No More Learning

He perceives it in the songs of birds--in the
harp of Bolos--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 odour 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
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 poling crye,
Our business is like men to fight.




OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)

IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple
love of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper _poetic
sentiment _inspired_ _by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as
a merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on
being required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure,
he would be apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general
handling. This quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to
ideality, but in the case in question it arises independently of the
author's will, and is altogether apart from his intention. Words and
their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid
delight, and which delight, in many instances, may be traced to the one
source, quaintness, must have worn in the days of their construction, a
very commonplace air.
This is, of course, no argument against the poems
now-we mean it only as against the poets _thew. _There is a growing
desire to overrate them. The old English muse was frank, guileless,
sincere, and although very learned, still learned without art. No
general error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the
error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein
Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the
end-with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished,
by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral
truth-the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment
through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete
failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by
a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph
which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of
the multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley
is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And
he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well designate
in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in
the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
Their writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of
that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this
_abandon-to elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again,
so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good
things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to
render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind in
such a school will be found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris
_paribus) more artificial.

We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book
of Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest
possible idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had
been merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have been
considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now
before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever
beyond that of their antiquity. . The criticisms of the editor do not
particularly please us.