T H E   L A D I E S '   R E P O S I T O R Y .

CINCINNATI, JANUARY, 1844.

      THERE is perhaps no question to which so many and various answers have been given as to the question, What is poetry? And though this is confessedly one of the oldest arts, its true origin, design, and effects, even in the present age, are far from being properly understood. And though I cannot at all presume to enter the inner temple of its deep and sublime mysteries, yet, like an humble worshiper, I may, without presumption, stand at a distance, and admire that which I may not be able fully to comprehend.

      One reason for the doubt and uncertainty that prevail upon this subject, is that many have deluged the literary world with dissertations and criticisms upon this subject, while at the same time they were utterly incapable of producing any thing worthy of the least degree of comparison with the object of their criticism. Now it is acknowledged on all sides that we cannot write with clearness and perspicuity on any subject with which we are unacquainted; and this, I humbly opine, is the reason why so much senseless jargon, under the semblance of learning, has been poured forth on this subject. It was anciently said by one well qualified to judge in this matter, "Poeta nascitur non fit." Now if this be true, that the poetic art is not acquired, with what show of reason can we apply to it the same rules that we do to those arts which require long and patient study in order to their attainment? Who would think of measuring the extemporaneous effusions of the "old man of Scio" by the same rules which we apply to the labored productions of Locke and Bayle? The former was the result of nature's own teaching--it was her language finding utterance in human speech; but the latter were the results of profoundly educated mind. The first, we imagine, should be judged by its accordance with, or departures from the teachings of nature-the latter by the laws of human thought and language. But yet we find the law is very often reversed in regard to the poetic art, and the wild, untutored teachings of nature are judged by the artificial rules of human invention, or of a previous training in a peculiar course. And yet, notwithstanding this strange incongruity, which must be apparent to every one, poetry is doomed to be judged by the application of rules which nature never taught, and by men who have never felt the rapture of her inspiration.

      The definition which we deem to be in accordance with the nature and design of poetry is as follows:--The free language of passion; or the [3] embodiment of the affections, sympathies, and sensibilities of our nature, finding utterance, and clothing themselves instinctively in accordance with the natural garb of melody and harmony, and which is a faithful transcript of what not books but nature teaches. It is true that the mere scholar, by the artful arrangement of words, may produce a measured coincidence of sound at regular intervals; but like an unskillful artist, he gives only a rude representation of the scene before him, and not what is the object of the true poet--a perfect fac simile, with every variation of land and water, sunshine and shade. The work of the former is like an artificial stream coursing its way over the plain in alternate curves and angles; but its sameness tires the eye, and presents to the gaze one dull, monotonous scene. But the effort of true genius is like the mountain stream. At first springing up pure and clear from its hidden depths, softly murmuring, it finds its way among the moss-covered stones, passing gold and gems, the wealth of the mine and the forest in its wayward course, until, gathering strength, it rushes in a torrent down the mountain side, now dashing over the craggy steeps, now bubbling along its pebbled bed, its bright waters flashing like pearls in the sunlight, and forming, by its devious path through wood and glen, through sunshine and shade, a scene of almost indescribable grandeur and beauty. There is gladness in its appearance, refreshment in its coolness, and harmony and melody are blended in its soft, delightful murmurings.

      The poet, indeed, is the only true painter; for he dips his pencil in the gorgeous hues of the morning light, and softens his most enchanting scenes with the fading beams of the departing day. Since time began, poetry has infused itself, and is intimately connected with every grand and glorious event of which our world has been the theatre. Yes, even when the fiat of creation went forth--when beauty and order sprang from dark confusion, the poetry of heaven, the harmony of the spheres was heard in that joyous move, when "the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." Again, when mankind had fallen, and sorrow had usurped dominion over our race, they forgot their sorrows, while the glad voice of song mingled with the rich notes of "Jubal's burning shell." The barren desert resounded aloud when Israel sung the glad song of deliverance from the thrall of Egypt's proud monarch; and even the cares of royalty could not divert the attention of the shepherd King from the songs he loved, and the harp whose strings he touched with a master hand. Indeed, the greatest events, the most exalted sentiments, and the wisest maxims which have ever been uttered, have been preserved and handed down to us in immortal verse.

      We find, then, that, whether we go back into the ages of gray antiquity, to the sublime and lofty imagery in the book of Job, or listen to the sweet notes of the crowned one of Israel--whether we feel our spirits aroused by the martial strain of Homer, or, with the shepherd of the Eclogues, "recline under the shade of the wide-spreading beech," and indulge our minds in the contemplation of scenes of pastoral beauty, the influence of this art has ever been to soften, refine, and elevate our nature, because it claims kindred with the purest feelings and the keenest sensibilities of our hearts.

      Indeed, in looking over the whole history of our race, I do not find a single nation rising high in the scale of civilization, without the aid of this great and potent tamer of man's turbulent passions. But it is not our intention to linger in the bright days of the past, and bestow all our attention on those masters of the lyre who, by their exalted genius, have won a wreath which all succeeding ages declare to have been worthily bestowed. We wish, more particularly, to come down to our own history, and show the influence of poetry in modern times. But, in doing so, we shall be compelled to pass over a list of worthy names--among others the gay troubadours, to whom, perhaps more than to any others, the honor of reviving literature in Europe is due, and whose songs well merit the appellation of "lays of many lands."

      The human mind seems to have received an impulse for good during the crusades, the effect of which is felt in our times. The scenes of Oriental magnificence which met the eye, and the glowing tales of Arabian romance which saluted the ear of the adventurous young knight, aroused the dormant energies of his spirit; and soon the song of the troubadour was heard under the sunny sky of Italy, and among the vine-clad hills of Provence. Beauty and valor were the subjects of his song; and the effect was the refining of the one and the subduing of the other. It melted the pride of beauty, and rendered valor not the exertion of brutal force, but the hand-maid of virtue and injured innocence. It was the spirit of the troubadours that fired the souls of Tasso and Petrarch, whose works have proved them worthy countrymen of the Mantuan bard. The bravery of Tancred and the beauty of Laura were the chief causes of the productions which have stamped immortality on the names of their authors. The former gave birth to the "Jerusalem Delivered," and the other to a series of sonnets, which, for purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression, stand unrivaled. And though we are now compelled to leave these [4] pioneers in the inculcation of a pure and delicate taste, and who have embalmed in their strains some of the purest and holiest feelings of our nature, yet the plains of Tuscany and the hills of Provence will ever possess a secret and undefinable charm; and the strains of their gifted sons will ever link them to our memories as the homes of the troubadours.

      We come now to speak of the poetry of our own times, and of the influence of this "language of the soul" on the manners of the age in which we live. So true is it that the character of a people is molded by its national poetry, that one who was conversant with the subject has said, "Let me write the ballads of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws." Indeed, so great and powerful is its influence, that, like the lyre of Orpheus, it may be said to have moved the rocks, and to have made the forest trees toss their giant branches aloft in perfect unison with its sweet and persuasive harmony. Who is there that can look back to the hours of childhood, the spring-time of life, with all its joyousness and innocency, without remembering the song which first hushed him to his peaceful slumber, and imprinted sentiments on the expanding mind which will never be forgotten.

      But, to come more directly to the point now under consideration, if the effusions of Petrarch, Tasso, and other stars of lesser magnitude, which sprang up near the close of the middle ages, deserve so much praise for the influence which they exercised in originating a purer taste, and producing such a general thirst for knowledge, does not our own age more emphatically demand a tribute for the benefits its literature has conferred upon us, the effects of which will be felt and acknowledged by ages yet to come. But there is one respect in which the poetry of the present age differs from that of the period to which I have just alluded. Its object was to correct the errors and imperfections of those languages whose ancient purity had, in a great measure, been corrupted, and to promote a purer literary taste. But that of our day has for its most peculiar feature, that while it does not, by any means, neglect the cultivation of taste, it deals principally with the affections, feelings, and sensibilities of our hearts. So true is this, that it only requires to be stated, in order to its full and free admission.

      In order, however, to appreciate this more fully, we have only to imagine the state of things that would naturally exist if those bright wanderers through fancy's domains were stricken from the list of our earthly joys and earthly pursuits; nay, I need not say earthly, for those creations of the mind to which I allude elevate and assist the soul in its aspirations after immortality. Take away the pages of Campbell, Pollok, and Rogers--let the cold finger of oblivion erase from our hearts every impression we have received from them and their compeers, and if we do not find that the light of the soul is, in a measure, dimmed--our conceptions of the bright and beautiful darkened, it will be because memory has left her post, and recollection has resigned her once pleasing task.

      But it is not to those monarchs in the realms of song alone that I would accord the praise of all that high and holy feeling which has been excited by the poetry of our own age; for though, like the sun, they irradiate all the subjects of their songs, and array them in the most gorgeous habiliments, yet there are others whose light, like that of the chaste moon, or the dimly twinkling stars with pale silvery rays, while they sadden the heart, soften and prepare it for the purest impressions. Such, in a word, are the poems of Hemans, Norton, and Sigourney. It is true they do not dazzle us by the splendor of their imagery, or astonish us by the loftiness of their flight; but they speak to the heart in tones which cannot be resisted, and when once heard the remembrance can never depart. Who is there that can listen to the pensive breathings of Landon--to the deep, fervent, impassionate strain of Hemans, or the pure lessons of a Sigourney, without, in some measure at least, partaking of the spirit by which they were animated? Or who has read the lines, "Leaves have their time to fall," or "Bring music," without feeling as if under the guidance of a purer spirit, and having the heart made better? This may truly be called the greatest achievement of the poetry of our day. Instead of overwhelming the mind like the master productions of those who have been most nobly gifted by genius, it falls softly and silently on the heart like the dew of even, or the gentle breath of morn, disseminating far and wide through every grade of society its refining and elevating influence. It is to this that we may justly attribute much of the refined feeling and sensibility which exist among the females of the present day. Mrs. Ellis truly says, "Woman without poetry is a picture without sunshine--we see every object as when the sunshine is upon it; but the beauty of the whole is wanting. The atmospheric tints, the harmony of earth and sky we look for in vain; and we feel that though the actual substance of hill and dale, of wood and water are the same, the spirituality of the scene is gone."

      Poetry follows us through life. The lullaby of the cradle, the sonnet of pure affection, the warrior's strain, the exile's song of home, and the epitaph on the silent marble, all proclaim that poetry is wedded to the best feelings of our nature, and helps to form and chasten them. [5]

[The Ladies' Repository 4 (January 1844): 3-5.]

      William Baxter's "Poetry" was first published in The Ladies' Repository, and Gatherings of the West: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 4, No. 1, January 1844, pp. 3-5. This volume, edited by E. Thomson, was published in Cincinnati by L. Swormstedt and J. T. Mitchell for the Methodist Episcopal Church.

      Pagination in the electronic version has been represented by placing the page number in brackets following the last complete word on the printed page.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 3 April 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.