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and most beauteous offspring of Literature. In proof of its antiquity we have only to point to the Book of Job, the most ancient composition and poem in the world, where, as truly and nervously observed by GILFILLAN, in his remarkable work, the “ Bards of the Bible,”
Poetry dropped on and from ” its author, “like rain from a thick tree; and grandeur grandeur almost disdaining beauty, preferring constellations to flowers, making its garlands of the whirlwind—became his very soul.' POPE declared that that Book surpassed the noblest parts of HOMER. And such is precisely the fact, beyond the possibility of cavil. Not to mention that it contains some of the most magnificent descriptions of natural objects and phenomena to be found in any language, we must search its page in order to notice the earlier forms of those sublime and beautiful images, and prodigal of feeling, which so delight us in the poets of our own day, and in which Job anticipated by many ages HOMER, PINDAR, and SOPHOCLES. And yet this deathless trio — three such redoubted names as these,
the grand old masters,”
the bards sublime,
to what a towering eminence have they culminated ! HOMER, not only the Poet, who, transcendently
triumphant in his art,
but the Historian, Philosopher, Painter, Critic, and Romancer of the universe—the possessor of true electricity of intellect-- whose Poetry is the real Heroic, full of life and action, bright as the day, strong as the ocean ; the perusal of whose verses, to use an observation of the sweet-worded WILMOTT, is like opening a window into a garden when the south wind fans the roses up the wall; and of whom BOSSUET, the eloquent French preacher, pronounced, “Before I begin to write, I always read a little of HOMER, for I love to light my lamp at the sun.” PINDAR, the bold and soaring composer of the ode, “ Growing, like Atlas, stronger with its load,” and relative to whom we meet, in that memorable poem, the “ Temple of Fame,” with these glowing lines :
“Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,
With heads advanced, and pinions stretched for flight.
and SOPHOCLES, the dignified moralist of antiquity,
with that king's look which, down the trees Followed the dark effigies Of the lost Theban ;
and whose noble and liberty-breathing tragedies enjoy, I believe, the honour of a station among the list of proscribed emanations of Genius in a certain “Index Expurgatorius” of Cardinals totally devoid of one generous emotion, and Cardinals, the majority of whom at least, to employ a very significant expression, will never live a week after they are dead! Their praise and their censure are equally contemptible ! I do not intend, here and now, to enter into any recondite inquiries as to the derivation of the term “Poetry”: much has been advanced upon the subject, to little point or purpose; and many arguments and reasonings urged, more akin to “sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal,” than possessing the ring of the genuine metal. In a few words, Poetry is—not merely verse-making, but the creation of thought, worked out and exemplified in innumerous modes; such at least is its highest characteristic; Goëthe has well stated, “lively feeling of situations, and power to express them, make the Poet"; and on the authority of the immortal DRYDEN –“ Profit and delight are the two ends of Poetry in general.” Abandoning, then, all technical phraseology, all terms and definitions, marked too often chiefly by difficulty or obscurity, it shall constitute my earnest endeavour to show, with what degree of power I may, some few salient aspects of the beauties, objects, and pleasures of Poetry; and, not servilely adhering to very rigid connection, so to diversify the argument as, I hope, may in some measure equally excite and satisfy interest.
The mission of Poetry (“sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade," as GOLDSMITH writes, in his ever-charming “ Deserted Village,”) all must confess to be a grand one. It, as HAZLITT says with a kind of rapture, “lays us in the lap of a lovelier nature, by stiller streams, and fairer meadows.” How doth it not elevate us from this dull world — this land of thorns ever around us, ever increasing, cut down by death alone!
Ah, world unknown, how charming is thy view,
How doth it not to all its votaries, high and lowly alike, who seek it with sincerity and a loving spirit, gently distil the balm of consolation, and minister pure solace in the darkest hour! We owe to it a deep debt of gratitude. It lulls the senses into a sweet oblivion of the jarring noises of earth, from which we have scarcely a wish to be ever recalled. So long as Imagination, the most active principle of the mind,“ beautiful Imagination, Goddess with the raven hair,"
shall form one-half of our human nature, so long will Poetry form one of the real powers of this world. It cheers in the garish sunbeam at noonday, as well as “in the dead unhappy night, and when the rain