The Poetical Principle
IN SPEAKING of the Poetical Principle，I have no design to be either thorough or profound.
While discussing, very much at random, the esntiality of what we call Poetical, my principle purpo will be to cite for consideration, some few of tho 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 cour, 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 rightful or wrongfully, has always had it influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist.
I maintain that the phra, “a long poem,” is simple a f lat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely obrve that a poem derves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitement are, through a psychal necessity, transient. The 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 lap 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 difficult in reconciling the critical dictum that the “Paradi Lost” is to be devoutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility for maintaining for it, during perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it merely as a ries of minor poems. If, to prerve 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 work---that is to say, commencing with cond --- we shall be surprid at now finding that admirable which we before condemned --- the 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: --- band this precily the fact.
collaborationIn regard to the Iliad, we have, if not possible proof, at least very good reason, for it intended as a ries of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is bad in an imperfect n of art. The modern epic is, of the suppositious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfo
ld imitation. But the day of the anomalies is over. If , at any time, any very long poem were popular reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again.
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That extent of a poetical work is,ceteris paribus,the measure of its merit, ems undoubted, 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 bulk, so far as a volume is concerned, which had so continuously elicited admiration from the saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere ntiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a n of the sublime --- but no man is impresd after this fashion by material grandeur of even “The Columbiad.” Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impresd by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollok by the pound --- but what el are we to infer from their continual prating about “sustained effort?” If, by “sustained effort,” any little gentlemen 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 n, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of art, rather by the impression it makes, by the amount of “sustained effort” which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perverance is one thi
祖国在我心中演讲稿300字ng, and genius quite anther --- 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 lf-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities, they will not be esntially 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
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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 Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring; but, in general, they have been too imponderous to stamp themlves deeply into 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 ari from dreams of thee
In the first sweet of night
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright
I ari from dreams of thee
And a spirit in my feet
Hath 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,wii是什么
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kiss rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! Press it clo to thine again,
Where it will break at last!
Very few, perhaps, are familiar with the lines --- yet no less a poet than Shelly 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 himlf arin 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人人听力网站
‟Twas near the twilight-tide---
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk‟d she; but, viewlessly西点烘焙培训班
Walk‟d spir its at her side.
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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 and 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 ll,arx
If priests the lling do.
Now walking there was one more fair---
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unen company
To make the spirit quail---
‟Twixt Want and Scorn she walk‟d forlorn
And nothing could avail.
No merey now can clear her brow
For this world‟s peace to pray;
For, as love‟s wild prayer dissolved in air,交媾
Her woman‟s heart gave way! ---
But the sin forgive by Christ in Heaven
By man is curd always!
In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has written so many mere “ver of society.” The lines are not only richly ideal, but full of energy; while they breathe an earnestness --- an evident sincerity of ntiment --- 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 if its own absurdity --- we find it succeeded by a heresy too palpably fal to be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief period if has already endued, 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. Even poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral; and by this moral is the poetical merit if the work to be adjudged. We American especially have patronized this happy idea; and we
