In 1829 a small collection of his poems had been published in Baltimore, and received with some favor; but his early literary work had little permanent value. In 1839 he went to New York, where he wrote for newspa pers and magazines, and in 1840 to Philadelphia, where he edited Graham's Magazine. Returning to the metropolis, he engaged in miscellaneous literary labors, contributing his most famous poem, "The Raven," to The American Review, in February, 1845. He died October 7, 1849.

Although Poe is best known as a poet, many critics agree that he was even greater as a writer of tales. His imagination was exceptionally powerful, his love of the weird and marvelous was very strong, and his skill in producing somber and uncanny effects was extraordinary. As a critic he was remarkable mainly for his violent prejudices, and his "Literati of New York City," though spicy reading, gives no evidence of real critical power. Two or three of his poems, "The Raven," "The Bells," and "Annabel Lee," will always be read and admired.

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 sepulcher,
In this kingdom by the sea.

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 were 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 the sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

FROM THE RAVEN

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.
""T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, 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.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or
stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas,1 just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

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 2 shore?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

THE BELLS

I.

HEAR the sledges with the bells, –
Silver bells, -

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight, -
Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

1 the goddess of Wisdom

2 Plutonian, dark, gloomy; Pluto was the fabled god of the underworld

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,—

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!

From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

O, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,

Of the bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells,

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody1 compels In the silence of the night;

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone;

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

1 a mournful solo