The melody of the whole, too, is remarkable. It is not of
that kind which can be demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of the
fingers. It is of that finer sort which the inner ear alone can
estimate. It seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its
perfection. In a poem named "Ligeia," under which title he intended to
personify the music of nature, our boy-poet gives us the following
exquisite picture:
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one,
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
_Say, is it thy will_,
_On the breezes to toss_,
_Or, capriciously still_,
_Like the lone albatross_,
_Incumbent on night_,
_As she on the air_,
_To keep watch with delight_
_On the harmony there_?
John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too long
capriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these and similar
passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.
Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to call
_genius_. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is, and yet there
is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence and its power. Let
talent writhe and contort itself as it may, it has no such magnetism.
Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the wings are wanting. Talent
sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one foot of
clay.
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