69, 70.

31. _To herself severe_. Cf. Carew:

  "To servants kind, to friendship dear,
   To nothing but herself severe;"

and Dryden: "Forgiving others, to himself severe;" and Waller: "The
Muses' friend, unto himself severe." Mitford quotes several other
similar passages.

32. _The sadly pleasing tear_. Rogers cites Dryden's "sadly pleasing
thought" (Virgil's _Жn._ x.); and Mitford compares Thomson's
"lenient, not unpleasing tear."

35. _Gorgon terrors_. Cf. Milton, _P. L._ ii. 611: "Medusa with
Gorgonian terror."

36-40. Cf. _Ode on Eton College_, 55-70 and 81-90.

45-48. Cf. Shakespeare, _As You Like It_, ii. 1:

              "these are counsellors
   That feelingly persuade me what I am.
   Sweet are the uses of adversity,
   Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
   Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;"

and Mallet:

  "Who hath not known ill-fortune, never knew
   Himself, or his own virtue."

Guizot, in his _Cromwell_, says: "The effect of supreme and
irrevocable misfortune is to elevate those souls which it does not
deprive of all virtue;" and Sir Philip Sidney remarks: "A noble
heart, like the sun, showeth its greatest countenance in its lowest
estate."




[Illustration: "Now rolling down the steep amain,
                Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
                The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar."
                                        _The Progress of Poesy_, 10.]




APPENDIX TO NOTES.


Just as this book is going to press we have received _The Quarterly
Review_ (London) for January, 1876, which contains an interesting
paper on "Wordsworth and Gray." After quoting Wordsworth's remark
that "Gray was at the head of those poets who, by their reasonings,
have attempted to widen the space of separation between prose and
metrical composition, and was, more than any other man, curiously
elaborate in the construction of his own poetic diction," the
reviewer remarks:

"The indictment, then, brought by Wordsworth against Gray is twofold.
Gray, it seems, had in the first place a false conception of the
nature of poetry; and, secondly, a false standard of poetical
diction. To begin with the first count, Gray, we are told, sought to
widen the space of separation betwixt prose and metrical composition.
What this charge amounts to we shall see hereafter. Meantime, did
Wordsworth think that between prose and poetry there was any line of
demarcation at all? In the Preface [to the "Lyrical Ballads"] from
which we have quoted we read:

"'There neither is nor can be any essential difference between the
language of prose and metrical composition. 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 strong to typify the connection betwixt prose and
metrical composition?'

"Now this question admits of a very definite answer. Take the Iliad
of Homer and a proposition of Euclid. Is it conceivable that the
latter could have been expressed at all in metre, or the former
expressed half so well in prose? If not, what is the reason? Is it
not plain that the poem contains a predominant element of imagination
and feeling which is absolutely excluded from the proposition? And in
the same way it may be shown that whenever a man expresses himself
properly in metre, the subject-matter of his composition belongs to
imagination or feeling; whenever he writes in prose his subject
belongs to or (if the prose be fiction) intimately resembles matter
of fact. We may decide then with certainty that the sphere of poetry
lies in Imagination, and that the larger the amount of _just_ liberty
the Imagination enjoys, the better will be the poetry it produces.
But then a further question arises, and this is the key of the whole
position, How far does this liberty extend? Is Imagination absolute,
supreme, and uncontrolled in its own sphere, or is it under the
guidance and government of reason? That its dominion is not universal
is obvious, but of its influence we are all conscious, and there is
no exaggeration in the eloquent words of Pascal:

"'This mighty power, the perpetual antagonist of reason, which
delights to show its ascendency by bringing her under its control and
dominion, has created a second nature in man. It has its joys and its
sorrows; its health, its sickness; its wealth, its poverty; it
compels reason, in spite of herself, to believe, to doubt, to deny;
it suspends the exercise of the senses, and imparts to them again an
artificial acuteness; it has its follies and its wisdom; and the most
perverse thing of all is that it fills its votaries with a
complacency more full and complete even than that which reason can
supply.'

"If such be the force of Imagination in active life, how absolute
must be its dominion in poetry! And absolute it is, if we are to
believe Wordsworth, who defines poetry to be 'the spontaneous
overflow of powerful emotion.' This definition coincides well with
modern notions on the nature of the art. But how different is the
view if we turn from theory to practice! It would surely be a serious
mistake to describe the noblest poems, like the 'Жneid' or 'Paradise
Lost,' as the product of mere spontaneous emotion. And even in lyric
verse, to which it may be said Wordsworth is specially alluding, we
find the greatest poets, like Pindar and Simonides, composing their
odes for set occasions like the public games, in honour of persons
with whom they were but little acquainted, and (most significant fact
of all) in the expectation of receiving liberal rewards. We need not
say that such considerations detract nothing from the genius of these
great poets; but they prove very conclusively that poetry is not what
Wordsworth's definition asserts, and what in these days it is too
often assumed to be, the mere gush of unconscious inspiration. The
definition of Wordsworth may perhaps suit short lyrics, such as he
was himself in the habit of composing, but it would be fatal to the
claims of poetry to rank among the higher arts, for it would exclude
that quality which, in poetry as in all art, is truly sovereign,
Invention. The poet, no less than the mechanical inventor, excels by
the exercise of reason, by his knowledge of the required effect, his
power of adapting means to ends, and his skill in availing himself of
circumstances. Consider for a moment the external difficulties which
restrict the poet's liberty, and require the most vigorous efforts of
reason to subdue them. To begin with, in order to secure the happy
result promised by Horace,

              'Cui lecta potenter erit res
   Nec facundia deseret hunc nec lucidus ordo,'

he has to take the exact measure of his own powers. How many a poet
has failed for want of judgment by trespassing on a subject and style
for which his genius is unfitted! Again, he is confronted by the most
obvious difficulties of language and metre, which limit his freedom
to a degree unknown to the prose-writer. And beyond this, if he
wishes to be read--and a poem without readers is no more than a
musical instrument without a musician--he has to consider the
character of his audience. He must have all the instinct of an
orator, all the intuitive knowledge of the world, as well as all the
practical resource, which are required to gain command over the
hearts of men, and to subdue, by the charms of eloquence, their
passions, their prejudices, and their judgment. To achieve such
results something more is required than 'the spontaneous overflow of
powerful feeling.'

"How far Wordsworth's own poetry illustrates his principles we shall
consider presently; meantime his definition helps us to understand
what he meant by Gray's fault of widening the space of separation
betwixt prose and metrical composition. Neither in respect of the
quantity nor the quality of his verse could Gray's manner of
composition be described as spontaneous. Compared with Wordsworth's
numerous volumes of poetry, the slender volume that contains the
poetry of Gray looks meagre indeed; yet almost every poem in this
small collection is a considered work of art. To begin with 'The
Bard.' Few readers, we suppose, would rise from this ode without a
sense of its poetical 'effect.' The details may be thought to require
too much attention; the allusions, from the nature of the subject,
are, no doubt, difficult; but a feeling of loftiness, of harmony, of
proportion, remains in the mind at the close of the poem, which is
not likely to pass away. How, then, was this effect produced? First
of all we see that Gray had selected a good subject; his raw
materials, so to speak, were poetical. The imagination, unembarrassed
by common associations, breathes freely in its own region, and is
instinctively elevated as it moves among the great events of the
past, dwelling on the misfortunes of monarchs, the rise of dynasties,
and the splendours of literature. But, in the second place, when he
has chosen his subject, it is the part of the poet to impress the
great ideas derived from it on the feelings and the memory by the
distinctness of the form under which he presents it; and here
poetical invention first begins to work. By the imaginative fiction
of 'The Bard,' Gray is enabled to cast the whole course of English
history into the form of a prophecy, and to excite the patriotic
feelings of the reader, as Virgil roused the pride of his own
countrymen by Anchises' forecast of the grandeur of Rome. Finally,
when the main design of the poem is thus conceived, observe with what
art all the different parts are made to emphasize the beauty of the
general conception; with what dramatic propriety the calamities of
the conquering Plantagenet are prophesied by his vanquished foe;
while on the other hand, the literary glories of the Tudor Elizabeth
awaken the triumph of the patriot and the poet; how martial and
spirited is the opening of the poem! how lofty and enthusiastic its
close! Perhaps there is no English lyric which, animated by equal
fervour, displays so much architectural genius as 'The Bard.'

"Take, again, the 'Ode on the Prospect of Eton College.' A subject
better adapted far the indulgence of personal feeling, or for those
sentimental confidences between the reader and the poet, in which the
modern muse so much delights, could not be imagined. But what do we
find? The theme is treated in the most general manner. Though
emphasizing the irony of his reflection by the beautiful touch of
memory in the second stanza, the poet speaks throughout as a moralist
or spectator; from first to last he seems to lose all thought of
himself in contemplating the tragedies he foresees for others; the
subject is in fact handled with the most skilful rhetoric, and every
stanza is made to strengthen and elaborate the leading thought. In
the 'Progress of Poesy,' though the general constructive effect is
perhaps inferior to 'The Bard,' we see the same evidence of careful
preconsideration, while the course of the poem is particularly
distinguished by the beauty of the transitions. Of the form of the
'Elegy' it is superfluous to speak; a poem so dignified and yet so
tender, appeals immediately, and will continue to appeal, to the
heart of every Englishman, so long as the care of public liberty and
love of the soil maintain their hold in this country. In this poem,
as indeed in all that Gray ever wrote, we find it his first principle
_to prefer his subject to himself_; he never forgot that while he was
a man he was also an artist, and he knew that the function of art was
not merely to indulge nature, but to dignify and refine it.

"Yet, in spite of his love of form, there is nothing frigid or
statuesque in the genius of Gray. A vein of deep melancholy,
evidently constitutional, runs through his poetry, and, considering
how little he produced, the number of personal allusions in his
verses is undoubtedly large. But he is entirely free from that
egotism which we have had frequent occasion to blame