Text: Charles Gordon Greene (???), “[Review of The Raven and Other Poems],” Boston Post (Boston, MA), vol. XXVII, no. 130, December 1, 1845, p. 1, col. 6

[page 1, column 6, continued:]

The Raven and other Poems. By Edgar A. Poe. New York: Wiley & Putnam. Boston: Redding & Co. and Saxton & Kelt. — The good people who heard Edgar Allan Poe deliver what he called a ‘poem’, though not a di-dac-tic one, before the Boston Lyceum, will doubtless be gratified to see the volume under notice. The identical and wonderful composition to which we have alluded, is included in the ‘other poems’ of the collection. We have read it carefully through, but we do not understand it any better than when we heard it delivered from the honored lips of the author, we have nothing to say about it in particular.

“The Raven,” which heads the list of poems, is worthy of notice as an ingenious specimen in versification and the use of language. Like Mr. Poe, it is peculiar and eccentric, but one can scarcely praise those qualities when allied to no other and more meritorious ones. “The Bridal Ballad” is, perhaps, the best piece in the book. It means something, and its expression is full of spirit and delicacy. A short address to “F.S.O.,” is prettily turned. The remaining portions of the volume, in our opinion, range from mediocrity to absolute nonsense. Numberless times have we praised, and sincerely, the prose tales of Mr Poe and we believe we have ever given to his “Raven” all the praise which its author would ever claim for it. On the appearance of this volume of poems, therefore, we looked for something as peculiar, eccentric and self-conceited, it may be, as the prose writings of the same man, and for something as wild, as ingenious and as fanciful. We did not expect to see such a parcel of current trash as is contained in the volume in question. In the preface he himself says that “it is not of much value to the public or very creditable” to himself, and sure enough, this affectation of the writer is, in this instance, but the sorry truth. He also says, that with him “poetry is not a purpose but a passion.” One fears that if his passion be true poetry, it has not been over indulged. We trust it may not “burst in ignorance.”