.

**The third poem is interesting in particular because, the quote discussing Henry’s finding of the three locks of hair is actually quite significant, not only as it was to Henry but Edgar as well. The Rosa mentioned may, in my opinion, either refer to the Poes’ sister Rosalie, or the name may allude to Rosa, a woman who had broken up her engagement with Henry.

***These pieces have been copied out of the book Poe’s Brother, by Hervey Allen and Thomas Ollive Mabbott, copyright 1926, book no. 773/1000.

William Henry Leonard Poe-Edgar’s Most Handsome Brother

“Henry,” as he was so fondly called, was the older brother of Edgar Allan Poe. Born in 1807, Henry was only a young child when he, his young brother and young sister Rosalie, were separated and sent to separate homes. Henry was sent to be with their grandparents, David Sr. and Elizabeth.

Henry was an accomplished sailor (he is fondly known as the “pirate” in today’s age) as well as an accomplished poet. He unfortunately would not be able to live out a successful career, as he passed away at the age of twenty-four to tuberculosis. Younger brother Edgar would continue to use his brother for inspiration, and it is said Henry inspired such works as “Lenore” and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. 

Now, I have some exciting news. To my knowledge (perhaps I am incorrect) all of Henry’s poems are not currently on the internet. I found a few of his on the greatest Poe website I know, EAPoe.org, however not all were posted. As of last night, I had purchased and have on the way a book issued back in the early twentieth century; a collection of Henry’s poetry. Only 1000 of these books were published, and #773 is being delivered to my door. If anyone wishes for me to, I will be more than willing to perhaps post a poem or two of the poems not online. (I believe this is legal, because technically the poems were Henry’s, and he is well deceased, not to mention they were written past the 100 year minimum legal mark.)

Please let me know if this is illegal, in which case I certainly won’t post them. However if it is indeed legal, as I assume it to be, please do let me know and comment if there are any requests.

 

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