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[page 235, column 1, continued:]
The Poe Memorial.
THE actors’ monument to Poe, designed by Richard H. Park, was unveiled at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Monday last. The ceremonies consisted of a prayer by the Rev. Arthur Brooks, music by Gilmore's orchestra, an ad- dress by Edwin Booth, an oration by the Rev. Wm. R. Alger, a speech of acceptance by Director Di Cesnola, the singing of an anthem (The Song of the Free’) written by G. E. Montgomery, the reading of a poem by William Winter, and the recitation of Poe's ‘Raven’ by Miss Sarah Cowell. The signal for unveiling the memorial was given by the veteran John Gilbert. It revealed a life-size bronze bust of the poet inlaid upon a slab of white marble rising against the right wall near the north entrance to the building. A marble figure of Poesy, standing upon the pedestal, holds a wreath of flowers around the bust. Mr. Winter's inscription upon the slab runs as follows:
This Memorial, expressing a deep and personal sympathy between the Stage and the Literature of America, was placed here by the Actors of New York to commemorate the American Poet, Edgar Allan Poe, whose parents, David Poe, Jr., and Elizabeth Arnold, his wife, were actors, and whose renown should therefore be cherished with peculiar reverence and pride by the dramatic profession of this country.
He was born in Boston, the 19th day of January, 1809, He died in Baltimore, the 7th day of October, 1849.
He was great in his genius, unhappy in his life, wretched in his death. But in his fame he is immortal.
Sæpius ventis agatitur ingens
Pinus, et celsae graviore casu
Decidunt turres, ferluntque summos
Fulgura montes.
We are tempted — and yield to the temptation — to quote the last four stanzas of Mr. Winter's nineteen-stanzaed poem:
Oh, if he sinned he suffered! Let him rest,
Who, in this world, had little but its pain!
The life of patient virtue still is blest —
But there be bosoms powerless to restrain
The surging tempests of the heart and brain;
Souls that are driven madly o’er the deep,
Their passions fatal, and their struggle vain;
Men that in nameless grief their vigils keep,
With marble lips, and eyes that burn but cannot weep. [column 2:]
Far from the blooming field and fragrant wood
The shining songster of the summer sky,
O’er ocean's black and frightful solitude,
Driven on broken wing, must sink and die;
So on the ocean of eternity,
Far from man's help and all things bright and warm,
Broken and lost, but with no lingering sigh —
For death, at last, is peace-his ravaged form
Sank in the weltering wave, and no more felt the storm.
His music dies not — nor can ever die —
Blown round the world by every wandering wind;
The comet, lessening in the midnight sky,
Still leaves its trail of glory far behind.
Death cannot quench the lustre of the mind,
Nor hush the seraph song that Beauty sings;
Still in the Poet's soul must Nature find
Her voice for every secret that she brings,
To all that dwell beneath the brooding of her wings.
The silent waves of Time's eternal sea
Roll o’er the silent relics of the dead;
But, wafted on those waters, far and free,
How bright, how fleet his starry songs are sped!
Black gleams the deep beneath, but overhead
All heaven is glorious with its orbs of light,
While, like a spirit loosed from ocean's bed,
Lo! one clear echo, sounding through the night,
Floats up the crystal slopes of God's own mountain height.
Notes:
None.
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[S:0 - CNY, 1884] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - A Poe Bookshelf - The Poe Memorial (Anonymous, 1884)