“So many spurious poems purporting to be by Poe are now brought forward for public approbation that I feel some hesitation in yielding to my inclination to send you the following, which first appeared in the _Looking Glass_ some years ago, and which I have very slight reason to believe was written by Poe himself, as it is quite as characteristic as anything of the sort I have seen in a number of years. FRANTIC JERRY FOODLE.” THE DEMON OF THE DOLDRUMS. One night I lay a-dreaming, In the moonlight that was streaming In a flood of liquid glory, Pouring on my counterpane; Up and down were goblins tumbling, On the slanting beams, and crumbling ’Twixt their fingers all the moonlight In a shower of golden rain. And some a crimson liquor Caught and poured it in a bicker Crowned with crystal listel pistils Of some rare and wondrous rose, Whose penetrative fragrance, In its sinuous mystic vagrance, Filled my chamber with an odor That none merely mortal knows. Ah! that odor――who can tell it? None but ghouls and angels smell it Oinoglyphic, soporific, Hedonific, and divine. And it seemed as if a censer Full of pastiles, but immenser Than a tun of old Madeira Had been emptied of its wine. Then methought that with a wobblin’ Strode a lynx-eyed mouse-backed goblin Down from off the ebon footboard And along the silken quilt, And within the moonlight glinting Capered with a demon squinting, And a winking and a drinking, And a horrid, nasty lilt. Ah! my lips were as dry as paper When I saw the demon caper, As with finger pointing ever At the opalescent bowl He kept laughing, he kept quaffing, With his nose much more than half in That liquor, which did flicker Like a burning human soul. Ah! I longed but once to taste it (As I saw the demon waste it), And my coppers, hot as stoppers Of a bowl of molten lead, Ached to quaff that golden liquor, From the bicker quick and quicker, And to roll it down my gullet, As I tossed upon my bed. Swift I stretched my hand to seize it, When I heard a voice cry “Cheese it!” And my head against the bed-post Falling, crashing, came ca-bunk; And the demons did evanish, Like to spirits walking Spanish, And I heard much lively chinning ’Bout a man who _would_ get drunk. [Illustration] ANOTHER CHAPTER ON “THE RAVEN.” ――――