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Poetry has been pronounced by Wordsworth, the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings—taking its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity;—"the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of re-action, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind." In such a mood, according to the great poet, successful composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on.[1] This species of re-action, this revival of powerful emotion, this living over again the passionate experience, between which in its historical reality and the present time a tranquillising medium has been interposed,—this revivification of olden sensibilities, in all their quick energy and moving influences, we seem to miss in the poetry of Mr. Bryant. The tranquillity somewhat overlays the emotion. The philosophic mind, brought by rolling years, somewhat over-rides, checks, confines the soul of poesy, and sometimes
lies upon it with a weight
Heavy as frost.
Thirty years ago, Mr. Bryant was cavalierly characterised by a Blackwood critic as, "in fact, a sensible young man, of a thrifty disposition, who knows how to manage a few plain ideas in a very handsome way"—but wanting fire, wanting the very rashness of a poet—the prodigality and fervour of those who are overflowing with inspiration. The smartest of American satirists thus delineates him:
There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified,
As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified,
Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights,
With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights.
He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation,
(There's no doubt that he stands in supreme ice-olation)
Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on,
But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on,—
He's too smooth and too polished to bang any zeal on:
Unqualified merits, Til grant, if you choose, he has 'em,[2]
But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm;
If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul.
Like being stirred up with the very North Pole.[3]
Tuckerman, who is so decided an admirer of the bard, admits a remarkable absence of those spontaneous bursts of tenderness and passion, which
- ↑ See Preface to the Second Edition of the Lyrical Ballads.
- ↑ We can fancy the "too smooth and too polished" poet looking grim horror, or blank perplexity, at the scansion of this rough-shod line of his critic's.
- ↑ A Fable for Critics.
