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The Raven and the Bard
-Daniel Henry Rodgers

The Raven's quill drips shades of blackest night,
Its haunting words, a melody of fright.
The Bard's natural lines, like "Evangeline's" fair hair,
Shed history's warm light to chase away all care .
From shadowed chambers where dark ravens shriek,
To hearthside tales that bygone glories speak;
The Raven and the Bard, in Inky War —
Duel with words that stir the soul's deep core.

POE:
With raven's quill I scribe the ebon night,
Dripping shades funereal in the tomb's dim light.
The human soul, a twisted, Gothic stage
Where madness reigns supreme and ravens rage.
Your rhymes, though polished, lack the dark allure —
The primal dread my "Raven's" lines immure.
For in insanity, a truth far-flung is found,
A terror vast when psyches are spellbound —
As "Annabel Lee's" cadaverous grasp entwines,
Revealing horrors in these Gothic lines.
"Nevermore!" the raven's haunting, dread refrain —
As my dark verses leave their spectral stain.

LONGFELLOW:
But Poe, your words, though haunting, lack the flow
That "Psalm of Life's" bright verses warmly show:
"Life is real! Life is earnest!" From my breast
These words ring out, as wildflowers sun-caressed
Breathe, sweet perfume. Let children's laughter peal
Like music ringing through this woodland vale!
Their joyous tones from memory's hearth shall start
To fill my poet's soul with nature's art.
And by the midnight ride that Revere made,
I'll stir the patriot's fire that ne'er shall fade.

POE:
Your heroes, Longfellow, mere marble shades —
Pale specters molded by my pen's perverse tirades.
For 'tis the "Tell-Tale Heart's" insistent dread
That ingrains horrors from the coffin's bed —
The psyche's cella vinaria where madness lurks,
Where primal fears in reason's shadows hark.
These tortured realms, where sanity's façade,
Lies shattered 'neath the mind's unraveling rod.
Let rational thought in deathly slumber sink,
Let senses rouse to that dread brink
Where nightmares yawn — from this abyss, confound
Shall lurid visions coil, my muse unbound!

LONGFELLOW:
But Poe, though darkness 'round your lines may sway,
The village smithy's fire shall light my lay.
Beneath the chestnut's spreading, hallowed bough,
The smith's ringing anvil forges, even now,
Anchors of iron, from our hills' strong bane,
To steady heroes through the hurricane.
So let my verse extol the humble trades —
The ploughman's patience, hewn in furrowed shades;
The woodsman's stalwart grace to tame the wild;
Evangeline's devotion, love's immortal godchild.
These simple souls with quiet glory burned,
Whose epics bright from nature's tome I've learned.

POE:
The tell-tale heart's insistent, doomed tattoo,
Where shades sepulchral weave a sable rue.
In terror's wintry grasp, a ghastly tomb —
A truth unbound as sibilated lies exhume
Unquiet wraiths. The raven's eldritch knell,
A baleful hymn from lips of blackest hell,
Seeps through the gloom. Let stygian shadows slink,
Let night's fell ravens croak from madness' brink!
For darkness holds a thrall no eye can flee —
An icy talon clutched around the soul's fey key.

LONGFELLOW:
Though wars and hurricanes may wildly blow,
"Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail ever, mighty Union, go!"
The human spirit, like an oak tree's bole,
Withstands the tempest's blasts with steadfast soul.
From patriots' courage to love's eternal vow,
These epics blazon effulgent my "lofty rhyme" for now.
Let freedom's torch, that "grand, heroic line" of old,
Burn as a blazing star to make our future bold!
Its radiant beams shall light our onward way —
A guiding fire where noble hearts will not go astray.
Through night's dark squalls, its brilliant rays will pour
To show the path brave souls have walked before.

UNDYING INK: SUNRISE from the CRYPT
From shadowed crypts where raven hosts convene,
And madness croons its ebon carolings obscene,
To meadows bathed in morning's golden beams,
Where wildflowers ope' to day's resplendent dreams;
Poe and Longfellow, on ominous raven pinions
Took flight — to realms where poesy's dominions
Converged — the Gothic's midnight-shrouded bowers
Entwined with verse where freedom's spirit flowers.
From their quills' clash, an American refrain
Was woven — words both darkly lush and sunlight-plain.
A legacy emblazed in "Darkest Love's" fell script,
Yet by hope's radiant lines forever lit.

“This is the forest primeval,” Sayeth the Bard
"What to the mind's frail grasp may madness seem
But waking dreams within a dream?" Quoth the Raven.

In undying ink, their legacy shall burn,
A beacon guiding poets yet to sojourn.

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"After Poe's death, Longfellow noted that all was forgiven and called him "richly endowed with genius." He added, famously: "The harshness of his criticisms, I have never attributed to anything but the irritation of a sensitive nature, chafed by some indefinite sense of wrong.""
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