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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 oceanโ€™s star-lit waters, Where the winds a-weary die. Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door, Underneath the elmโ€™s long branches To the pavement bending oโ€™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 Nightโ€™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 โ€˜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 Ritter 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 Nightโ€™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, 0 heart, forget thine idol! And, 0 soul, forget thy dreams!
THE FOREST REVERIE โ€™Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of woe, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that neโ€™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 diedโ€” Quenching the fires its ashes hide,โ€” 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 โ€œAloneโ€ 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 โ€œScribnerโ€™s Magazineโ€ 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. โ€œAloneโ€ is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the facsimile given in โ€œScribnerโ€™sโ€ is alleged to be of his handwriting. If the caligraphy be Poeโ€™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, โ€œare not unworthy on the whole of the parentage claimed for them.โ€

While Edgar Poe was editor of the โ€œBroadway Journal,โ€ some lines โ€œTo Isadoreโ€ 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 โ€œA. Ide, junior.โ€ Two previous poems had appeared in the โ€œBroadway journalโ€ over the signature of โ€œA. M. Ide,โ€ and whoever wrote them was also the author of the lines โ€œTo Isadore.โ€ 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 โ€œA. M. Ide,โ€ it is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the author of โ€œThe Raven.โ€ 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 โ€œThe Raven.โ€

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