THE POETIC PRINCIPLE.

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either

thorough or profound. While discussing very much at random the

essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to

cite for consideration some few of those minor English or American poems

which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the

most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of

little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words

in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or

wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of

the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the

phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as

it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio

of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal

necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a

poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a

composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the

very utmost, it flags--fails--a revulsion ensues--and then the poem is,

in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the

critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost" is to be devoutly admired

throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it,

during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum

would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical

only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art,

Unity, we view it merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its

Unity--its totality of effect or impression--we read it (as would be

necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation

of excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true

poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no

critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the

work, we read it again; omitting the first book--that is to say,

commencing with the second--we shall be surprised at now finding that

admirable which we before condemned--that damnable which we had

previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,

aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a

nullity--and this is precisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very

good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but,

granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an

imperfect sense of Art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious

ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day

of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem

_were_ popular in reality--which I doubt--it is at least clear that no

very long poem will ever be popular again.

That the extent of a poetical work is _ceteris paribus_, the measure of

its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition

sufficiently absurd--yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly

Reviews. 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

saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of

physical magnitude which it conveys, _does_ impress us with a sense of

the sublime--but no man is impressed after _this_ fashion by the

material grandeur of even "The Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not

instructed us to be so impressed by it. _As yet_, they have not

_insisted_ on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by

the pound--but what else are we to _infer_ from their continual prating

about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little

gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for the

effort--if this indeed be a thing commendable--but let us forbear

praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped thai common

sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art

rather by the impression it makes--by the effect it produces--than by

the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained

effort" which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The

fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another--nor

can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this

proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received

as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as

falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.

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 a

profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of

the stamp upon the wax. De Béranger has wrought innumerable things,

pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too

imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and

thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be

whistled down the wind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a

poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the

following exquisite 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 feet

Has 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 thine,

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 thine again,

Where it will break at last!

Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines, yet no less a poet than

Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal

imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by

him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in

the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.

One of the finest poems by Willis, the very best in my opinion which he

has ever written, has no doubt, through this same defect of undue

brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the

critical than in the popular view:

The 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 woo--

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 pray,

For 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 recognise the Willis who has

written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly

ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident

sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the

other works of this author.

While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity

is indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of

the public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded

by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in

the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have

accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all

its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of _The Didactic_. It

has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that

the ultimate object of all Poetry is truth. Every poem, it is said,

should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the

work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy

idea, and we Bostonians very especially have developed it in full. We

have taken it into our heads that to write a poem simply for the poem's

sake, and to acknowledge such to have been our design, would be to

confess ourselves radically wanting in the true poetic dignity and

force:--but the simple fact is that would we but permit ourselves to

look into our own souls we should immediately there discover that under

the sun there neither exists nor _can_ exist any work more thoroughly

dignified, more supremely noble, than this very poem, this poem _per

se_, this poem which is a poem and nothing more, this poem written

solely for the poem's sake.

With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man,

I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I

would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation.

The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles.

All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_

with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a

flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a

truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be

simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word,

we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact

converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not

perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the

poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption

who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to

reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.

Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious

distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I

place Taste in the middle because it is just this position which in the

mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but

from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that

Aristotle has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the

virtues themselves. Nevertheless we find the _offices_ of the trio

marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns

itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral

Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the

obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with

displaying the charms, waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her

deformity, her disproportion, her animosity to the fitting, to the

appropriate, to the harmonious, in a word, to Beauty.

An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a

sense of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in

the manifold 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 in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of

these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a

duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He

who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however

vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and

colors, and sentiments which greet him in common with all mankind--he, I

say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a

something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have

still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the

crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of man. It is at

once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is

the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the

Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired

by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle

by multiform combinations among the things and thoughts of Time to

attain a portion of that Loveliness whose very elements perhaps

appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music,

the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into

tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina supposes, through excess

of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our

inability to grasp _now_, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever,

those divine and rapturous joys of which _through_ the poem, or

_through_ the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.

The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness--this struggle, on the

part of souls fittingly constituted--has given to the world all _that_

which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and _to

feel_ as poetic.

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in

Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially

in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition

of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to

its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on 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 moment in

Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an

adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not

now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps

that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired

by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty.

It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then,

attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight,

that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been

unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the

union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the

widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers

had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his

own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.

To recapitulate then:--I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as

_The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty._ Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the

Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations.

Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with

Truth.

A few words, however, in explanation. _That_ pleasure which is at once

the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I

maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation

of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable

elevation, or excitement _of the soul_, which we recognize as the Poetic

Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the

satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of

the heart. I make Beauty, therefore--using the word as inclusive of the

sublime--I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an

obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as

possible from their causes:--no one as yet having been weak enough to

deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least _most readily_

attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that the

incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of

Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they

may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the

work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in

proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real

essence of the poem.

I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your

consideration, than by the citation of the Pröem 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 suggest

Life'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 day,

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired

for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.

Nothing can be better than

--the bards sublime,

Whose distant footsteps echo

Down the corridors of Time.

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the

whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful _insouciance_

of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the

sentiments, and especially for the _ease_ of the general manner. This

"ease" or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion

to regard as ease in appearance alone--as a point of really difficult

attainment. But not so:--a natural manner is difficult only to him who

should never meddle with it--to the unnatural. It is but the result of

writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that _the tone_,

in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind would

adopt--and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion. The

author who, after the fashion of _The North American Review_, should be

upon _all_ occasions merely "quiet," must necessarily upon _many_

occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be

considered "easy" or "natural" than a Cockney exquisite, or than the

sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.

Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the

one which 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 tell

His love-tale, close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The 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 around

Might 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 light and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften'd hearts should bear

The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

Whose part in all the pomp that fills

The circuit of the summer hills,

Is--that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice

To hear again his living voice.

The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous--nothing could be more

melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The

intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of

all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to

the soul--while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The

impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the

remaining compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or

less of a similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or

why we know not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected

with all the higher 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 full

of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney:

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 given

A 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 flows

As 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 fragrancy,

The freshness of young flowers;

And lovely passions, changing oft,

So fill her, she appears

The 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. Pinkney to have been born too far south.

Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been

ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which

has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting

the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is

especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must

refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his

hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_

of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.

Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus

once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable

book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He

replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,

Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all

the chaff_ for his reward.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no

means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that

the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.

Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an

axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is

_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to

point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that

they are _not_ merits altogether.

Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished

character 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

intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in

Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that

embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment

which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,

human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

Though 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 same

Through 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, while

granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom

no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,

that the 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

greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.

In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more

profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the

lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the

composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly

fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always

for me 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 unrivall'd 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 shoutings 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 bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,--

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore!

The smile that blest one lover's heart

Has broken many more!

"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever

written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the

most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,

moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length

renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it

permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;--

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young and so fair!

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips 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 her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made 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, anywhere

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,--

Over the brink of it,

Picture it,--think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family--

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily,

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother!

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under 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 providence

Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly;

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently,--kindly,--

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.

Perishing 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. The

versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the

fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which

is the thesis of the poem.

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from

the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:

Though the day of my destiny's over,

And the star of my fate hath declined,

Thy 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 hath painted

It never hath 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 thine;

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 hath 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 hath perished,

Thus much I at least may recall,

It hath 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, the versification

could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of

poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself

entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the

unwavering love of woman.

From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the

noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a

very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,

_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most

profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at

_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most

ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is

so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last

long poem, "The Princess:"

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise 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 one

That 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 dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The 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'd

On 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 have endeavored

to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my

purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and

simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of

the 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 to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to

elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine

Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is

unquestionably the purest and truest 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 where none was apparent before, we

experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is

referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth

which merely served to render the harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what

true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which

induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the

ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in

Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low

shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall

eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of

clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of

silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring

depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the

harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice

of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh

breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous

perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at

eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,

illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all

unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,

and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the

grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,

in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her

robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning

enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional

endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he

worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the

altogether divine majesty of her _love._

Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very

different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by

Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern

and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,

we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize

with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the

poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul

of the old cavalier:

A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!

A sword of metal keene!

Al else to noble heartes is drosse--

Al else on earth is meane.

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.

The rowleing of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde--

Be soundes from heaven that come.

And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,

When as their war-cryes welle,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rowse a fiend from hell,

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine,

Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill your eye

When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--

Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and puling crye,

Our business is like men to fight,

And hero-like to die!

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