gypsy's chant in Browning
's “Flight of the Duchess
;” and I remember nothing more, except that in walking back to Cambridge
my comrades and I felt that we had been under the spell of some wizard.
Indeed, I feel much the same in the retrospect, to this day.
The melody did not belong, in this case, to the poet's voice alone: it was already in the words.
His verse, when he was willing to give it natural utterance, was like that of Coleridge
in rich sweetness, and like that was often impaired by theories of structure and systematic experiments in metre.
Never in American literature, I think, was such a fountain of melody flung into the air as when “Lenore” first appeared in “The Pioneer;” and never did fountain so drop downward as when Poe
re-arranged it in its present form.
The irregular measure had a beauty as original as that of “Christabel ;” and the lines had an ever-varying, ever-lyrical cadence of their own, until their author himself took them, and cramped them into couplets.
What a change from