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AMERICAN PLAGIARISM; POE AND TENNYSON.

28th December 1852.

Stu—I have just read with pleasure the notice of Mr. Hannay's edition of Edgar Poe's Poems contained III the last Spectator. The volume is before me, and as I have detected what I believe to be a very considerable piece of carelessness either on the part of -Poe or his American editor, (I cannot be- lieve that his English editor has been guilty of neglect,) I venture to take the liberty of writing to request that you will give this letter a place in your next number.

At page 38 of the English edition of Poe I find a poem entitled "To One in Paradise." I have had in my possession for some years a manuscript poem, which I believe, on good authority, to be the composition of the pre- faint Laureate, and which certainly bears a remarkable resemblance to the American poem. Here are the two poems.

Mr. Poe.

Thou wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine ; All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise But to be overcast !

A voice from out the Future cries, " On ! on !"—but o'er the Past (Dim gulf !) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!

or.

For, alas ! alas ! with me

The light of life is O'er!

"No more—no more—no more—" (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams. In what ethereal dances.

By what eternal streams.

Mr. Tennyson.

Thou west all to me, love,

For which my soul did pine—

A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine ; All wreathed around about with flowers.

And the flowers they all were mine.

Ii.

But the dream it could not last, And the star of life did rise Only to be overcast. A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward !" while o'er the Past My spirit hovering lies.

Like the murmur of the solemn seas To sands on the sea-shore, A voice is whispering unto me, "The day is past "; and never more Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

rv.

And all mine hours are trances,

And all my nights are dreams Of where thy dark eye glances. And where thy footstep gleams. In the maze of flashing dances, By the slow Italian streams.

consideration of your readers, and remain

G. D. B.