Illustration from Moore's Melodies, 1872 edition
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be eitherthorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, theessentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to citefor consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems whichbest suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the mostdefinite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of littlelength. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regardto a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. Ihold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a longpoem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuchas it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in theratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through apsychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which wouldentitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout acomposition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at thevery utmost, it flags -- fails -- a revulsion ensues -- and then the poemis, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling thecritical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admiredthroughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, duringperusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand.This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losingsight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view itmerely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity -- itstotality of effect or impression -- we read it (as would be necessary) ata single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitementand depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, therefollows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgmentcan force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read itagain, omitting the first book -- that is to say, commencing with thesecond -- we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which webefore condemned -- that damnable which we had previously so much admired.It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effectof even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity: -- and this isprecisely the fact.In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least verygood reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, grantingthe epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfectsense of art. The modem epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, butan inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artisticanomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular inreality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem willever be popular again.That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the measureof its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propositionsufficiently absurd -- yet we are indebted for it to the QuarterlyReviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered-- there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned,which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturninepamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physicalmagnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime-- but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeurof even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to beso impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimatingLamar" tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound -- but what elseare we to infer from their continual plating about "sustained effort"?If, by "sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplished an epic,1* us frankly commend him for the effort -- if this indeed be a thing conkmendable--but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account. Itis to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will preferdeciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes -- by theeffect it produces -- than by the time it took to impress the effect, orby the amount of "sustained effort" which had been found necessary ineffecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing andgenius quite another -- nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendomconfound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have beenjust urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by beinggenerally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged astruths.On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces aprofound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of thestamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungentand spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous tostamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so manyfeathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down thewind.A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing apoem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the followingexquisite little Serenade--I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feetHas led me -- who knows how? -- To thy chamber-window, sweet!The wandering airs they faint On the dark the silent stream --The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart,As I must die on shine, O, beloved as thou art!O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail!Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast:O, press it close to shine again, Where it will break at last.Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines--yet no less a poetthan Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and etherealimagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as byhim who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe inthe aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.One of the finest poems by Willis -- the very best in my opinion whichhe has ever written--has no doubt, through this same defect of unduebrevity, been kept back from its proper position. not less in theThe shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide--And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Walk'd spirits at her side.Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And Honor charm'd the air;And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair--For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true--For heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to won,But honor'd well her charms to sell. If priests the selling do.Now walking there was one more fair -- A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail--'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, And nothing could avail.No mercy now can clear her brow From this world's peace to prayFor as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!--But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven By man is cursed alway!In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis whohas written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not onlyrichly ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, anevident sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout allthe other works of this author.While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixityis indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of thepublic mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by aheresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in thebrief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished morein the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemiescombined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed,tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object ofall Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a morals andby this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. WeAmericans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostoniansvery especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our headsthat to write a poem simply for the poem's sake, and to acknowledge suchto have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wantingin the true poetic dignity and force:--but the simple fact is that wouldwe but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should immediatelythere discover that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist anywork more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem,this poem per se, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poemwritten solely for the poem's sake.With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom ofman, I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes ofinculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them bydissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with themyrtles. All that which is so indispensable in Song is precisely allthat with which she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her aflaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truthwe need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple,precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we mustbe in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of thepoetical. He must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical andchasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes ofinculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite ofthese differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile theobstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obviousdistinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. Iplace Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in themind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; butfrom the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotlehas not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtuesthemselves. Nevertheless we find the offices of the trio marked with asufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth,so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is regardfulof Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, andReason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms:-- waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity -- herdisproportion -- her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to theharmonious -- in a word, to Beauty.An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly asense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in themanifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists.And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis inthe mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, andsounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of de"light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing,with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth ofdescription, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, andsentiments which greet him in common with all mankind -- he, I say, hasyet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in thedistance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirstunquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. Thisthirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence andan indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth forthe star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wildeffort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience ofthe glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations amongthe things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Lovelinesswhose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when byPoetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we findourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravinasupposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, atonce and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which through' thepoem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminateglimpses.The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness -- this struggle, onthe part of souls fittingly constituted -- has given to the world allthat which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understandand to feel as poetic.The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance -- veryespecially in Music -- and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in thecom position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, hasregard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak brieflyon the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music,in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a momentin Poetry as never to be wisely rejected -- is so vitally important anadjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will notnow pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhapsthat the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspiredby the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles -- the creation of supernal Beauty.It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, attainedin fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that froman earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been unfamiliar tothe angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetrywith Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for thePoetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which wedo not possess -- and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in themost legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.To recapitulate then: -- I would define, in brief, the Poetry of wordsas The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. Withthe Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or withTruth.A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at oncethe most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, Imaintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation ofBeauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, orexcitement of the soul, which we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, andwhich is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction ofthe Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the heart. I makeBeauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the sublime -- I makeBeauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule ofArt that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible fromtheir causes: -- no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that thepeculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable inthe poem. It by no means follows, however, that the incitements ofPassion' or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not beintroduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserveincidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: but thetrue artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection tothat Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for yourconsideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow's "Waif":--The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight.I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist;A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggestLife's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care,And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the dayShall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justlyadmired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are veryeffective. Nothing can be better than --------------- the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echoDown the corridors of Time.The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on thewhole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful insouciance ofits metre, so well in accordance with the character of the sentiments, andespecially for the ease of the general manner. This "ease" ornaturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion to regardas ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult attainment.But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who should nevermeddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of writing with theunderstanding, or with the instinct, that the tone, in composition,should always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt--and mustperpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The author who, after thefashion of "The North American Review," should be upon all occasionsmerely "quiet," must necessarily upon many occasions be simply silly, orstupid; and has no more right to be considered "easy" or "natural" than aCockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the onewhich he entitles "June." I quote only a portion of it: --There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie,And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.The oriole should build and tellHis love-tale, close beside my cell; The idle butterflyShould rest him there, and there be heardThe housewife-bee and humming bird.And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent,Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent?And what if, in the evening light,Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument?I would the lovely scene aroundMight know no sadder sight nor sound.I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show,Nor would its brightness shine for me; Nor its wild music flow;But if, around my place of sleep,The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go.Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,Should keep them lingering by my tomb.These to their soften'd hearts should bear The thoughts of what has been,And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene;Whose part in all the pomp that fillsThe circuit of the summer hills, Is -- that his grave is green;And deeply would their hearts rejoiceTo hear again his living voice.The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be moremelodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. Theintense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of allthe poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to thesoul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. Theimpression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remainingcompositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of asimilar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we knownot) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all thehigher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so fullof brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coate Pinckney: --I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon;To whom the better elements And kindly stars have givenA form so fair that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds,And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words;The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flowsAs one may see the burden'd bee Forth issue from the rose.Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours;Her feelings have the flagrancy, The freshness of young flowers;And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appearsThe image of themselves by turns, -- The idol of past years!Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain,And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain;But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears,When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.I fill'd this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone,A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon --Her health! and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame,That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south.Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been rankedas the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has solong controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thingcalled "The North American Review." The poem just cited is especiallybeautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chieflyto our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for theevident earnestness with which they are uttered.It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the meritsof what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.Boccalini, in his "Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilusonce presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable book:-- whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He repliedthat he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, Apollo,handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out all the chafffor his reward.Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am byno means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain thatthe true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of anaxiom, which need only be properly put, to become self-evident. It isnot excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:--and thus topoint out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit thatthey are not merits altogether.Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguishedcharacter as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view.I allude to his lines beginning -- "Come, rest in this bosom." The intenseenergy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. Thereare two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies theall in all of the divine passion of Love -- a sentiment which, perhaps,has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than anyother single sentiment ever embodied in words: --Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deerThough the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the sameThrough joy and through torment, through glory and shame?I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, --Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,And shield thee, and save thee, --or perish there too!It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, whilegranting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom noman more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, thatthe fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties,and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally,the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greatermistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In thecompass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more pro.foundry--more weirdly imaginative, in the best sense, than the linescommencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the com. positionof Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularlyfanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always forme an inexpressible charm: --O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West,To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest;She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best,With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night,For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalltd bright;And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light,And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier,Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home Or no true lovers here,That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore,With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before;And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore;It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song,With music waiting on her steps, And shootings of the throng;But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong,In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long.Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never boreSo fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,--Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shorelThe smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems everwritten,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of themost thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length rendersit unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it permit meto offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs":--One more Unfortunate,Weary of breath,Rashly importunateGone to her death!Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;--Fashion'd so slenderly,Young and so fair!Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing;Take her up instantly,Loving not loathing.Touch her not scornfully;Think of her mournfully,Gently and humanly;Not of the stains of her,All that remains of herNow is pure womanly.Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful;Past all dishonor,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casementFrom garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver,But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life's history,Glad to death's mystery,Swift to be hurl'd--Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe rough river ran,--Over the brink of it,Picture it,--think of it,Dissolute Man!Lave in it, drink of itThen, if you can!Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve's family--Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily,Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home?Who was her father?Who was her mother?Had she a sister?Had she a brother?Or was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!Oh! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherly,Feelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God's providenceSeeming estranged.Take her up tenderly;Lift her with care;Fashion'd so slenderly,Young, and so fair!Ere her limbs frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, -- kindly, --Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!Dreadfully staringThrough muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFixed on futurity.Perhishing gloomily,Spurred by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest, --Cross her hands humbly,As if praying dumbly,Over her breast!Owning her weakness,Her evil behavior,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour!The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. Theversification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of thefantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which isthe thesis of the poem.Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never receivedfrom the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:--Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate bath declinedThy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find;Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me,And the love which my spirit bath painted It never bath found but in thee. Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine,I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of shine;And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me,If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from thee. Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave,Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain--it shall not be its slave.There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn--They may torture, but shall not subdue me-- 'Tis of thee that I think--not of them.Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, thou didst not forsake,Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, --Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly,Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie.Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one--If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun:And if dearly that error bath cost me, And more than I once could foresee,I have found that whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. From the wreck of the past, which bath perished, Thus much I at least may recall,It bath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all:In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree,And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, theversification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engagedthe pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can considerhimself entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he stillretains the unwavering love of woman.From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him asthe noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only avery brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets,not because the impressions he produces are at all times the mostprofound-- not because the poetical excitement which he induces is atall times the most intense--but because it is at all times the mostethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is solittle of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last longpoem, "The Princess":-- Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,In looking on the happy Autumn fields,And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,That brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last which reddens over oneThat sinks with all we love below the verge;So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawnsThe earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square;So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'dOn lips that are for others; deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;O Death in Life, the days that are no more.Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I haveendeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It hasbeen my purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictlyand simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation ofthe Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the soul,quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart,or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard topassion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul.Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine Eros--the Uranian asdistinguished from the Diona~an Venus--is unquestionably the purest andtruest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if, to be sure,through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a harmony wherenone was apparent before, we experience at once the true poetical effect;but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the leastdegree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest.We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception ofwhat the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elementswhich induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes theambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine inHeaven--in the volutes of the flower--in the clustering of lowshrubberies--in the waving of the grain-fields--in the slanting of talleastern trees -- in the blue distance of mountains -- in the grouping ofclouds-- in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks--in the gleaming of silverrivers --in the repose of sequestered lakes--in the star-mirroring depthsof lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds--in the harp ofBolos --in the sighing of the night-wind--in the repining voice of theforest-- in the surf that complains to the shore--in the fresh breath ofthe woods --in the scent of the violet--in the voluptuous perfume of thehyacinth--in the suggestive odour that comes to him at eventide from fardistant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored.He owns it in all noble thoughts--in all unworldly motives--in all holyimpulses--in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. Hefeels it in the beauty of woman--in the grace of her step--in the lustreof her eye--in the melody of her voice--in her soft laughter, in hersigh--in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it inher winning endearments--in her burning enthusiasms--in her gentlecharities--in her meek and devotional endurances--but above all--ah, farabove all, he kneels to it--he worships it in the faith, in the purity, inthe strength, in the altogether divine majesty--of her love.Let me conclude by -- the recitation of yet another brief poem -- onevery different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is byMotherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern andaltogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we arenot precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with thesentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To dothis fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the oldcavalier: --Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine:Deathe's couriers. Fame and Honor call No shrewish teares shall fill your eyeWhen the sword-hilt's in our hand, -- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigheFor the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight,Thus weepe and poling crye, Our business is like men to fight.
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