No More Learning

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 Diona an 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 poetical effect He recognizes
the ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine
in Heaven--in the volutes of the flower--in the clustering of low
shrubberies--in the 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 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.