As the boundaries of science are enlarged, those of poetry are
proportionately curtailed. The contrary is arbitrarily maintained
by many, for whose judgment in other matters I have
respect; but in this I cannot believe them: for in what does
poetry consist? It may be defined to be objects or subjects
viewed through the mirror of imagination, and descanted on
in harmonious language. If such a definition be adopted—and
it will be found not an incomprehensive one—then it must be
admitted, that the very exactness of knowledge is a barrier to
the laying on of that colouring, through which alone facts can
be converted into poetry. The best proof of this would be a
reference to what has been generally regarded as the best poetry
of the best authors, in ancient and modern times, more especially
with reference to the external world—for of the world of
mind all seems to remain, from Plato downwards, in the same
state of glorious uncertainty, and probably will ever do so.
The precision of science would at once annul the grandest portions
of the Psalms—of Isaiah—of Ezekiel—of Job—of the
Revelation. It would convert the Medea of Euripides—the
Metamorphoses of Ovid—and the Atys of Catullus, into rhapsodies;
and render the Fairy Queen of Spenser—the Tempest
and Mid-Summer Night's Dream of Shakspeare—the Ancient
Mariner of Coleridge—the Kilmeny of Hogg—the Edith and
Nora of Wilson—the Thalaba of Southey—the Cloud and
Sensitive Plant of Shelley, little better than rant, bombast, and
fustian. In the contest between Bowles, Byron, and Campbell
on this subject, the lesser poet had infinitely the better of the
two greater; but he did not make sufficient use of his advantage,
either in argument or illustration—for no one could be hardy
enough to maintain that a newly-built castle is equally poetical
with a similar one in ruins, or a man-of-war, fresh from the
stocks, to one that had long braved the battle and the breeze.
Stone and lime, as well as wood and sail-cloth, require associations.
Of themselves they are prose: it is only what they
acquire that renders them subjects for poetry. Were it otherwise,
Pope's Essay on Criticism would be, as a poem, equal to
his Eloisa, for it exhibits the same power, and the same judgment;
and Darwin's Botanic Garden and Temple of Nature
might displace from the shelf Milton's Comus and Paradise Lost.
Wherever light penetrates the obscure, and dispels the uncertain,
a demesne has been lost to the realm of imagination.
That poetry can never be robbed of its chief elements I
firmly believe, for these elements are indestructible principles
in human nature, and while men breathe there is room for a
new Sappho, or a new Simonides; nor in reference to the present
state of poetical literature, although we verily believe that
neither even Marmion nor Childe Harold would be now received
as we delight to know they were some thirty or forty years ago,
still we do not despair that poetry will ultimately recover from
the staggering blows which science has inflicted, in the shape of
steam—of railway—of electro-magnetism—of geology—of political
economy and statistics—in fact, by a series of disenchantments.
Original genius may form new elements, extract new
combinations, and, at least, be what the kaleidoscope is to the
rainbow. But this alters not the position with which we set
out. In the foamy seas we can never more expect to behold
Proteus leading out his flocks; nor, in the stream, another
Narcissus admiring his fair face; nor Diana again descending
to Endymion. We cannot hope another Macbeth to meet with
other witches on the blasted heath, or another Faust to wander
amid the mysteries of another Walpurgis Night. Rocks are
stratified by time as exactly as cloth is measured by tailors, and
Echo, no longer a vagrant, is compelled quietly to submit to
the laws of acoustics.
