A DANGEROUS WRITER
Young Jonathan’s a pet of mine
For poetry and prose;
I think his books are jolly fine
(As literature goes).
One Yankee, though, I cannot read;
He makes me shudder so.
He’s very dangerous indeed,
Is Edgar Allen Poe.
I dearly love the simple style
Of Irving at his best,
And think that Hawthorne is a mile
In height above the rest.
I keep upon my shelves the works
Of Wendell Holmes; but, oh!
What fearful fascination lurks
In Edgar Allen Poe.
We learn from Henry Wadsworth L.
That life is not a dream,
In lines that read extremely well,
But “are not what they seem.”
I’ve studied Henry Wadsworth hard,
From lots of years ago,
And found in him a safer bard
Than Edgar Allen Poe.
He draws you like a rattlesnake,
Does Mr. E. A. P.,
His tales have kept me wide awake
Till two o’clock and three.
Those stories have a deeper charm
Than any ones I know—
But, bless you! there’s a heap of harm
In Edgar Allen Poe.
His narrative about a cat
Will make your blood run cold,
So fearful a romance as that
Has never yet been told.
The Pit and Pendulum will send
A thrill from top to toe.
Pure horror seems the aim and end
Of Edgar Allen Poe.
I’ve dreamt of Ravens and of Bells—
Of undiscovered crimes—
Of haunted glens and ghostly dells,
At least a dozen times.
And often on a winter night,
My courage ran so low
I dare not sleep without a light—
Through Edgar Allen Poe.
Fun, 1867.