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rue vocation. Stra'ins of pure feeling, touches of ten'derness, mages of innocent happiness, sym'pathies with suffering vir`tue, bursts of scorn or indigna'tion at the h'ollowness of the world, pa'ssages/ true to our moral n'ature, often escape in an immoral-work, and sho'w us/ how hard it is/ for a gifted spirit/* to divorce itself who^lly/ from what is good. Poetry has a natural all'iance/ with our bes't-affections. It delights in the beauty and sublim'ity of the outward creation and of the soul. It indeed p'ortrays (with terrible energy) the exce^sses of the p'assions; but they are pa'ssions/ which show a mighty n'ature, which are full of p'ower, which command a'we, and excite a de'ep/ though shuddering-sympathy. Its great te'ndency and purpose, i's, to carry the mind beyond and above the bea'ten, du'sty/ wea'ry-walks of o`rdinary-life; to lift it into a pu`rer e ́lement, and to breathe into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of you'thful feeling, revives the reli`sh of simple pleasures, keeps/ unquenched/ the enth`usiasm/ which warmed the spring-time of our b'eing, refin'es youthful lo've, strengthens our interest in human nature/ by vi'vid delineations of its te'nderest and loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies/ over all classes of soc'iety, kni'ts-us (by ne'wties) with universal be'ing, an'd (through the brightness of its prophetic visions) helps fai'th/ to lay ho'ld/ on the future-life.


WE are aware, that it is objected to po'etry, that it gives wrong views and excites false expect'ations-of-life, peoples the mind with sha'dows and illusions, and builds up imagin'ations on the ruin's of wi'sdom. That there i's-a-wisdom, against which po`etry w'ars, (the wisdom of the se'nses, which makes physical co'mfort and gratification the supreme g'ood, and wealth the chief interest of life) we do not den`y; nor do

* It will not be forgotten, that every infinitive mood requires a pause before it, as well as every preposition except "of," which is almost always pronounced in the same breath with the word that precedes it;-as "conscious-of," &c.

we deem it the lea'st-service/ which poetry renders to m'an kind, that it rede'ems them/ from the thraldom of this ea^rthborn prudence.* Bu't, pass'ing over this topic, we would observe, that the complaint against p'oetry, (as abounding in illu'sion and decep'tion) is/ in the m'ain/ groundless. In many p'oems/ there is more of truth/ than in many his'tories and philosophic the'ories. The fictions of genius/ are often the vehicles of the sublimest v'erities, and its fla'shes/often open new regions of thought, and throw ne'w-light/ on the m'ysteries of our being. In p'oetry/ the let'ter is falsehood, but the spirit/ is often profoun'dest-wisdom. An'd/ if truth thus dwells in the boldest fic'tions of the p'oet, much more may it be expected in his delinea'tions of life; for the present life (which is the first-stage of the immortal m'ind) abounds in the materials of p'oetry, and it is the high office of the b'ard/ to detect this divine e ́lement/ among the grosser la'bours and ple'asures of our earthly be'ing. The present life is not who'lly pros'aic, prec'ise, tam'e, and fi'nite. To the gifted-eye/ it abounds in the poe^tic. The affections/ which spread beyond ourselves and stretch fa'r/ into futurity; the workings of mighty pa'ssions, which seem to arm the soul/ with-an-almost-superh'uman en`ergy; the innocent and irrepressible jo'y of in fancy, the blo'om, and buo`yancy, and dazzling-h'opes of you'th; the throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a happiness/ too vas't for earth; wo man with her beauty, and gra'ce, and gentleness, and fulness of feel'ing, and depth of affe'ction, and her blu'shes of p'urity, and the ton'es and lo^oks/ which only a mother's-heart/ can inspire; the se/ are all poetical. It is not tru'e/ that the p'oet/ paints a life'/ which does not exist. He only extracts and conc'entrates (as it w'ere) life's ethe`real e ́ssence, arr ́ests and conden`ses/ its volatile fra'grance, brings together/ its scattered beauties, and prolongs its more refi'ned/ but evanescent jo'ys; a'nd/ in th'is/ he does we'll; fo'r/ it is good to feel that

* In this example we perceive the restraining power of the stronglyqualifying word “but.” Though there is a period after "prudence," it manifestly requires to be pronounced with the rising voice, agreeably to the principle of the first general Rule. And here it may be observed, that sentences immediately preceding all such strongly modifying words as but, nevertheless, while, whilst, whereas, &c., (whatever punctuation the word may have that precedes them) require, in general, the rising inflection, as in the example now instanced.

life/ is not wholly usurped by cares for subsis'tence, and physic'al gratifications, but adm'its (in measures which may be inde'finitely enlarged) senti'ments and deli'ghts/ worthy of a higher being. This power of p'oetry/ to refine our views of life and happiness/ is m'ore/ and more ne'eded/ as soc'iety/ adva'nces. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless and artificial man'ners/which make civilization/ so tam ́e and uninteresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical sci`ence, wh'ich (being now sought, n'ot as formerly/ for intellectual gratifica'tion, b'ut/ for multiplying bo^dily c'omforts,) requires a new dev'elopment of imagina'tion, tas'te, and poetry, to preserve men from sinking into an earthly, mat'e-. rial, epicure'an-life. Our remar`ks/ in vindication of p'oetry/ have extended beyond our o'riginal design. They have had a hig`her-aim/ than to assert the dignity of Milton as a poˇet, and tha't-is, to ende'ar and recomm'end this divine a'rt/ to all who reve`rence/ and would c'ultivate and refine their nature.


IN delineating Milton's character/ as a poet, we are saved the necessity of looking fa'r/ for its distinguishing-attributes. His name is almost identified with subl'imity. He is in tru'th/ the subli ́mest-of/ me'n. He ris'es, not by ef'fort or d'iscipline, b'ut/ by a native ten'dency and a godlike in ́stinct/ to the contemplation of objects of grandeur and aw`fulness. He always m'oves/ with a conscious-energy. There is no subject so va'st or terrific, as to repe'l or intimidate-him. The overpowering grandeur of a th'eme/ kin'dles and attra'ctshim. He enters on the description of the infer'nal-regions/ with a fearless tr'ead, as if he felt/ within himself/ a power/ to erect the prison-house of fallen sp'irits, to encircle them with flam'es and horrors/ worthy of their cr'imes, to call forth from them/ sho'uts/ which should "tear hell's concave," and to emb'ody' in their chief/ an archan'gel's e'nergies and a demon's pri'de and hat'e. Even the stupendous conception of Sa tan/seems never to oppr'ess his fa'culties. This character of power/ runs through a'll-Milton's-works. His descriptions of na'ture/ show a free and bo`ld-hand. He' has no need of

Concluding tone.

the m'inute, graphic-skill, which we prize in Cow'per or Cr'abbe. With a few stro'ng or delicate touches, he impre'sses (as it w'ere) his own mi`nd/ on the sce'nes/ whi`ch he would des'cribe, and kindles the imagina'tion of the giftedreader/ to clothe them with the same radiant h`ues/ under wh'ich/ they appeared/ to his own.

This attribute of p'ower/ is universally felt to characterize Milton. His sublimity/ is in every man's mouth. Is it felt that hi's poetry/ breathes a senʼsibility and ten'derness/ hardly surpassed by its sublimity? We apprehend that the gra'ndeur of Milton's mind/ has thrown some shade over his milder-beauties/; and th'is/ it has do'ne/ not only by being more striking and impo'sing, but/ by the tendency of vast mental energy/ to give a certain calmness to the expre`ssion of te'nderness and de'ep-feeling. A great-mind/ is the master of its own enthusiasm, and does not often break out into those tu'mults, which pa'ss/ with ma'ny/ for the signs of profoundemotion. Its sensibility (though more intense and end'uring) is more self-poss'essed, and less perturbed/ than that of other m'en, and is the`refore/ less observed and f'elt, except by thos'e/ who understand (through their own con'sciousness) the wor'kings and utterance of g'enuine fee'ling.*



WILL it be said that the conqueror has too much work at home/ to care for America? He has inde'ed work at home; bu't (unhappily for this country) that work ever brings u's/ to his view. There is one work, one o'bject, which is ever

* "Of Milton's poetry, it would require a tongue like his ow'n/ to speak the praise; it invigorates the understan'ding; it purifies the affe'ctions; it lifts up the heart, to Go'd:-'V'irtue/ goeth o'ut of it." E`ver will it end'ure to put to shame tho ́se who pervert the noblest g'ift-of Heaven/ to lo'w and sen'sual-abu'se! Ever will it remain a triumphant memorial/ that the lamp of genius/ shines with the brightest lu'stre/ when it is fe'd with the purest-oil!"—Quarterly Review, No. LXXI., June, 1827.

present to the mind-of Napole'on. It mingl'es/ with all his thoughts. It is his dream by night, his ca re/ by day. He did not forget it on the sho'res of the Baltic, or the banks of the D'anube.+ The ruin of England is the first, the most set^tled purpose-of his he'art. Tha't nation/ is the o'nly b'arrier/ to his ambition. In the opulence, the energy, the publicspirit, the liberty-of-England, he sees the only o'bstacles to universal do`mination. England once fallen, and the civilized world/ lies at his feet. England ere ct, and there is one asylum for virtue, magnani'mity, fre^edom; on'e-spark/which may set the world on fire; on^e-nation/ to encourage the disaffected, to hol'd-up/ to the opp'ressed/ the standard-of revo`lt. En gland/ the`refore/ is the great object of the hostile fu'ry-of the French-em'peror. England/ is the grea't-end of his pl'ans; and hi's-plans (of course) embrace all na'tions, which come in contact with England; which love/ or hate her, which can give her support, or cont'ribute to her do'wnfall. We th ́en, (we may be assured) are not overlooked by Napoleon.† We are a nation/ sprung from England. We have received from her our law's, and many of our institutions. We speak her la'nguage, and/ in her language/ we dare to express the indigna'tion/ which she feel's at oppre'ssion. Besi'des, we have other t'ies/ which conn'ect us with England. We are a commercial people; commercial by h'abit, commercial by our very si'tuation. But/ no'-nation can be comm'ercial without maintaining some conne'ction with E'ngland, without having many common interests with her, without strengthening the foundations of her greatness. England is the great emporium of the world; and the conqueror kn'ows/ that it is only by extinguishing-the commerce-of the world, by bringing every commercial na'tion/ to bear his y'oke, that he can fix a mortal wo'und/ on England. Moreover, we are the neighbours of some of the most valuable English c'olonies, and can exert an important i'nfluence/ on those cha'nnels of her co'mmerce, those sources of her op'ulence.

Can we then suppose that the ambi'tious, the keen-s^ightedNapoleon/ overlooks us' in his schemes of universal c'on

* This celebrated proper name is become Anglicised, and has, agreeably to rule, the accent on the penultimate.

† Negative sentences, and negative members of sentences, it will be recollected, generally require the rising inflection.

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