NEW YORK: HARPER AND BROTHERS, 82 CLIFF STREET. M DCCC XLVII.
When all is said, Poe remains a master of fantastic and melancholy sound. Some foolish old legend tells of a musician who surpassed all his rivals. His strains were unearthly sad, and ravished the ears of those who listened with a strange melancholy. Yet his viol had but a single string, and the framework was fashioned out of a dead woman's breast-bone. Poe's verse--the parallel is much in his own taste--resembles that player's minstrelsy. LANG
NEW YORK: WILEY AND PUTNAM, 161 BROADWAY. 1845.
Strew with laurel the grave Of the early-dying! Alas, Early she goes on the path To the silent country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon!--yet green Laurels she had, and a course Short, but redoubled by fame. ARNOLD
LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., CORNHILL. 1847.
The poem already is a little classic, and will remain one, just as surely as _The Vicar of Wakefield_, _The Deserted Village_, or any other sweet and pious idyl of our English tongue. STEDMAN
The most exquisite poetry hitherto written by a woman. STEDMAN
What racy talks of Yankee-land he had! Up-country girl, up-country farmer-lad; The regnant clergy of the time of old In wig and gown:--tales not to be retold. CLOUGH
WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, GLOSSARY, AND COPIOUS INDEX,
BY HOMER WILBUR, A. M., PASTOR OF THIS FIRST CHURCH IN JAALAM, AND (PROSPECTIVE) MEMBER OF MANY LITERARY, LEARNED AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES, (_for which see page v._)
The ploughman's whistle, or the trivial flute, Finds more respect than great Apollo's lute. _Quarles's Emblems_, B. II. E. 8.
Margaritas, munde porcine, calcâsti: en, siliquas accipe. _Jac. Car. Fil. ad Pub. Leg._ §1.
CAMBRIDGE: PUBLISHED BY GEORGE NICHOLS. 1848.
There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle delicate ears; who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and as vital--a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist of _Vanity Fair_ admired in high places?--They say he is like Fielding; they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. BRONTË