As a matter of fact, this was not the original form of the Longfellow passage, which was,—
“The buried treasures of dead centuries,”
followed by
“The burning tropic skies.”
More than this, the very word “miser” was not invariably used in this passage by the poet, as during an intermediate period it had been changed to “pirate,” a phrase in some sense more appropriate and better satisfying the ear. The curious analogy to Wordsworth’s line did not therefore lie in the original form of his own poem, but was an afterthought. It is fortunate that this curious combination of facts, all utterly unconscious on his part, did not attract the attention of Poe during his vindictive period.
It is to be noticed, however, that Longfellow apparently made all these changes to satisfy his own judgment, and did not make them, as Whittier and even Browning often did, in deference to the judgment of dull or incompetent critics. It is to be remembered that even the academic commentators on Longfellow still leave children to suppose that the Berserk’s tale in “The Skeleton in Armor” refers to a supposed story that the Berserk was telling: although the word “tale” is unquestionably used in the sense of “tally” or “reckoning,” to indicate how much ale the 268 Norse hero could drink. Readers of Milton often misinterpret his line,
“And every shepherd tells his tale,”
in a similar manner, and the shepherd is supposed by many young readers to be pouring out a story of love or of adventure, whereas he is merely counting up the number of his sheep.
It will always remain uncertain how far Poe influenced the New England poets, whether by example or avoidance. That he sometimes touched Lowell, and not for good, is unquestionable, in respect to rhythm; but it will always remain a question whether his influence did not work in the other direction with Longfellow in making him limit himself more strictly to a narrow range of metrical structure. It was an admirable remark of Tennyson’s that “every short poem should have a definite shape like the curve, sometimes a single, sometimes a double one, assumed by a severed tress, or the rind of an apple when flung to the floor.”[104] This type of verse was rarely attempted by Longfellow, but he chose it most appropriately for “Seaweed” and in some degree succeeded. Poe himself in his waywardness could not adhere to it when he reached it, and after giving us in the original form of “Lenore,” as published in “The Pioneer,” 269 perhaps the finest piece of lyric measure in our literature, made it over into a form of mere jingling and hackneyed rhythm, adding even the final commonplaceness of his tiresome “repetend.” Lowell did something of the same in cutting down the original fine strain of the verses beginning “Pine in the distance,” but Longfellow showed absolutely no trace of Poe, unless as a warning against multiplying such rhythmic experiments as he once tried successfully in “Seaweed.” On the other hand, with all his love for Lowell, his native good taste kept him from the confused metaphors and occasional over-familiarities into which Lowell was sometimes tempted.
Perhaps the most penetrating remark made about Longfellow’s art is that of Horace Scudder: “He was first of all a composer, and he saw his subjects in their relations, rather than in their essence.” As a translator, he was generally admitted to have no superior in the English tongue, his skill was unvarying and absolutely reliable. Even here it might be doubted whether he ever attained the wonderful success sometimes achieved in single instances, as, for instance, in Mrs. Sarah Austen’s “Many a Year is in its Grave,” which, under the guise of a perfect translation, yet gives a higher and finer touch than that of the original poem of Rückert. But 270 taking Longfellow’s great gift in this direction as it was, we can see that it was somewhat akin to this quality of “composition,” rather than of inspiration, which marked his poems.