THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 66 In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to oe 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 suppositious 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 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 selfevident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truthɛ. 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 spiritstirring; 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 Has led me-who knows how ?— 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, O, beloved as thou art! O, lift me from the grass! On my lips and eyelids pale. 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 allbut by none so thoroughly as by him who has himself arisen from Aweet dreams of one beloved, to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night. 1 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 call'd her good as fair For all God ever gave to her She kept with care her beauties rare But honor'd well are charms to sel Now walking there was one more fair A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit qħail— "Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven 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 |