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ness, as we feel here in finding rhymes at all in sentences so exclusively colloquial. I would further ask whether, but for that visionary state, into which the figure of the woman and the susceptibility of his own genius had placed the poet's imagination (a state, which spreads its influence and coloring over all, that co-exists with the exciting cause, and in which “The simplest, and the most familiar things

Gain a strange power of spreading awe around them') I would ask the poet whether he would not have felt an abrupt down-fall in these verses from the preceding stanza ?

“ The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there !
Proud was I, that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair!
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate."

It must not be omitted, and is besides worthy of notice, that those stanzas furnish the

* Altered from the description of Night-Mair in the Remorse. “ Oh Heaven !'twas frightful! Now run-down and stared at,

By hedious shapes that cannot be remembered ;
Now seeing nothing and imaging nothing;
But only being afraid-stiffied with fear!
While every goodly or familiar form
Had a strange power of spreading terror round me.”

N.B. Though Shakspeare has for his own all.justifying purposes introduced the Night. Marr with her own foals, get Mair means a sister or perhaps a Hag.

only fair instance that I have been able to discover in all Mr. Wordsworth's writings, of an actual adoption, or true imitation, of the real and very language of low and rustic life, freed from provincialisms.

Thirdly, I deduce the position from all the causes elsewhere assigned, which render metre the proper form of poetry, and poetry imperfect and defective without metre. Metre therefore having been connected with poetry most often and by a peculiar fitness, whatever else is combined with metre must, though it be not itself essentially poetic, have nevertheless some property in common with poetry, as an intermedium of affinity, a sort (if I may dare borrow a well-known phrase from technical chemistry) of mordaunt between it and the superadded metre. Now poetry, Mr. Wordsworth truly affirms, does always imply PASSION; which word must be here understood in its most general sense, as an excited state of the feelings and faculties. And as every passion has its proper pulse, so will it likewise have its characteristic modes of expression. But where there exists that degree of genius and talent which entitles a writer to aim at the honors of a poet, the very act of poetic composition itself is, and is allowed to imply and to produce, an unusual state of excitement, which of course justifies and demands a correspondent

difference of language, as truly, though not perhaps in as marked a degree, as the excitement of love, fear, rage, or jealousy. The vividuess of the descriptions or declamations in Donne, or DRYDEN, is as much and as often derived from the force and fervour of the describer, as from the reflections forms or incidents which constitute their subject and materials. The wheels take fire from the mere rapidity of their motion. To what extent, and under what modifications, this may be admitted to act, I shall attempt to define in an after remark on Mr. Wordsworth's reply to this objection, or rather on his objection to this reply, as already anticipated in his preface.

Fourthly, and as intimately connected with this, if not the same argument in a more general form, I adduce the high spiritual instinct of the human being impelling us to seek unity by harmonious adjustment, and thus establishing the principle, that all the parts of an organized whole must be assimilated to the more important and essential parts. This and the preceding arguments may be strengthened by the reflection, that the composition of a poem is among the imitative arts; and that imitation, as opposed to copying, consists either in the interfusion of the same throughout the radically DIFFERENT, or of the different throughout a base radically the same.

Lastly, I appeal to the practice of the best poets, of all countries and in all ages, as authorizing the opinion, (deduced from all the foregoing) that in every import of the word ESSENTIAL, which would not here involve a mere truism, there may be, is, and ought to be, an essential difference between the language of prose and of metrical composition.

In Mr. Wordsworth's criticism of GRAY'S Sonnet, the reader's sympathy with his praise or blame of the different parts is taken for granted rather perhaps too easily. He has not, at least, attempted to win or compel it by argumentative analysis. In my conception at least, the lines rejected as of no value do, with the exception of the two first, differ as much and as little from the language of common life, as those which he has printed in italics as possessing genuine excellence. Of the five lines thus honorably distinguished, two of them differ from prose even more widely, than the lines which either precede or follow, in the position of the words.

A different object do these eyes require;

My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.

But were it otherwise, what would this prove, but a truth, of which no man ever doubted ? Videlicet, that there are sentences, which would



be equally in their place both in verse and prose. Assuredly it does not prove the point, which alone requires proof; namely, that there are not passages, which would suit the one, and not suit the other. The first lines of this sonnet is distinguished from the ordinary language of men by the epithet to morning. (For we will set aside, at present, the consideration, that the particular word “ smilingis hackneyed, and (as it involves a sort of personification) not quite congruous with the common and material attribute of shining.) And, doubtless, this adjunction of epithets for the purpose additional description, where no particular attention is demanded for the quality of the thing, would be noticed as giving a poetic cast to a man's conversation. Should the sportman exclaim, “ come boys! the rosy morning calls you up,” he will be supposed to have some song in his head. But no one suspects this, when he says, A wet morning shall not confine us to our beds. This then is either a defect in poetry, or it is not. Whoever should decide in the affirmative, I would request him to reperuse any one poem, of any confessedly great poeț from Homer to Milton, or from Eschylus to Shakspeare; and to strike out in thought I mean) every instance of this kind. If the numher of these fancied erasures did not startle him; or if he continued to deem the work

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