Lyrical Ballads With Other Poems, 1800, vol 1 | Page 5

prosaisms

as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and
exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now
these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will
conclude he must utterly reject if he wishes to be pleased with these
volumes. And it would be a most easy task to prove to him that not
only the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the
most elevated character, must necessarily, except with reference to the
metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that
some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be
strictly the language of prose when prose is well written. The truth of
this assertion might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from
almost all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. I have not
space for much quotation; but, to illustrate the subject in a general
manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at the
head of those who by their reasonings have attempted to widen the
space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was
more than any other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own
poetic diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phoebus
lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,

Or chearful fields resume their green attire:
These ears alas! for other
notes repine;
_A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely
anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys
expire;_
Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born
pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute
bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
_I fruitless
mourn to him that cannot hear
And weep the more because I weep in
vain._
It will easily be perceived that the only part of this Sonnet which is of
any value is the lines printed in Italics: it is equally obvious that except
in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word "fruitless" for fruitlessly,
which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does in no respect
differ from that of prose.

Is there then, it will be asked, no essential difference between the
language of prose and metrical composition? I answer that there neither
is nor can be any essential difference. We are fond of tracing the
resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call
them Sisters: but where shall we find bonds of connection sufficiently
strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical and prose composition?
They both speak by and to the same organs; the bodies in which both of
them are clothed may be said to be of the same substance, their
affections are kindred and almost identical, not necessarily differing
even in degree; Poetry [2] sheds no tears "such as Angels weep," but
natural and human tears; she can boast of no celestial Ichor that
distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the same human
blood circulates through the veins of them both.
[Footnote 2: I here use the word "Poetry" (though against my own
judgment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonomous with
metrical composition. But much confusion has been introduced into
criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the
more philosophical one of Poetry and Science. The only strict antithesis
to Prose is Metre.]
If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of themselves
constitute a distinction which overturns what I have been saying on the
strict affinity of metrical language with that of prose, and paves the way
for other distinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that
the distinction of rhyme and metre is regular and uniform, and not, like
that which is produced by what is usually called poetic diction,
arbitrary and subject to infinite caprices upon which no calculation
whatever can be made. In the one case the Reader is utterly at the
mercy of the Poet respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to
connect with the passion, whereas in the other the metre obeys certain
laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly submit because they
are certain, and because no interference is made by them with the
passion but such as the concurring testimony of ages has shewn to
heighten and improve the pleasure which co-exists with it. It will now
be proper to answer an obvious question, namely, why, professing
these opinions have I written in verse? To this in the first place I reply,

because, however I may have restricted myself, there is still left open to
me what confessedly constitutes the most valuable object of all writing
whether in prose or verse, the great