It softened men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own,
No ear so dull, no soul so cold
That felt not, fired not at its tone,
Till David s lyre grew mightier than his throne.
I shall not venture upon any delineation of the great gifts of Edgar Allan Poe, nor attempt any critical analysis of his literary genius.
Such a task is beyond my feeble powers, and after what we have heard today would be both presumptuous and inexcusably superfluous.
Rather let me give you some estimates of controlling authority.
Alfred Tennyson pronounces Poe, "The literary glory of America," and declares that "no poet, certainly no modern poet, was so susceptible to the impressions of beauty as he."
Richard Henry Stoddard tells us that, "There is nothing in English literature with which the stories of Poe can be compared," and that "No modern poet except Tennyson is so subtly and strangely suggestive."
Mrs. Browning, fascinated and stirred by his power, exclaims, "This vivid writing! this power which is felt!"
James Russell Lowell's judgment (given in Poe's life-time) is that "It would be hard to find a living author who has displayed such varied power. As a critic he has shown so superior an ability that we cannot but hope to collect his essays and give them a durable form.
We could refer to many of his poems to prove that he is the possessor of a pure and original vein.
His tales and essays have equally shown him a master
