The Knickerbocker | Page 6

harmony. It is only when agitated

by passion that he uses the language of passion. Hence we never find
that timid phraseology which so often disgusts us in Thomson; vox et
præterea nihil. No one delights more in the use of figurative language,
nor employs metaphors that more appropriately convey the sentiment
that pervades his mind. In the passage we have quoted are the following
lines:
'Aloft the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock.'
The poet looking up at the trees firmly rooted in the rifts of the rock,
defying the tempest and storm, felt an emotion of pleasure which the
sight of their lofty position, and the apparent danger of their being
hurled headlong at the first blast of wind, contrasted with the sense of
their real security, produced. To express this pleasurable emotion, he
fastens upon the resemblance between a root of the tree and an anchor;
a resemblance not between the things themselves, but between their
uses. Neglecting all the points of difference, and confining his attention
to this single point of similarity, he presents an image which all admit
to be highly forcible and poetical.
The great merit of all descriptive poetry consists in the unity of feeling
which pervades it. Unlike the epic, or the drama, it has none of the
interest which arises from a connected narrative, or the development of
individual character in reference to a certain end. The poet confines
himself to the expression of those feelings which are awakened by the
sight of the beauty and sublimity of nature. Passing, as he necessarily
must, from one object to another, each fitted to excite in his bosom
conflicting emotions, his attention is so much diverted, that none of
them produces upon him its legitimate effect. There is wanting some
central object of interest to which all others are subordinate. Hence is
explained the listlessness of which every one is conscious in the
continuous perusal of the Seasons. We find the greatest pleasure by
reading a page here and a page there, according to the state of our
feelings.
It is never in short poems that the descriptive poets succeed best.
L'Allegro and Le Penseroso are gems; but all Milton's genius could not
have made the Paradise Lost readable, were it deprived of its unity as

an epic, and broken up into a series of detached pictures. The Deserted
Village of Goldsmith is the longest poem of this class that we now
remember, having all its parts so pervaded by a common spirit that a
succession of new objects does not impair the designed effect. Sweet
Auburn as it was in its palmy days, and as it is in its desolation,
presents two distinct pictures, yet so closely connected that each
heightens the effect of the other by the contrast. Nothing can exceed the
exquisite art with which Goldsmith has seized upon those
circumstances that tend to make the desired impression, and rejected all
others. How perfect are each of the following descriptions, and how
much would their beauty be marred by the transfer of a single
circumstance from one to the other:
'How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the
cultivated farm; The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent
church that topped the neighb'ring hill; The hawthorn-bush with seats
beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made.
* * * * *
'The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire
each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While
secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong
looks of love, The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove.
* * * * *
'No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges
works its weedy way; Along thy glade, a solitary guest, The
hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the
lapwing flies, And tires the echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy
bowers, in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the
mouldering wall.'
It is by the selection of such objects as have in themselves no common
bond of union, but which combine to raise a certain emotion, that the
essential distinction is to be found between the descriptions of the poet
and the prose-writer. The latter joins objects together as they are joined

in nature, following a principle of association which is simple and
obvious. His resemblances are usually such as are cognizable by the
senses; a likeness in the sensible qualities of things. The poet's principle
of association is in the effect produced on his imagination. Things
which have not in themselves a single point of similarity, are connected
together, because they produce the same emotions of pleasure, or pain,
or hope, or melancholy. A beautiful