The tendency of the strain of Homer is to transform
us for the moment into heroes; of Cowper, into saints; of Milton, into
angels: but Lord Byron would almost degrade us into a Thersites or a
Caliban; or lodge us, as fellow-grumblers, in the style of Diogenes, or
any of his two or four-footed snarling or moody posterity. Now his
Lordship, we trust, is accessible upon much higher grounds; but he will
perceive that mere regard for his poetical reputation ought to induce
him to change his manner. If, as Longinus instructs us, a man must feel
sublimely to write sublimely, a poet must find pleasure in the objects
of nature before him, if he hope to give pleasure to others. Let him
remember, that not merely his conceptions, but his mind and character
are to be imparted to us in his verse. He will, in a measure, "stamp an
image of himself!" The fire with which we are to glow must issue from
him. Till this change take place in him, then, he can be no great poet.
It is Heraclitus who mourns in his pages, or Zeno who scolds, or Zoilus
who lashes; but we look in vain for the poet, for the living fountain of
our innocent pleasures, for the artificer of our literary delight, for
the hand which, as by enchantment, snatches us from the little cares of
life, whirls us into the boundless regions of imagination, "exhausting"
one "world," and imagining others, to supply pictures which may refresh
and charm the mind.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236