Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1909-01-19
Annabsl Leo.

In this kingdom b. the sea;
A wind blew out of cloud, chilling
NV beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high born kingsman 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 epvying her and me,
Yes! that was the reason Gas 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 fai
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 discover 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, 1 lie down
| by the side
OF my darlng-my darling-my life
and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
| BY Edgar Allan Poe
The Poe centenary, now at hand, will
probably call freshly to mind this ia
vorite love song, 'Arnabel Lee" which
was published after, or about the time
of the authors death, according to tho
dates given in Harrisons biography
and won immediate recognition. 1t
first appeared in "Sartain's Magazine
Philadelphia.
Another of Poes lyrics, which shows
at it's best his passionate love Of mel
| ody and beautiful imagery, is the fol-
lowing:
All, broken is the golden bowl, the
spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!--a sanity soul floats
| on the Stygian river.
And, Guy Dc We're, hast thou no tear
| weep now or nevermore!
See, on yon drear and rigid bier, low
lies thy love, Lenore!
Then let the burial rite be read, the
| funeral song be sung
An anthem for the queenliest dead that
ever died so young,
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that
she died so young!
Wretches, We loved her for her wealth
| and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health We
| blessed her-that she died.
How snail the ritual then be read, the
| requiem how be sung?
by you, by yours, the evil eye, by
yours, the slanderous tongue,
That did to death the innocent that
| died and died so young?
| Peccavimus.-hut rave not thus, and
| let Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead can
| feel no wrong.
The sweet Lencre hath "gone before"
with Hope that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child
| that should have been thy bride
For her the fair and debonair that now
so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not
| within her eyes.
Acknowledgement my heart is light;
no dirge will upraise,
But watt the angel on her fight with
paean of old days.
Let no bell toll'-est her sweet soul
amid it's hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float
up from the damned EARTH
To friends above from fiends below the
| indignant ghost is riven,
From hell unto high estate far ur
within the Heaven,
From grief and groan to a golden
throne beside the king of
Heaven
The reader of Lenore remembering
the writer's life, is tempted to find a
strange symbolism in this poem. 1t is
as if the poet, rejected and despised
of men, caught back his beautiful ideal
from contact with a coarse world and
hurled them scorn for scorn as his an
vanished in the blue.
The poet and the world-they were
always at war-at least in the. old DAYS
| hC WI III f)NS5 TeSDeCtdDlllLy and
prosperity, and the poet too often had
| neither
A poets literary friendship are al
ways of interest. Poe had few. He
waged war with Longfellow, whom Ii.
accused of base imitation of his own
Poe's) work, He ardently admired
Hawthorne, but apparently they had
no personal acquaintance. He enjoyed
the beginnings of friendship with
Lowell, whose wholesome nature might
have been a fountain of strength tc
the weaker man, but the connection
was broken off by quarrel Poe was
a lifelong devotee of Mrs. Browning
and she in turn admired his 1.-THE
Raven" 50 much that she was moved to
write and tell him so, and her letter
was one of the treasures in the poor
little cottage at Fordham. The charge
by critics of the time that she stole
her meters for her own use seems ia
have troubled neither of them.
Poe published '"Tamerlane" before he
was nineteen. But the form in which,