No More Learning

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
'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 Night'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

'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 ne'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 died--
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,--
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 "Alone"
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 "Scribner's Magazine" 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.
"Alone" 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 "Scribner's" is alleged to be of his handwriting. If
the caligraphy be Poe'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, "are not unworthy on the whole of the parentage
claimed for them. "

While Edgar Poe was editor of the "Broadway Journal," some lines "To
Isadore" 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 "A. Ide, junior. " Two previous poems had appeared in the
"Broadway journal" over the signature of "A. M. Ide," and whoever wrote
them was also the author of the lines "To Isadore. " 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 "A. M. Ide," it
is not impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may
be by the author of "The Raven. " 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 "The Raven.