The true Democrat., 1854-09-20
NO. 49.
From the N. o. Gre cent.
TtUTII IIIC M Edgar A, Poe.

we learn form our northern exchanges that 5he remains of Edgar A. Poe, the poet, nove- i,St al essaylst are lyng i'll one corner of bai'imore Cemetery with hardly mark by which the spot can be recognized.
 Poor Poe. A brighter genius rearaly comes !i''o tue "ofio' passes more painfully through IL or makes sadder exit from it. His whole He was one continued elegy and sorrow; series of dlsappontments and mournful fail. ures. An existence thatmght have been bright and pleasant was constantly clouded bv his own follies, and an intellect that might have sbone brilliantly and been remembered lono after death, was dimmed by its possessor's fanlts- Even as it is, however, Poe'sname occunies m obscure niche among American authors. and some of his works are destined on account of their originality and power, to live more years than we may name. It can safely be prophe- cied, without the gift of inspiration, that "'The Raven" is one of those few compositions that will keep their place in the world of letters almost as long as the language lasts in which they are written. Its strange, fantastic rythm chimes admirably with the wild and weird ima- gery that it clothes, and some of the lines fall on the ear with an almost oriental voluptuous- ness of sound. It is unique and original There was nothing like it before, nor have any of all Its numberless limitations equalled it, One of the most capable of English critics has pronounced It the strongest, manifest and most worthy poem of the century. In addition to the Raven" there are "Annabel Lee" the Bells" and sundry otHer of his productions as novel and as touching as any of Tom Hoods.
 But 1t was not in poetry only that Poe ex- celled, nor was 1t in poetry that he chiefly ex- hibited the powers and pecularities of his mind. One must have read his tales and essays to form any correct opinion of what was the real strength of his genius and the true direction of his talent. Probably, since the times of Jona- than Edwards, the country has not produced more close, analytic and mathematical intellect, or one more clear and logical. Calhoun had something of this fine, philosophical taste, but could not enunclate it with the strength and lucidity of the poet; nor do we know of any one except Coleridge who seemed to be able in an equal degree to crystalize and render transparent we'll as forcible, the most abstruse reasonngS.
 It IS too late, however, to write a review of Poe. What could be said has been said of him, most eloquently and appropriately by Griswold, Willis and other New York writers, who knew and appreciated him. Abiit ad naqjores-he is gone, and has left us only the moral and re- membrance of his life. It is sad. nevertheless, to think of the promise of his early years and its realization: to recall what he might have been and what he was, and, finally, to read record so mournful as the following. Poor Poe
 After lifes ftfu fever he sleeps we'll"
 The St. Louis Republican publishes the fol- lowing from a correspondent, who sought to find the poets bur al place:
 Alter l had sect all the relics of .ha poet, I asked he'o te WAS bur.ed, ald Vas 'o.J shat his gra"e as i. the cemetery. S Welt ...-re d asaet the Nee. sr wHa" 1 u3' 5 .- grave ot EI gar A. i'"t Y sail h.. D. recoIIect the mame [au"l ..un ) oL, ne ..o..l eAam,uc the books. l ..t ... ,llt, he died il O.c'mb'r, 1ofJ, .t v .I ,>r >o., \ .looEri over the hst Of L..t M >u l04E lS49 .u G 1850, but POe's nam ,.n. atnD :, tuem-- he was not buried tne,e. 1 nen rccOliected that Foe had once been llSane and confined Ill the Asylum; so the next stepof my sad pilgrimage was to that establishment The superntend- ent received me most politely, and showed me through the great building. 1 was told that Poe was one of the most terribly uncomfortable patients they had ever had n the Insane Asy- lum, and well he might have been. When a mind like his fell, 1t was like the fall of Lu- cfer.
 Itold the superintendent that I was search ing for the grave of Poe, but could not find 1t. He said that had been misinformed. "Come here,'' said he, leading me to the window, {" Poe was buried in the corner of that Potter's Fied!' l could not believe it, and hurried away in painful doubt. But in the afternoon met an old resident of Baltimore, who assured me that my informant was correct. "It is sad to think of it," said he, "and reproach to my native city, but it is nevertheless true that our poet is buried in an obscure corner of the Potter's Field
 The coffin containing his remains was brought out of the Aims house, and placed in the pub lie hearse, and solitary carriage completed the funeral array. In silence and sadness the little party peformed the sad offices, and the tene- ment of clay which once enshrned noble soul was left to moulder without mark to point out its resting place.'