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Page 75
It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of poetry--apart
from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant description which may be
imbodied in it, but may exist equally in prose--consists in the fine
perception and vivid expression of the subtle and mysterious analogy
which exists between the physical and the moral world--which makes
outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward
gifts and emotions, or leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to every
thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature. The feeling
of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of it may be, is
so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped itself on the
ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech: that to such an
extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we familiarly designate
moral and physical qualities, are in reality so many metaphors, borrowed
reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those opposite forms of
expression. The very familiarity, however, of the expression, in these
instances, takes away its political effect--and indeed, in substance,
its metaphorical character. The original sense of the word is entirely
forgotten in the derivative one to which it has succeeded; and it
requires some etymological recollection to convince us that it was
originally nothing else than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus
we talk of a sparkling wit, and a furious blast--a weighty argument, and
a gentle stream--without being at all aware that we are speaking in the
language of poetry, and transferring qualities from one extremity of the
sphere of being to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor,
by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist, and the analogy being
no longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is
intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect we think is
poetry.
It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions. In
the _first_ place, when material qualities are ascribed to mind, it
strikes vividly out, and brings at once before us, the conception of an
inward feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been difficult
to convey, by the presentiment of some bodily form or quality, which is
instantly felt to be its true representative, and enables us to fix and
comprehend it with a force and clearness not otherwise attainable; and,
in the _second_ place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the
attributes of living and sentient mind, and fills the whole visible
universe around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinting
them with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions
and affections. This magical operation the poet too performs, for the
most part, in one of two ways--either by the direct agency of similies
and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the mere
graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his
passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the
emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate accompaniment
or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The former of those
methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and certainly has
most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and
perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined
to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two; and it is often
adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest order;--the
predominant emotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the
objects which present themselves to their fancy, and calling out from
them, and colouring with their own hues, those that are naturally
emblematic of its character, and in accordance with its general
expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this is done, by
Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many of their finest
passages are indebted, both for force and richness of effect, to this
general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes
with the passions of their living agents--this harmonizing and
appropriate glow with which they kindle the whole surrounding
atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense into unison with all
the touches the heart.
But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair
writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and,
in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm
and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little
dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and
studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle
ornaments; all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems
are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to
speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly
remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely
descriptive--but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep
moral and pathetic impression. But it is, in truth, nearly as
conspicuous in the greater part of her productions; where we scarcely
meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such
symphony of external nature--and scarcely a lovely picture that does not
serve as an appropriate foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may
illustrate this proposition, we think, by the following exquisite lines,
on a palm-tree in an English garden.
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