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Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours of leisure; but he frequently called on us afterwards at our place of business, and we met him often in the street-invariably the same sad-mannered, winning, and refined gentleman, such as we had always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his death, that we knew of any other development of manner or character. We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities) that, with a single glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane. Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity, at such times, and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and memory, he easily seemed personating only another phase of his natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance and bad-heartedness. * * * The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart of which Mr. Poe was generally accused, seem to us referable altogether to this reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of intoxication which only acted upon him by demonizing his sense of truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly irreconcilable with his better nature; but, when himself, and as we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility as to his own deservings were a constant charm to his character."

The peculiar cadence of the poet's soul-somewhat, perhaps, too artificially forced upon the attention, is well developed in the little poem of Annabel Lee. It is evidently an echo of "Christabel," but it is a very beautiful one, and charms the ear, if it does not strike the mind as an original. There is a haunting sense of beauty about the metrical arrangement of Poe's

verses which is always evidence of a finely strung nervous system.

ANNABEL LEE.

"It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

"I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea.

But we loved with a love that was more than love

I and my Annabel Lee

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

"And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea."

The next line is a striking proof of that mixture of puerility and beauty, which, like the conflict of his own discordant

nature, renders his writings as well as himself a problem to his

fellow men.

There is great force and beauty in

"The wind came out of the cloud by night,"

and yet how immediately he spoils the effect for the sake of the jingle of "chilling and killing—”

"The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes! that was the reason (as 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 far than the love
Of those who are 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 dissever 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, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling--my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea-
In her tomb by the sounding sea."

Well known as the "Raven " is, we should leave the poetical idea of him incomplete without illustrating our remarks by a quotation. We have printed the stanzas differently in shape to the method he has followed, but the words are of course unaltered.

"Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door.

"Tis some visitor,' I muttered,
'Tapping at my chamber door-

Only this, and nothing more.''

The next stanza closes with one of the finest touches of poetical imagery and pathos.

"For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name Lenore."

As Coleridge says, "beautiful exceedingly."

The mechanical structure of the verse is very apparent when read with attention to the pauses. Nevertheless, it is a poem which will always give pleasure to the reader, even though it be read for the hundredth time; for, notwithstanding the marked arith

metic of the shape, it is one of those few productions which bear repetition without palling.

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Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal

Ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken,

And the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken

Was the whispered word 'Lenore !'

This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word 'Lenore!'
Merely this, and nothing more.

"Back into the chamber turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping

Somewhat louder than before.

'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is
Something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is,
And this mystery explore-

Let my heart be still a moment

And this mystery explore ;—

"Tis the wind and nothing more !'

"Open here I flung the shutter,

When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven

Of the saintly days of yore;