Indeed, the best
books have a use, like sticks and stones, which is above or
beside their design, not anticipated in the preface, nor
concluded in the appendix. Even Virgil's poetry serves a very
different use to me to-day from what it did to his contemporaries.
It has often an acquired and accidental value merely, proving
that man is still man in the world. It is pleasant to meet with
such still lines as,
"Jam laeto turgent in palmite gemmae";
Now the buds swell on the joyful stem.
"Strata jacent passim sua quaeque sub arbore poma";
The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree.
In an ancient and dead language, any recognition of living nature
attracts us. These are such sentences as were written while grass
grew and water ran. It is no small recommendation when a book
will stand the test of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight.
What would we not give for some great poem to read now, which
would be in harmony with the scenery, - for if men read aright,
methinks they would never read anything but poems. No history nor
philosophy can supply their place.
The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove
false by setting aside its requisitions. We can, therefore,
publish only our advertisement of it.
There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either
rhymed, or in some way musically measured, - is, in form as well
as substance, poetry; and a volume which should contain the
condensed wisdom of mankind need not have one rhythmless line.
Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a natural
fruit. As naturally as the oak bears an acorn, and the vine a
gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done. It is the chief
and most memorable success, for history is but a prose narrative
of poetic deeds. What else have the Hindoos, the Persians, the
Babylonians, the Egyptians done, that can be told? It is the
simplest relation of phenomena, and describes the commonest
sensations with more truth than science does, and the latter at a
distance slowly mimics its style and methods. The poet sings how
the blood flows in his veins. He performs his functions, and is
so well that he needs such stimulus to sing only as plants to put
forth leaves and blossoms. He would strive in vain to modulate
the remote and transient music which he sometimes hears, since
his song is a vital function like breathing, and an integral
result like weight. It is not the overflowing of life but its
subsidence rather, and is drawn from under the feet of the poet.
It is enough if Homer but say the sun sets.
