ing, we find that he brings with him a new element which he has worked out for himself proprio Marte, and introduced into language as the proper representative of his peculiar power—an element which in all ages has been that in which poets have lived, and breathed, and had their being; we mean the element of metre, an element which, in a language like ours, assumes as its truest and most expressive shape, the form of rhyme.
Metre, therefore, and more particularly and properly rhyme, is introduced into language for the purpose of representing that which ought to pervade and be made visible in all good poetry—the will of the artist. It is used, not because the natural passions and feelings of the human heart are felt and most truly depicted in this form of style, (for this is by no means the case,) but because it brings palpably before us the active power which the artist exercises over these materials. It affords the most striking and definite form in which that active power can be exhibited. But here we must pause, to consider the situation of the reader or hearer. No doubt, at first sight the great and only end of poetry appears to be, to delineate man's passions, feelings, &c., exactly as they exist in nature. At first sight, therefore, the reader, expecting these to be represented identically as they are, and in the very language in which nature would utter them, is naturally revolted by rhyme, regarding it as an element which represents no authentic or even existing constituent in man—an uncalled-for impertinence—an unnecessary irrelevancy—a gratuitous appendage grafted by the artist upon the proper materials of poetry, and having no business there. But this is the case with the reader only at first sight, and when he judges without any degree of reflection. By-and-by he comes to see, that grounded in our very constitution as human beings, there is and ought necessarily to be a great difference between our expression of our own passions, &c., as nature provides us with them, and our expression of the passions, &e., of other men, inasmuch as in the latter case volition must be present, though not in the former; and then he discovers that it is not the end of poetry to represent man's passions and feelings exactly as they are. Because if poetry merely did this, it would omit one of its own proper elements—it would give voice. merely to our own passions as nature supplies them, (an utterance never held to be poetry,) but it would leave unexpressed the volition which always is and must be present when the passions of others are to be depicted. The reader, therefore, is brought to admit that the poet has a real authentic element which he is called upon to represent, besides the more obvious materials of his art—the passions and feelings of human nature—he has, namely, his own will. The reader is further brought, by a very moderate share of reflection, to admit that the language of nature merely enables us to express our instincts, passions, &c., exactly as they are, and that for any thing over and above this, she is dumb: and thereupon he is carried a step still further, namely, to the admission that the artist is not only entitled, but is under a positive obligation, to do violence to the language of nature, in order that he may be enabled to introduce into it a certain kind voice or utterance by which that real and peculiar element of his power—viz. his will may be expressed; and thus the reader is brought to admit that, upon second thoughts, rhyme may be at least tolerated.
But the bargain between the reader and the poet is not yet fairly ratified and brought to a conclusion. The reader has been brought to bear with what originally and naturally repelled him—the rhymes of the artist. But whether he will continue to practise this toleration, and moreover to derive positive gratification from their presence, yet remains to be seen, and depends upon circumstances—which circumstances are, that the rhymes shall be found to represent fairly, faithfully, and completely, that which they were brought forward to represent—namely, the will of the poet. Now, will, unless it exhibit itself in triumph, is not will at all. Will defeated is will nonexistent, and this certainly is not entitled to any representative in language. But we can only determine whether the artist's will has been triumphant or defeated, by looking to its visible exponent—rhyme—and seeing whether this is victorious over the difficulties of its position, or the reverse. If, then, we find any of the other proprieties of language sacrificed on its account, or any unnatural ar-
