Soho! let us sing
Long life to our king
Who knocked over a thousand so fine.
Soho! let us roar
He has given us more
Red gallons of gore
Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

LINES ON JOE LOCKE

This short two stanza poem was written to make fun of a commanding officer during Poe’s time at West Point. Poe was known for his funny verses on staff and faculty at the academy. Lieutenant Locke was either generally not well-liked, or Poe had a more personal vendetta with him. The poem teases that Locke “was never known to lie” in bed while roll was being called, and he was “well known to report” (i.e. cadets for discipline purposes).

 

As for Locke, he is all in my eye,
May the d — l right soon for his soul call.
He never was known to lie —
In bed at a reveillé roll-call.”
 
John Locke was a notable name;
Joe Locke is a greater: in short,
The former was well known to fame,
But the latter’s well known “to report.”

A CAMPAIGN SONG

See the White Eagle soaring aloft to the sky,
Wakening the broad welkin with his loud battle cry;
Then here’s the White Eagle, full daring is he,
As he sails on his pinions o’er valley and sea.

FOR ANNIE

   Thank Heaven! the crisis —
       The danger is past,
   And the lingering illness
       Is over at last —
   And the fever called “Living”
       Is conquered at last.

   Sadly, I know
       I am shorn of my strength,
   And no muscle I move
       As I lie at full length —
   But no matter! — I feel
       I am better at length.

   And I rest so composedly,
       Now, in my bed,
   That any beholder
       Might fancy me dead —
   Might start at beholding me,
       Thinking me dead.

   The moaning and groaning,
       The sighing and sobbing,
   Are quieted now,
       With that horrible throbbing
   At heart: — ah, that horrible,
       Horrible throbbing!

   The sickness — the nausea —
       The pitiless pain —
   Have ceased, with the fever
       That maddened my brain —
   With the fever called “Living”
       That burned in my brain.

   And oh! of all tortures
       That torture the worst
   Has abated — the terrible
       Torture of thirst
   For the naphthaline river
       Of Passion accurst: —
   I have drank of a water
       That quenches all thirst: —

   Of a water that flows,
       With a lullaby sound,
   From a spring but a very few
       Feet under ground —
   From a cavern not very far
       Down under ground.

   And ah! let it never
       Be foolishly said
   That my room it is gloomy
       And narrow my bed;
   For man never slept
       In a different bed —
   And, to sleep, you must slumber
       In just such a bed.

   My tantalized spirit
       Here blandly reposes,
   Forgetting, or never
       Regretting its roses —
   Its old agitations
       Of myrtles and roses:

   For now, while so quietly
       Lying, it fancies
   A holier odor
       About it, of pansies —
   A rosemary odor,
       Commingled with pansies —
   With rue and the beautiful
       Puritan pansies.

   And so it lies happily,
       Bathing in many
   A dream of the truth
       And the beauty of Annie —
   Drowned in a bath
       Of the tresses of Annie.

   She tenderly kissed me,
       She fondly caressed,
   And then I fell gently
       To sleep on her breast —
   Deeply to sleep
       From the heaven of her breast.

   When the light was extinguished,
       She covered me warm,
   And she prayed to the angels
       To keep me from harm —
   To the queen of the angels
       To shield me from harm.

   And I lie so composedly,
       Now in my bed,
   (Knowing her love)
       That you fancy me dead —
   And I rest so contentedly,
       Now in my bed,
   (With her love at my breast)
       That you fancy me dead —
   That you shudder to look at me,
       Thinking me dead: —

   But my heart it is brighter
       Than all of the many
   Stars in the sky,
       For it sparkles with Annie —
   It glows with the light
       Of the love of my Annie —
   With the thought of the light
       Of the eyes of my Annie.
 

1849.

IMPROMPTU. TO KATE CAROL

Note: Kate Carol was a pseudonym of Frances Sargent Osgood.

 

When from your gems of thought I turn
To those pure orbs, your heart to learn,
I scarce know which to prize most high —
The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.

EPIGRAM FOR WALL STREET

Printed in the New York Evening Mirror on January 23, 1845, this poem is generally accepted as being written by Poe, though it was published anonymously. Interestingly, the title neglected to capitalise “street.” The humorous poem of four rhyming couplets tells savvy people interested in gaining wealth to avoid investments and banks. Instead, it suggests, fold your money in half, thereby doubling it.

 

I’ll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,
  Better than banking, trade or leases —
Take a bank note and fold it up,
  And then you will find your money in creases!
This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,
Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;
And every time that you fold it across,
  ‘Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN

This poem was written around April 1847 for Mary-Louise Shew, a nurse who also inspired Poe’s more famous poem, The Bells. The poem was originally ten stanzas long, although a version with nine stanzas was supposedly prepared by Poe for publication. It was never printed during his lifetime, and it now appears to be lost. Shew was able to recall about a tenth of a poem in a letter to editor John W. Ingham in 1875; these fragments were published in 1909, and appear to be all that remains of the piece.

 

The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God nerve the soul that ne’er forgets
In calm or storm, by night or day,
Its steady toil, its loyalty.
[. . . ]
 
[. . . ]
The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God shield the soul that ne’er forgets.
[. . . ]
 
[. . . ]
The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God guide the soul that ne’er forgets.
[. . . ]
 
[. . .