As valueless as that which makes a glitter
On the child's gingerbread :-a group of wonders, As silly as the rude magician's
At country fairs: no real secret taught;
No solid knowledge given! The true Muse
Speaks, what in gravest questions we may cite,
The judgment of the most intelligent,
And most profound;-the consciencious edict
Of holy and inspir'd determination!
O glittering expanse of waves cærulean,
What have I learn'd from thee? Full many a year
I've dwelt upon thy banks, and much I've thought,
And read, and learn'd, and dream'd, and seen in vision
By day, and have by mental toil created:
And I have suffer'd much in mind and body;
But yet I trust I have advanc'd in wisdom,
And also in both elevation,
And purity of heart. There is a rectitude,
To which the whole ambition of our minds
Ought to be bent: the plausible, the cunning,
The selfish,-ah, how base it is! The world
It may advance us in; but not one moment
Can it give satisfaction to the conscience:
It is in solitude, and in our own
Internal feelings, we must truly live.
There is a monitor within, which always
Tells us when we have struck upon the right.
Long in a mist we travel;-all around,
Is seen by glimpses; and e'en as our eyes
Are eager, and our apprehension pants
grasp at all, confusion multiplies,
And long we see less clearly than the dull.
But the clouds move away with time, and labour,
And patience; while the added mist of passion
Subsides; and strength, and brightness, and tranquillity,
And fortitude, and sentiment exalted,
Combine, and give that self-dependence, which
Constitutes power, and strict ascendancy
Of character! But in the scornful estimate
Of the mole-eyed practitioner in cavils,
Much have I trifled;-wanting method, unity
Of purpose and of labour; pleas'd with fictions,
And baubles; searching curiosities
Not worth the cost of time, or waste of intellect;
And scribbling in profusion what the pruning knife,
Or polish of the file, has ne'er receiv'd.
O, how uncandid, and how ignorant,
And dull, to call on all to rule themselves
By one unvaried method! Let the candidates
For fame, pursue a thousand different paths;
Yet equally at the same end arrive!
The pruning knife, the file, may be to some
Instruments necessary; but to others
They may be death; they may let out the sap,
And wither up the pores; and clear away
The tints and features, strength, and character!
With some all is in the first burst of thought,
And language that comes with it; and cold labour
Not mends, but at each anxious touch destroys it.
All that is grand or tender, is the dart
Of inspiration. Who will doubt that Shakespeare,
Without premeditation or correction,
Pour'd forth the torrents of his magic strains?
Fast as the swift uninterrupted stream,
Hasten'd his mind his lips and pen, and stop'd not
To mend what was sufficient for his purpose.
From labour comes obscurity, confusion
Of metaphors, abruptness, and the break
Of natural associations
Of thought, and imagery, and sentiment.
There may be sound; and outwardly a fair
Array of rich poetical ideas;
But it is only to the ear and eye,—
Not to the head or heart. They are but sounds
Tinkling, and shadows of factitious spirits!
The bard cannot rehearse but what he sees,
Hears, and believes, the moment of his utterance.
The genuine poet cannot be affected;
The ferment of his bosom would at once
Throw off all veil, all labour'd artifice;
And render the whole process of disguise,
And shape unnatural, impossible!
Who ever reads the mighty bard of Avon,
And for a moment has to seek his meaning?
Who ever in his airiest, loftiest flights,
Of visions even most imaginative,
Did not in his own fancy find a mirror
And echo? Wherefore this, but that he wrote
Only what Nature prompted and believed?
O do not give the name of art to poetry!
It is not art! It is a true infusion
Of portions of the great Creator's power!
The poet is not gifted with the faculty
Creative over matter: but the spiritual
He can create, and with a living force,
Which is reality, and operates
On matter like the tribes of mind, sent forth
E'en by the omnipotent Deity himself!
Upon thy banks, O Lake, much have I mused, And sometimes in new tracks pursued my searches. In lands far distant from our natives homes Our minds expatiate with more liberty:
All local prejudices, which 'tis difficult
To clear by th' root, there by degrees give way,
Nor leave a trace behind. Then we become
True citizens of a capacious world.
Around our infancy too oft have grown
Some early fears, affections, hatreds, envies,
Which cloud the mind and heart; and are rank spots
To be wip'd cleanly out. Man cannot judge
Of man, till those impressions deep, we took
In childhood, are effac'd; where accident
Works upon weakness. Thro' the globe the same
Minds, passions, virtues act; and we may seek
Genius and learning spread in every clime;
And best perchance, we seek it far from home,
Because we there judge with more equal candour,
And are not sensible of petty vapours,
Bred in the morbid sensibility
Of some diseased part, in youth contracted.
Fresh airs, moreover, give a novelty
Of strength to parts, where the mind has been worn,
And its due figures somewhat clouded over,
Or twisted and deform'd. New objects give
An impulse to the current of the blood,
And chasing the invigorated stream
Thro the sick bosom, rise in brilliancy
Of their gold-tinted sprays up to the brain,
And fortify the frame and soul together!
Such aid, O Mountain Lake, I owe to thee!
To keep the mind in vigour there perchance
Something of time and place and opportunity
Requires. To live to future ages, asks
A spirit and a mellowness of fruit
Of intellectual faculties, not fashion'd
Merely to the caprices of the moment.
Fashions with every generation change:
But the attraction which depends on fashion,
Becomes disgusting to its successor :
And he, who has no other, dies forever,
And is forgotten. Truth, and style, and genius
Are the same always. Passion, as she's frank,
And unaffected, speaks with little difference.
After the lapse of centuries: the characters
Of Shakespeare in their moments of excitement
Vary not from the modern day, while authors
Of note inferior speak another language,
Which even in their own time was most quaint,
Most artificial, and affected. Thus
Would want of inspiration ever try
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