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Updated: May 22, 2025
Happy it was for him that he was not present to hear those he had thus honored set up their throats in unanimous expressions of disgust when the dedication leaf turned they were confronted by a reprint of "Tamerlane" and "Al Aaraaf," with the shorter poems, "To Helen," "A Pæan," "Israfel," "Fairy-Land," and other "rubbish," as they promptly pronounced the entire contents of the book.
If I might dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than his might swell From my lyre within the sky, and that where they have, they have perhaps risen a little higher, but never have sung more hauntingly and clear.
The weather had changed into days of deep blue skies, splendid days full of the warmth of potential power; and nights filled with fragrance, nights of fierce beauty, and the glamour of golden moons, and the thrilling melody of that feathered Israfel, the mocking-bird.
Finally, isolation breeds deeper introspection, and the poet is ready to start on a second revolution of the egocentric circle. If I might dwell where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, sighs Poe, and the envious note vibrates in much of modern song.
I caught a glimpse of luminous immensities on the verge of which we flew; of depths inconceivable, and flitting through the incredible spaces gigantic shadows as of the wings of Israfel, which are so wide, say the Arabs, the world can cower under them like a nestling and then again the living blackness! "What was that?" This from Larry, with the nearest approach to awe that he had yet shown.
And they say the starry choir And the other listening things, That Israfel's fire is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings Of those unusual strings. By permission. Kelley has two unpublished songs that show him at his best, both settings of verse by Poe, "Eldorado," which vividly develops the persistence of the knight, and "Israfel."
When he was dismissed in 1831, he had written the marvellous lines "To Helen," "Israfel," and "The City in the Sea." That is enough to have in one's knapsack at the age of twenty-two. In the eighteen years from 1831 to 1849, when Poe's unhappy life came to an end in a Baltimore hospital, his literary activity was chiefly that of a journalist, critic, and short story writer.
As I went to the piano I thought of Edgar Allan Poe's exquisite poem: "In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, Whose heart-strings are a lute; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars, so legends tell, Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice all mute."
He has easily recognizable devices: the dominant note, the refrain, the "repetend," that is to say the phrase which echoes, with some variation, a phrase or line already used. In such poems as "To Helen," "Israfel," "The Haunted Palace," "Annabel Lee," the theme, the tone, the melody all weave their magic spell; it is like listening to a lute-player in a dream.
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