- Wood, Charles B., III
History, Technology, and Art of the Book in the 19th Century; Catalogue 93
Charles B. Wood, III, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1997, Wraps, , , Very Good
86 pp. 210 items. Small chips at top and bottom of spine, probably from folding machine. A small smudge on front wraps, else fine. Illustrated with 16 pages of hors-text black and white plates. Fascinating detailed descriptions.
The American Language Reprint (ALR) series aims to compile the various word-lists, vocabularies and phrase books which were collected in the early years of North American settlement. The series begins with the languages and dialects of the Eastern Woodlands, with a primary emphasis on the Eastern Algonquian and Iroquoian families. We hope to progressively extend the geographical scope of the project to form a comprehensive linguistic record of native North America prior to the advent of modern linguistics.
POE’S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM.
HERE lived the soul enchanted By melody of song; Here dwelt the spirit haunted By a demoniac throng; Here sang the lips elated; Here grief and death were sated; Here loved and here unmated Was he, so frail, so strong. Here wintry winds and cheerless The dying firelight blew While he whose song was peerless Dreamed the drear midnight through, And from dull embers chilling Crept shadows darkly filling The silent place, and thrilling His fancy as they grew. Here, with brow bared to heaven, In starry night he stood, With the lost star of seven Feeling sad brotherhood. Here in the sobbing showers Of dark autumnal hours He heard suspected powers Shriek through the stormy wood. From visions of Apollo And of Astarte’s bliss, He gazed into the hollow And hopeless vale of Dis; And though earth were surrounded lily heaven, it still was mounded With graves. His soul had sounded The dolorous abyss. Proud, mad, but not defiant, He touched at heaven and bell. Fate found a rare soul pliant And rung her changes well. Alternately his lyre, Stranded with strings of fire, Led earth’s most happy choir Or flashed with Israfel. No singer of old story Luting accustomed lays, No harper for new glory, No mendicant for praise, He struck high chords and splendid, Wherein were fiercely blended Tones that unfinished ended With his unfinished days. Here through this lowly portal, Made sacred by his name, Unheralded immortal The mortal went and came. And fate that then denied him, And envy that decried him, And malice that belied him, Have cenotaphed his fame.John Henry Boner [1845-1903]