THE POETIC PRINCIPLE

———

BY THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.

———

[FROM advance sheets of the new volume by Mr. Poe, in the press of Mr. Redfield, we

present the following admirable essay embodying the critic's theory of poetry. It

appropriately introduces his discussions of the individual merit of many of our prominent

authors. This concluding volume of Poe's works, making some six hundred pages, is

entitled “

The Literati

,” and will be published in about three weeks.]

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 pre-judgment 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

Lamar” tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock [[Pollok]] by the pound — but what else are we

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 that 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

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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:

Oh! 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 her heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to woo —

But honor'd well are 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

For 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 recognize 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.

must be blind indeed who does not perceive the

radical and chasmal differences 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

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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 Abbaté 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 for ever, 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 position 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 recognise 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 Mr. 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 [[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 wax-

works.

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:

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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. Boccalini, 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 as 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 than 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 wierdly [[weirdly]]

imaginative

, in the best sense, than the lines commencing — “I would I were

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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.

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.

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!

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 Savior!

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

[column 6:]

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

, 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 Dionæan 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 the 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 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 endurances — 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.

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 our 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!

The Poetic Principle Essay

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