how for thy sweet voice I pine:—
     For uttered in thy tones benign
     (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
         Doth seem a melody! THE VILLAGE STREET


     In these rapid, restless shadows,
         Once I walked at eventide,
     When a gentle, silent maiden,
         Wal    ked in beauty at my side
     She alone there walked beside me
         All in beauty, like a bride. Pallidly the moon was shining
         On the dewy meadows nigh;
     On the silvery, silent rivers,
         On the mountains far and high
     On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
         Where the winds a-weary die. Slowly, silently we wandered
     From the open cottage door,
     Underneath the elm’s long branches
     To the pavement bending o’er;
     Underneath the mossy willow
     And the dying sycamore. With the myriad stars in beauty
     All bedight, the heavens were seen,
     Radiant hopes were bright around me,
     Like the light of stars serene;
     Like the mellow midnight splendor
     Of the Night’s irradiate queen. 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, O heart, forget thine idol! And, O 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