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latitude for description, and for every change of thought, of sentiment, and of passion. I consider my Poem as a depositary and a record of the thoughts and impressions of the hour, cast in a language correspondent to the objects which inspired and called it forth; and to which, if I am permitted to approach old age, I may turn as a friend-once the companion and the solace of many a happy hour: in whose reflection, if I may so speak, I may again enjoy the pleasures of memory.

I will not conclude this Preface without commenting on the present apparent distaste to Poetry.

Not half a century since, Collins burnt his noble Odes with indignation, not one single copy having sold; he is now recognised to be what he then was—a Poet of the very first order. An infinitely higher example than he, one whose name alone inspires veneration, MILTON, in his earlier day, with all the grandeur of his transcendent genius, which he so well knew that he possessed-even Milton himself, with all those powers that disdained “a middle flight," looked anxiously, almost despondingly, round him, and feared that even he had come an age too late ;" not that he for one moment doubted his own superhuman powers, but he was oppressed with those misgivings which are ever the curse of genius. He saw and felt (for how

could he avoid feeling it?) that same callous indifference to the higher order of Poetry which is so omnipotent at the present hour. Yet then, had Shakspeare written; yet then, had Chaucer given us his exquisite humour, character, and pathos: and Spenser had stamped duration on a work, which, in power of creative genius, left Ariosto, and, be the truth confessed, Tasso himself, far behind him; but it was his misfortune, being an Englishman, to write his own language; and, finding it imperfect, to magnify its imperfections.

That "age too late" which Milton feared, which Collins felt, is as far removed from us to-day, as it will be a thousand years hence-or ever. Our national character, indeed, becomes less mercurial from the irresistible tendency of Circumstance; but Human Nature and the world are the same in all ages, in all time; and it is to them the Poet addresses himself. As long as the resources of the imagination, and the love of the true and the beautiful, form the prominent features of humanity-so long shall they become the inspirers of Poetry; so long shall a portion of the human race be audience "fit, though few." Can, then, the real impressions, may I not, also, call them the inspirations of Poetry, ever become a drug? The leading Critics of England, to their honour be it recorded, have

*

silenced this short-sighted, this insensate prejudice. Poetry is innate in human nature, and grows out of it, as the fruit grows from the tree, or the blossom from the flower; the earliest voice of man-the inspiration of the Almighty-was the Song of love, of gratitude, and of

veneration.

So long as the Beautiful and the Good lighten up the troubled paths of human life; so long as its darker recesses of passion and of crime shall excite the imagination to penetrate, and to magnify them; so long as Nature, with all her Images of the grand and the sublime, of sight and of sound, shall encircle us; so long as the Elements shall vary the mighty scene;-the Hosts of Heaven shine above-and Infinitude open around-beneath-and more than all-within us; so long, at stated periods, till Mutability ceases, shall a class of men rise up, and stand forth apart from the rest, the Priests of Nature, and, as they are filled with the truth, confess its expression and harmony which live everywhere around, as within them, in a correspondent and a lofty language, which language is POETRY.

* If not invidious to particularise, was not rewarding testimony accorded from all quarters to such Poems as "Ion," and " Philip Von Arteveldt ?" Did not the Public respond to both, and thus challenge, as it were, the gifted authors to proceed in the assertion of their powers, rejoicing?

I consider it to be the natural and healthful food of human nature, given to strengthen, to elevate, to inspire; men would, indeed, be "brutes without it."* Who has not observed the temperament and the character of those who profess an indifference to all works of imagination? But even the most obtuse of these have the truths of Poesy stamped within them; and, when such men gaze on a serene Sky, a beautiful Landscape, a fine river, or a lofty Mountain, with sentiments of admiration :—or, on the beauty developed in the moral world-for the rule applies to either-that expression of their admiration, how dull soever it be, is the language of Poetry begun.

One final observation in a Poem extending itself to nearly six thousand lines, and branching over a subject which is almost infinite, many errors must escape, not only the eyes of the writer, for they are proverbially short-sighted, but those also of literary friends who have interested themselves so far in the work as to go through it with attention. The Author has, however, a noble confidence in his critics: he feels that, whatever errors and inaccuracies may be detected, and justly animadverted on, his la

* Otway.

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bours will not be judged, from impressions of its narrower parts, but from the opinion formed of it as a connected whole. For the tone of thought, and the per

vading moral of the Poem, he feels that he has no apology to offer

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