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with the passion.” But is this a poet, of whom a poet is speaking ? No surely! rather of a fool or madman : or at best of a vain or ignorant phantast! And might not Brains so wild and so deficient make just the same havock with rhymes and metres, as they are supposed to effect with modes and figures of speech? How is the reader at the mercy of such men? If he continue to read their nonsense, is it not his own fault? The ultimate end of criticism is much more to establish the principles of writing, than to furnish rules how to pass judgement on what has been written by others ; if indeed it were possible that the two could be separated. But if it be asked, by what principles the poet is to regulate his own style, if he do not adhere closely to the sort and order of words which he hears in the market, wake, high-road, or plough-field ? I reply ; by principles, the ignorance or neglect of which would convict him of being no poet, but a silly or presumptuous usurper of the name! By the principles of grammar, logic, psychology! In one word by such a knowledge of the facts, material and spiritual, that most appertain to his art, as if it have been governed and applied by good sense, and rendered instinctive by habit, becomes the representative and reward of our past conscious reasonings, insights, and conclusions, and acquires the name of TASTE. By what rule that does not leave


the reader at the poet's mercy, and the poet at his own, is the latter to distinguish between the language suitable to suppressed, and the language, which is characteristic of indulged, anger? Or between that of rage and that of jealousy? Is it obtained by wandering about in search of angry or jealous people in uncultivated society, in order to copy their words? Or not far rather by the power of imagination proceeding upon the all in each of human nature ? By meditation, rather than by observation? And by the latter in consequence only of the former ? As eyes, for which the former has pre-determined their field of vision, and to which, as to its organ, it communicates a microscopic power? There is not, I firmly believe, a man now living, who has from his own inward experience a clearer intuition, than Mr. Wordsworth himself, that the last mentioned are the true sources of genial discrimination. Through the same process and by the same creative agency will the poet distinguish the degree and kind of the excitement produced by the very act of poetic composition. As intuitively will he know, what differences of style it at once inspires and justifies; what intermixture of conscious volition is natural to that state; and in what instances such figures and colors of speech degenerate into mere creatures of an arbitrary purpose, cold technical artifices of ornament or connection. For

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even as truth is its own light and evidence, discovering at once itself and falsehood, so is it the prerogative of poetic genius to distinguish by parental instinct its proper offspring from the changelings, which the gnomes of vanity or the fairies of fashion may have laid in its cradle or called by its names.

Could a rule be given from without, poetry would cease to be poetry, and sink into a mechanical art, It would be μορφωσις, not ποιησις.

The rules of the IMAGINATION are themselves the very powers of growth and production. The words, to which they are reducible, present only the outlines and external appearance of the fruit. A deceptive counterfeit of the superficial form and colors may be elaborated ; but the marble peach feels cold and heavy, and children only put it to their mouths. We find no difficulty in admitting as excellent, and the legitimate language of poetic fervor self-impassioned, Donne's apostrophe to the Sun in the second stanza of his · Progress of the Soul.” “ Thee, eye of heaven! this great soul envies not:

By thy male force is all, we have, begot.
In the first East thou now beginn'st to shine,,
Suck'st early balm and island spices there;
And wilt anon in thy loose-rein'd career
At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danow dine,
And see at night this western world of mine :
Yet hast thou not more nations seen, than she,
Who before thee one day began to be,
And, thy frail light being quenched, shall long, long out-

live thee !"

Or the next stanza but one:

"Great destiny, the commissary of God,
That hast marked out a path and period
For ev'ry thing! Who, where we offspring took,
Our ways and ends see'st at one instant: thou
Knot of all causes ! Thou, whose changeless brow
Ne'er smiles or frowns! O vouchsafe thou to look,
And shew my story in thy eternal book, &c."

As little difficulty do we find in excluding from the honors of unaffected warmth and elevation the madness prepense of Pseudopoesy, or the startling hysteric of weakness over-exerting itself, which bursts on the unprepared reader in sundry odes and apostrophes to abstract terms. Such are the Odes to Jealousy, to Hope, to Oblivion, and the like in Dodsley's collection and the magazines of that day, which seldom fail to remind me of an Oxford copy of verses on the two SUTTONS, commencing with

“INOCULATION, heavenly maid ! descend !" It is not to be denied that men of undoubted talents, and even poets of true, though not of first-rate, genius, have from a mistaken theory deluded both themselves and others in the opposite extreme. I once read to a company of sensible and well-educated women the introductory period of Cowley's preface to his Pindaric Odes, written in imitation of the style and manner of the odes of Pindar.

“ If (says

Cowley) a man should undertake to translate
Pindar, word for word, it would be thought
that one madman had translated another; as
may appear, when he, that understands not the
original, reads the verbal traduction of him into
Latin prose, than which nothing seems more
raving.” I then proceeded with his own free
version of the second Olympic composed for the
charitable purpose of rationalizing the Theban
“Queen of all harmonious things,

Dancing words and speaking strings,
What God, what hero, wilt thou sing?
What happy man to equal glories bring?
Begin, begin thy noble choice,
And let the hills around reflect the image of thy voice.
Pisa does to Jove belong,
Jove and Pisa claim thy song.
The fair first-fruits of war, thi Olympic games,
Alcides offer'd up to Jove ;
Alcides too thy strings may move!
But oh! what man to join with these can worthy prove?
Join Theron boldly to their sacred names ;
Theron the next honor claims;
Theron to no man gives place ;
Is first in Pisa's and in Virtue's race;
Theron there, and he alone,
Ev'n his own swift forefathers bas outgone."

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One of the company exclaimed, with the full assent of the rest, that if the original were mad. der than this, it must be incurably mad. I then translated the ode from the Greek, and as nearly as possible, word for word ; and the

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