The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 135

trusting foolishly to the force of
our party, the unarmed condition of Too-wit and his men, the certain
efficacy of our firearms (whose effect was yet a secret to the natives),
and, more than all, to the long-sustained pretension of friendship kept
up by these infamous wretches. Five or six of them went on before, as
if to lead the way, ostentatiously busying themselves in removing the
larger stones and rubbish from the path. Next came our own party. We
walked closely together, taking care only to prevent separation. Behind
followed the main body of the savages, observing unusual order and

Dirk Peters, a man named Wilson Allen, and myself were on the right of
our companions, examining, as we went along, the singular stratification
of the precipice which overhung us. A fissure in the soft rock attracted
our attention. It was about wide enough for one person to enter without
squeezing, and extended back into the hill some eighteen or twenty feet
in a straight course, sloping afterward to the left. The height of the
opening, is far as we could see into it from the main gorge, was perhaps
sixty or seventy feet. There were one or two stunted shrubs growing from
the crevices, bearing a species of filbert which I felt some curiosity
to examine, and pushed in briskly for that purpose, gathering five or
six of the nuts at a grasp, and then hastily retreating. As I turned, I
found that Peters and Allen had followed me. I desired them to go back,
as there was not room for two persons to pass, saying they should have
some of my nuts. They accordingly turned, and were scrambling back,
Allen being close to the mouth of the fissure, when I was suddenly aware
of a concussion resembling nothing I had ever before experienced, and
which impressed me with a vague conception, if indeed I then thought of
anything, that the whole foundations of the solid globe were suddenly
rent asunder, and that the day of universal dissolution was at hand.


AS soon as I could collect my scattered senses, I found myself nearly
suffocated, and grovelling in utter darkness among a quantity of loose
earth, which was also falling upon me heavily in every direction,
threatening to bury me entirely. Horribly alarmed at this idea, I
struggled to gain my feet, and at last succeeded. I then remained
motionless for some moments, endeavouring to conceive what had happened
to me, and where I was. Presently I heard a deep groan just at my ear,
and afterward the smothered voice of Peters

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Text Comparison with The Raven

Page 0
Page 1
Page 4
Share with Landor his one "night of memories and of sighs" for Rose Aylmer, and you have this to the full.
Page 5
One by one they sound, like the chiming of the brazen and ebony clock, in "The Masque of the Red Death," which made the waltzers pause with "disconcert and tremulousness and meditation," as often as the hour came round.
Page 6
Few will deny that Coleridge's wondrous "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" stands at their very head.
Page 7
" But _The Raven_, like "The Bells" and "Annabel Lee," commends itself to the many and the few.
Page 8
Amid much matter below the present standard, it contained some that any editor would be glad to receive.
Page 9
It may be that those who care for poetry lost little by his death.
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Page 11
Pike's revision the following stanza, of which the main features correspond with the original version: "Restless I pace our lonely rooms, I play our songs no more, The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor; The mocking-bird still sits and sings, O melancholy strain! For my heart is like an autumn-cloud that overflows with rain; Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!" Here we have a prolonged measure, a similarity of refrain, and the introduction of a bird whose song enhances sorrow.
Page 12
He must be lured by the Unattainable, and this is ever just beyond him in his passion for creative art.
Page 13
But the piece affords a fine display of romantic material.
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She also employed what I term the Repetend, in the use of which Poe has excelled all poets since Coleridge thus revived it: "O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.
Page 15
Griswold's decrial and slander turned the current in his favor.
Page 16
Had he lived to illustrate Shakespeare, we should have seen a remarkable treatment of Caliban, the Witches, the storm in "Lear"; but doubtless should have questioned his ideals of Imogen or Miranda.
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And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating "'T is some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- This it is, and nothing more.
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Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore,-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" .
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bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
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" [Illustration] "Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore.
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