The herald., 1895-07-28
Respite-respite and nepenthe
From thy memories of Lenore.
Quaff. oh. quaff. this kind nepenthe,
And forget this lost Lenore."

Quaff, oh. quaff this kind nepenthe,
And forget this lost Lenore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevei more"'
No. even though repentance came.
memory will not be quiet. No Egyptian
drug of nepenthe, to which the devotee
makes himself slave. no fiery draught
in the drunkard's bowl will keep down the
| black shadow of memory or drive it back
10 the night shore of oblivin. Still on
the mind it broods, over all art its fateful
presence dweils, as it uttres Never
more"
The poet is now in frantic agony of
soul. He beseeches this inexorable incAr-
nation that denies nepenthe to send ease
and healing:
Prophet still. If bird or devil!
Whether tempest-sent, or whether temp
| est tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate. yet all undaunted,
On this desert land enchanted
Tell me truly, l Iimplore. 3..H.
Is there's there balm in G,lead?--
Tell me--tell me. l implore"
Quoth the raven, ''Nevernore.
Memory alone, to the repentant soul.
has neither nepenthe nor balm, but only
an eye that burns. hoax that eats into
the bosom's core. ana croak OF hopeless
despair. 1t cannot promise for the future.
Inovke it as we will, adjure 1t as we may;
call it 'prophet OF evil. y name it "bird.
or devil" our maledictions avail not.
Implore it by our inquest Of beseeching
looks, by our flowing tears.
BY that heaven that bends above us.
By that God we both adore.
to tell us if there be hope in the future
hope that the guilty and siE-stained soul
shall meet its rare and radiant ideal, and
wasted life be redeemed and bloom again
as a dewy rose; but memory utters only
the ravens death croak of denial, Never.
morev'
When this night birds plumes blanch
to snow. then will the memory Of sinful
life yield hope. Though the soul be hor-
Ior-haunted. and in lonely bitterness ss and an
energy OF despair it tears passion to tat
ters-its rage is impotent. The raven OF
the memory moves not; it ceases not to
whisper in the ear. Vainly the SOUL IN
frenzy of indignation, would command
the black harbinger, to the Nights Plu,
spirit cries out. Get thee back! leave
no black plume here as token!' leave
my loneliness unbroken!'
Take thy beak from out my heart.
And take thy form from off my door!
But memory will not die nor the raven
fly into oblivion either at our cajoling or
our command. The answer IS still the
same Nevermore"
After consuMmate skill, almost like that
of angels dissecting the structure Of a
soul, with art as with a two-edged scalpel
that divides between the mortal and the
immortal. the poet concludes this de pro-
funds wall of bitter experience. this
Cain-cy of remorse. this transcendant
vision OF memory. thus truthfully,. in
words whose cadence is as the midnight
moaning of winds in graveyard:
And the raven, never fitting,
Stlll is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas,
Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
OF demon that is dreaming
And the lam plight 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.
No never out of that shadow was Poe's
soul lifted while on earth. and. whether
in eternity, God knoweth. Sin. suffering,
career-a life without hope. Genius. in
tellect, superb and matchless literary art,
availed not to save lin from the heredi-
tary taint of intirmity, from the dangers
and penalties of highly sensitive
nervous organization. which. without the
is curse; from boon companions who
led him. alb, 800 swiftly. 10 an untimeiy
grave. Unsurpassable' in the music OF
| poetic numbers. a magician of wilt and
wierdly impressive prose. there. broods
over much, II not all. of his writings the
Of misery, and hopeless. portentous
gloom. The Pallas of art and literary
wisdom. with her pallid chastity. her
faultless contour, her ravishing beauty OF
form. is there; but perched upon. her
helm, with horrible talons and sinister
beak resking with the foul odor Of moral
pollution, is the raven. The carrion
figure of black sin befouls and curses
and haunts what else were chaste and
stainless and tranquil browed. Out of its
shadows Poe's soul was never lifted. Its
his door. And SO this American Pro-
metheus. who, in the empyrean flight OF
his daring genius. stole the very fire Of
heaven, lived chained to the rock Of habit.
with the memories, like vulturcs' beaks,
gnawing his vitals. He died with these
words upon hi his ,h p; oh God . there
Rosetti tells us that in mis- early youth
he loved and studied Poe. and that The
Raven directly inspired his own lovely
creation, The Blessed Damozel. Against
''the stormy impetuousness. wild despair,
and ~ melodramatic ornateness of ex pres
sion on the one hand" there was set
forth through Rosettis wish to evoke
unlikeness out of likeness" another poem
full of "a heavenly calm, and lit by
celestial faith. and classic simplicity
and purity of form and diction.' So, as
often as one reads in Poe's lines that
croak of despair which is heard in the
seventeenth verse of The Raven, varied
only once by his souls protest in the
penultimate stanza. which rises, indeed,
not into faith. scarcely into hope. does
there not come to the mind the mo
more of the eternal mercy? Against
Poe's tragedy of Lost Soul stands ,he
night-conquering beacon of Whittier's
Christ-hope:
Every chain that spirits wear
Crumbles in the breath of prayer;
And the penitent's desire
| Opens every gate OF fire.
STILL thy love. Q Christ arisen,
Yeatns to reach these souls in prison;
Through all depths OF sin and loss
| Drops the plrmmet OF the cross;
| Never yet abyss was found
| Deeper than that cross could SOUND.
| Deep below, as high above,
| Sweeps the circle of Gods love.
Providence Journal.
| A West Philadelphia laundrcss announc.
| cs her skill in ironing by the sign: Col
| laring and cutting neatly done.'