all becomes poetry, when we look from the centre outward, and are using
all as if the mind made it. That only can we see which we are, and which
we make. The weaver sees gingham; the broker sees the stock-list; the
politician, the ward and county votes; the poet sees the horizon, and
the shores of matter lying on the sky, the interaction of the
elements,--the large effect of laws which correspond to the inward laws
which he knows, and so are but a kind of extension of himself. "The
attractions are proportional to the destinies." Events or things are
only the fulfilment of the prediction of the faculties. Better men saw
heavens and earths; saw noble instruments of noble souls. We see
railroads, mills, and banks, and we pity the poverty of these dreaming
Buddhists. There was as much creative force then as now, but it made
globes, and astronomic heavens, instead of broadcloth and wine-glasses.
The poet is enamored of thoughts and laws. These know their way, and,
guided by them, he is ascending from an interest in visible things to an
interest in that which they signify, and from the part of a spectator to
the part of a maker. And as everything streams and advances, as every
faculty and every desire is procreant, and every perception is a
destiny, there is no limit to his hope. "Anything, child, that the mind
covets, from the milk of a cocoa to the throne of the three worlds, thou
mayest obtain, by keeping the law of thy members and the law of thy
mind." It suggests that there is higher poetry than we write or read.
Rightly, poetry is organic. We cannot know things by words and writing,
but only by taking a central position in the universe, and living in its
forms. We sink to rise.
"None any work can frame,
Unless himself become the same."
All the parts and forms of nature are the expression or production of
divine faculties, and the same are in us. And the fascination of genius
for us is this awful nearness to Nature's creations.
I have heard that the Germans think the creator of Trim and Uncle Toby,
though he never wrote a verse, a greater poet than Cowper, and that
Goldsmith's title to the name is not from his "Deserted Village," but
derived from the "Vicar of Wakefield." Better examples are Shakspeare's
Ariel, his Caliban, and his fairies in the "Midsummer Night's Dream."
Barthold Niebuhr said well, "There is little merit in inventing a happy
idea, or attractive situation, so long as it is only the author's voice
which we hear. As a being whom we have called into life by magic arts,
as soon as it has received existence acts independently of the master's
impulse, so the poet creates his persons, and then watches and relates
what they do and say. Such creation is poetry, in the literal sense of
the term, and its possibility is an unfathomable enigma. The gushing
fulness of speech belongs to the poet, and it flows from the lips of
each of his magic beings in the thoughts and words peculiar to its
nature."[1]
This force of representation so plants his figures before him that he
treats them as real; talks to them as if they were bodily there; puts
words in their mouth such as they should have spoken, and is affected by
them as by persons. Vast is the difference between writing clean verses
for magazines, and creating these new persons and situations,--new
language with emphasis and reality. The humor of Falstaff, the terror of
Macbeth, have each their swarm of fit thoughts and images, as if
Shakspeare had known and reported the men, instead of inventing them at
his desk. This power appears not only in the outline or portrait of his
actors, but also in the bearing and behavior and style of each
individual. Ben Jonson told Drummond "that Sidney did not keep a decorum
in making every one speak as well as himself."
This reminds me that we all have one key to this miracle of the poet,
and the dunce has experiences that may explain Shakspeare to him,--one
key, namely, dreams. In dreams we are true poets; we create the persons
of the drama; we give them appropriate figures, faces, costume; they are
perfect in their organs, attitude, manners: moreover, they speak after
their own characters, not ours;--they speak to us, and we listen with
surprise to what they say. Indeed, I doubt if the best poet has yet
written any five-act play that can compare in thoroughness of invention
with this unwritten play in fifty acts, composed by the dullest snorer
on the floor of the watch-house.
_Melody, Rhyme, Form._--Music and rhyme are among the earliest pleasures
of the child, and, in the history of literature, poetry precedes prose.
Every one may see, as he rides on the highway through an uninteresting
landscape, how a little water instantly relieves the monotony: no matter
what objects are near it,--a gray rock, a grass-patch, an alder-bush, or
a stake,--they become beautiful by being reflected. It is rhyme to the
eye, and explains the charm of rhyme to the ear. Shadows please us as
still finer rhymes. Architecture gives the like pleasure by the
repetition of equal parts in a colonnade, in a row of windows, or in
wings; gardens, by the symmetric contrasts of the beds and walks. In
society, you have this figure in a bridal company, where a choir of
white-robed maidens give the charm of living statues; in a funeral
procession, where all wear black; in a regiment of soldiers in uniform.
The universality of this taste is proved by our habit of casting our
facts into rhyme to remember them better, as so many proverbs may show.
Who would hold the order of the almanac so fast but for the ding-dong,
"Thirty days hath September," etc.;
or of the Zodiac, but for
"The Ram, the Bull, the heavenly Twins," etc.?
We are lovers of rhyme and return, period and musical reflection. The
babe is lulled to sleep by _yo-heave-o_. Soldiers can march better and
fight better for the drum and trumpet. Metre begins with pulse-beat, and
the length of lines in songs and poems is determined by the inhalation
and exhalation of the lungs. If you hum or whistle the rhythm of the
common English metres,--of the decasyllabic quatrain, or the
octosyllabic with alternate sexisyllabic, or other rhythms, you can
easily believe these metres to be organic, derived from the human pulse,
and to be therefore not proper to one nation, but to mankind. I think
you will also find a charm heroic, plaintive, pathetic, in these
cadences, and be at once set on searching for the words that can rightly
fill these vacant beats. Young people like rhyme, drum-beat, tune,
things in pairs and alternatives; and, in higher degrees, we know the
instant power of music upon our temperaments to change our mood, and
give us its own: and human passion, seizing these constitutional tunes,
aims to fill them with appropriate words, or marry music to thought,
believing, as we believe of all marriage, that matches are made in
heaven, and that for every thought its proper melody or rhyme exists,
though the odds are immense against our finding it, and only genius can
rightly say the banns.
Another form of rhyme is iterations of phrase, as the record of the
death of Sisera:--
"At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he
fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead."
The fact is made conspicuous, nay, colossal, by this simple rhetoric.
"They shall perish, but thou shalt endure: yea, all of them shall wax
old like a garment; as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall
be changed: but thou art the same, and thy years shall have no end."
Milton delights in these iterations:--
"Though fallen on evil days,
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues."
"Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth its silver lining on the night?
I did not err, there does a sable cloud
Turn forth its silver lining on the night."
_Comus._
"A little onward lend thy guiding hand,
To these dark steps a little farther on."
_Samson._
So in our songs and ballads the refrain skilfully used, and deriving
some novelty or better sense in each of many verses:--
"Busk thee, busk thee, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk thee, busk thee, my winsome marrow."
HAMILTON.
Of course rhyme soars and refines with the growth of the mind. The boy
liked the drum, the people liked an overpowering jewsharp tune. Later
they like to transfer that rhyme to life, and to detect a melody as
prompt and perfect in their daily affairs. Omen and coincidence show the
rhythmical structure of man; hence the taste for signs, sortilege,
prophecy and fulfilment, anniversaries, etc. By and by, when they
apprehend real rhymes, namely, the correspondence of parts in
nature,--acid and alkali, body and mind, man and maid, character and
history, action and reaction,--they do not longer value rattles and
ding-dongs, or barbaric word-jingle. Astronomy, Botany, Chemistry,
Hydraulics and the elemental forces have their own periods and returns,
their own grand strains of harmony not less exact, up to the primeval
apothegm "that there is nothing on earth which is not in the heavens in
a heavenly form, and nothing in the heavens which is not on the earth in
an earthly form." They furnish the poet with grander pairs and
alternations, and will require an equal expansion in his metres.
There is under the seeming poverty of metres an infinite variety, as
every artist knows. A right ode (however nearly it may adopt
conventional metre, as the Spenserian, or the heroic blank-verse, or one
of the fixed lyric metres) will by any sprightliness be at once lifted
out of conventionality, and will modify the metre. Every good poem that
I know I recall by its rhythm also. Rhyme is a pretty good measure of
the latitude and opulence of a writer. If unskilful, he is at once
detected by the poverty of his chimes. A small, well-worn, sprucely
brushed vocabulary serves him. Now try Spenser, Marlow, Chapman, and see
how wide they fly for weapons, and how rich and lavish their profusion.
In their rhythm is no manufacture, but a vortex, or musical tornado,
which falling on words and the experience of a learned mind, whirls
these materials into the same grand order as planets and moons obey, and
seasons, and monsoons.
There are also prose poets. Thomas Taylor, the Platonist, for instance,
is really a better man of imagination, a better poet, or perhaps I
should say a better feeder to a poet, than any man between Milton and
Wordsworth. Thomas Moore had the magnanimity to say, "If Burke and Bacon
were not poets (measured lines not being necessary to constitute one),
he did not know what poetry meant." And every good reader will easily
recall expressions or passages in works of pure science which have given
him the same pleasure which he seeks in professed poets. Richard Owen,
the eminent paleontologist, said:--
"All hitherto observed causes of extirpation point either to continuous
slowly operating geologic changes, or to no greater sudden cause than
the, so to speak, spectral appearance of mankind on a limited tract of
land not before inhabited."
St. Augustine complains to God of his friends offering him the books of
the philosophers:--
"And these were the dishes in which they brought to me, being hungry,
the Sun and the Moon instead of Thee."
It would not be easy to refuse to Sir Thomas Browne's "Fragment on
Mummies" the claim of poetry:--
"Of their living habitations they made little account, conceiving of
them but as _hospitia_, or inns, while they adorned the sepulchres of
the dead, and, planting thereon lasting bases, defied the crumbling
touches of time, and the misty vaporousness of oblivion. Yet all were
but Babel vanities. Time sadly overcometh all things, and is now
dominant, and sitteth upon a Sphinx, and looketh unto Memphis and old
Thebes, while his sister Oblivion reclineth semi-somnous on a pyramid,
gloriously triumphing, making puzzles of Titanian erections, and turning
old glories into dreams. History sinketh beneath her cloud. The
traveller as he paceth through those deserts asketh of her, Who builded
them? and she mumbleth something, but what it is he heareth not."
Rhyme, being a kind of music, shares this advantage with music, that it
has a privilege of speaking truth which all Philistia is unable to
challenge. Music is the poor man's Parnassus. With the first note of the
flute or horn, or the first strain of a song, we quit the world of
common-sense, and launch on the sea of ideas and emotions: we pour
contempt on the prose you so magnify; yet the sturdiest Philistine is
silent. The like allowance is the prescriptive right of poetry. You
shall not speak ideal truth in prose uncontradicted: you may in verse.
The best thoughts run into the best words; imaginative and affectionate
thoughts into music and metre. We ask for food and fire, we talk of our
work, our tools, and material necessities in prose, that is, without any
elevation or aim at beauty; but when we rise into the world of thought,
and think of these things only for what they signify, speech refines
into order and harmony. I know what you say of mediæval barbarism and
sleighbell-rhyme, but we have not done with music, no, nor with rhyme,
nor must console ourselves with prose poets so long as boys whistle and
girls sing.
Let Poetry then pass, if it will, into music and rhyme. That is the form
which itself puts on. We do not enclose watches in wooden, but in
crystal cases, and rhyme is the transparent frame that allows almost the
pure architecture of thought to become visible to the mental eye.
Substance is much, but so are mode and form much. The poet, like a
delighted boy, brings you heaps of rainbow bubbles, opaline, air-borne,
spherical as the world, instead of a few drops of soap and water. Victor
Hugo says well, "An idea steeped in verse becomes suddenly more incisive
and more brilliant: the iron becomes steel." Lord Bacon, we are told,
"loved not to see poesy go on other feet than poetical dactyls and
spondees"; and Ben Jonson said, "that Donne, for not keeping of accent,
deserved hanging."
Poetry being an attempt to express, not the common-sense, as the
avoirdupois of the hero, or his structure in feet and inches, but the
beauty and soul in his aspect as it shines to fancy and feeling,--and so
of all other objects in nature,--runs into fable, personifies every
fact:--"the clouds clapped their hands,"--"the hills skipped,"--"the sky
spoke." This is the substance, and this treatment always attempts a
metrical grace. Outside of the nursery the beginning of literature is
the prayers of a people, and they are always hymns, poetic,--the mind
allowing itself range, and therewith is ever a corresponding freedom in
the style which becomes lyrical. The prayers of nations are
rhythmic,--have iterations, and alliterations, like the marriage-service
and burial-service in our liturgies.
Poetry will never be a simple means, as when history or philosophy is
rhymed, or laureate odes on state occasions are written. Itself must be
its own end, or it is nothing. The difference between poetry and
stock-poetry is this, that in the latter the rhythm is given, and the
sense adapted to it; while in the former the sense dictates the rhythm.
I might even say that the rhyme is there in the theme, thought, and
image themselves. Ask the fact for the form. For a verse is not a
vehicle to carry a sentence as a jewel is carried in a case: the verse
must be alive, and inseparable from its contents, as the soul of man
inspires and directs the body; and we measure the inspiration by the
music. In reading prose, I am sensitive as soon as a sentence drags; but
in poetry, as soon as one word drags. Ever as the thought mounts, the
expression mounts. 'Tis cumulative also; the poem is made up of lines
each of which filled the ear of the poet in its turn, so that mere
synthesis produces a work quite superhuman.
Indeed, the masters sometimes rise above themselves to strains which
charm their readers, and which neither any competitor could outdo, nor
the bard himself again equal. Try this strain of Beaumont and
Fletcher:--
"Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
In which you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
But only melancholy.
Oh! sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound;
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale Passion loves,
Midnight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a passing groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon,
Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley.
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy."
Keats disclosed by certain lines in his "Hyperion" this inward skill;
and Coleridge showed at least his love and appetency for it. It appears
in Ben Jonson's songs, including certainly "The faery beam upon you,"
etc., Waller's "Go, lovely rose!," Herbert's "Virtue" and "Easter," and
Lovelace's lines "To Althea" and "To Lucasta," and Collins's "Ode, to
Evening," all but the last verse, which is academical. Perhaps this
dainty style of poetry is not producible to-day, any more than a right
Gothic cathedral. It belonged to a time and taste which is not in the
world.
As the imagination is not a talent of some men, but is the health of
every man, so also is this joy of musical expression. I know the pride
of mathematicians and materialists, but they cannot conceal from me
their capital want. The critic, the philosopher, is a failed poet. Gray
avows "that he thinks even a bad verse as good a thing or better than
the best observation that was ever made on it." I honor the naturalist;
I honor the geometer, but he has before him higher power and happiness
than he knows. Yet we will leave to the masters their own forms. Newton
may be permitted to call Terence a play-book, and to wonder at the
frivolous taste for rhymers; he only predicts, one would say, a grander
poetry: he only shows that he is not yet reached; that the poetry which
satisfies more youthful souls is not such to a mind like his, accustomed
to grander harmonies;--this being a child's whistle to his ear; that the
music must rise to a loftier strain, up to Handel, up to Beethoven, up
to the thorough-bass of the sea-shore, up to the largeness of astronomy:
at last that great heart will hear in the music beats like its own: the
waves of melody will wash and float him also, and set him into concert
and harmony.
_Bards and Trouveurs._--The metallic force of primitive words makes the
superiority of the remains of the rude ages. It costs the early bard
little talent to chant more impressively than the later, more cultivated
poets. His advantage is that his words are things, each the lucky sound
which described the fact, and we listen to him as we do to the Indian,
or the hunter, or miner, each of whom represents his facts as accurately
as the cry of the wolf or the eagle tells of the forest or the air they
inhabit. The original force, the direct smell of the earth or the sea,
is in these ancient poems, the Sagas of the North, the Niebelungen Lied,
the songs and ballads of the English and Scotch.
I find or fancy more true poetry, the love of the vast and the ideal, in
the Welsh and bardic fragments of Taliessin and his successors than in
many volumes of British Classics. An intrepid magniloquence appears in
all the bards, as:--
"The whole ocean flamed as one wound."
_King Regner Lodbook._
"God himself cannot procure good for the wicked."
_Welsh Triad._
A favorable specimen is Taliessin's "Invocation of the Wind" at the door
of Castle Teganwy.
"Discover thou what it is,--
The strong creature from before the flood,
Without flesh, without bone, without head, without feet,
It will neither be younger nor older than at the beginning;
It has no fear, nor the rude wants of created things.
Great God! how the sea whitens when it comes!
It is in the field, it is in the wood,
Without hand, without foot,
Without age, without season,
It is always of the same age with the ages of ages,
And of equal breadth with the surface of the earth.
It was not born, it sees not,
And is not seen; it does not come when desired;
It has no form, it bears no burden,
For it is void of sin.
It makes no perturbation in the place where God wills it,
On the sea, on the land."
In one of his poems he asks:--
"Is there but one course to the wind?
But one to the water of the sea?
Is there but one spark in the fire of boundless energy?"
He says of his hero, Cunedda,--
"He will assimilate, he will agree with the deep and the shallow."
To another,--
"When I lapse to a sinful word,
May neither you, nor others hear."
Of an enemy,--
"The caldron of the sea was bordered round by his land, but it would not
boil the food of a coward."
To an exile on an island he says,--
"The heavy blue chain of the sea didst thou, O just man, endure."
Another bard in like tone says,--
"I am possessed of songs such as no son of man can repeat; one of them
is called the 'Helper'; it will help thee at thy need in sickness,
grief, and all adversities. I know a song which I need only to sing when
men have loaded me with bonds: when I sing it, my chains fall in pieces
and I walk forth at liberty."
The Norsemen have no less faith in poetry and its power, when they
describe it thus:--
"Odin spoke everything in rhyme. He and his temple-gods were called
song-smiths. He could make his enemies in battle blind or deaf, and
their weapons so blunt that they could no more cut than a willow-twig.
Odin taught these arts in runes or songs, which are called
incantations."[2]
The Crusades brought out the genius of France, in the twelfth century,
when Pierre d'Auvergne said,--
"I will sing a new song which resounds in my breast: never was a song
good or beautiful which resembled any other."
And Pons de Capdeuil declares,--
"Since the air renews itself and softens, so must my heart renew itself,
and what buds in it buds and grows outside of it."
There is in every poem a height which attracts more than other parts,
and is best remembered. Thus, in "Morte d'Arthur," I remember nothing so
well as Sir Gawain's parley with Merlin in his wonderful prison:--