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very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for
consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which,
upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar
principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat
contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The
value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be
sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
flags -- fails -- a revulsion ensues -- and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the critical dictum that the "Paradise Lost"
is to be devoutly admired throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during perusal, the
amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as
poetical, only when, losing sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it merely as a series
of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity -- its totality of effect or impression -- we read it (as would be
necessary) at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. After a
passage of what we feel to be true poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical
prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read it again, omitting the first book
-- that is to say, commencing with the second -- we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which we
before condemned -- that damnable which we had previously so much admired. It follows from all this that
the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity: -- and this is
precisely the fact.
In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good reason for believing it intended as a
series of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of
art. The modem epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But
the day of these artistic anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem _were _popular in reality,
which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem will ever be popular again.
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That the extent of a poetical work is, _ceteris paribus, _the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we
thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd -- yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly Reviews. Surely
there can be nothing in mere _size, _abstractly considered -- there can be nothing in mere _bulk, so _far as a
volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturnine pamphlets! A
mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude which it conveys, _does _impress us with a
sense of the sublime -- but no man is impressed after _this _fashion by the material grandeur of even "The
Columbiad." Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As _yet, _they have not
_insisted _on our estimating Lamar" tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound -- but what else are we to
_infer _from their continual plating about "sustained effort"? If, by "sustained effort," any little gentleman has
accomplished an epic, 1* us frankly commend him for the effort -- if this indeed be a thing conk
mendable--but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to be hoped that common sense, in
the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes -- by the effect it
produces -- than by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of "sustained effort" which had
been found necessary in effecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite
another -- nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this proposition, with many
which I have been just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally
condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere
epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a
profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger
has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to
stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown
aloft only to be whistled down the wind.
A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular
view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade--
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me -- who knows how? --
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark the silent stream --
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on shine,
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O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to shine again,
Where it will break at last.
Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines--yet no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet
delicate and ethereal imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by him who has
himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
One of the finest poems by Willis -- the very best in my opinion which he has ever written--has no doubt,
through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept back from its proper position. not less in the
The shadows lay along Broadway,
'Twas near the twilight-tide--
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.
Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charm'd the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair--
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true--
For heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to won,
But honor'd well her charms to sell.
If priests the selling do.
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Now walking there was one more fair --
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail--
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow
From this world's peace to pray
For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
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